Touches of History : An Entry into 'May Fourth' China [1 ed.] 9789004215146, 9789004157538

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Touches of History: An Entry into ‘May Fourth’ China

Brill’s Humanities in China Library Edited by

Zhang Longxi City University of Hong Kong

Axel Schneider Leiden University

VOLUME 2

Touches of History: An Entry into ‘May Fourth’ China By

Chen Pingyuan Translated by Michel Hockx, with Maria af Sandeberg, Uganda Sze Pui Kwan, Christopher Neil Payne, and Christopher Rosenmeier

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2011

This book is the result of a co-publication agreement between Peking University Press and Koninklijke Brill NV. The original lj䀖᪨শਢо䘋‫ޕ‬ӄഋNJ (Chumo lishi yu jinru wu si) was translated into English with financial support from China Book International, supported by the General Administration of Press and Publication and the Information Office of the State Council of China. Cover illustration: Fu Sinian’s hand-written notes in his copy of Zhang Taiyan’s Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning, held at the Library of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London (see Chapter 6). This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Chen, Pingyuan, 1954[Chu mo li shi yu jin ru wu si. English] Touches of history : an entry into ‘May Fourth’ China / by Chen Pingyuan ; translated by Michel Hockx. p. cm. — (Brill’s humanities in China library, ISSN 1874-8023 ; v. 2) Translation of: Chu mo li shi yu jin ru wu si. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-15753-8 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. China—History—May Fourth movement, 1919. 2. Intellectuals—China. 3. China— Intellectual life—20th century. I. Title. II. Series. DS777.43.C4313 2011 951.04’1—dc22 2011015636 ISSN 1874-8023 ISBN 978 90 04 15753 8 Copyright 2011 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Global Oriental, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change.

CONTENTS Author’s Preface to the English Translation Note from the Translators

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vii

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ix

…………………………………………….

1

CHAPTER ONE On the Day of May the Fourth: An Alternative Narrative of the ‘May Fourth’ Movement ………………….

11

CHAPTER TWO Literature from the Perspective of Intellectual History: Studies of New Youth ………………………......

67

CHAPTER THREE Enquiring into the Meaning of the University: Cai Yuanpei as an Educationist ……………………………..

151

CHAPTER FOUR How to Formulate Knowledge: The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan …………………………………...

209

CHAPTER FIVE The Shaping of the Canon: How the Zhou Brothers and Others Edited Hu Shi’s Poems ...………………..

272

CHAPTER SIX Writings in the Margins of ‘New Culture’: New Discoveries from among Heaps of Old Papers ……………….

347

Bibliography

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411

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426

Introduction

Index

AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH TRANSLATION ‘May Fourth’ has attracted generation upon generation of scholars, who have maintained a continuous dialogue with the topic. This is not because of some ‘trumped up’ or ‘undeserved’ reputation, but because of the inherent quality of the events themselves. Of course we must admit that the continuous dialogue with generations of scholars has created a process whereby new value is constantly added. Yet in order to appeal to generation upon generation of readers, the events themselves must possess some sort of special spiritual attraction as well as limitless intrinsic riches. Needless to say, there are also situations where events possess huge potential, but due to certain restrictions they have been lacking continuous dialogue, interrogation, and investigation. The Cultural Revolution, for instance, is most definitely a ‘major topic,’ yet for now we are unable to face directly a period of such dismal existence. ‘May Fourth’ is different: it has received ample attention almost from the exact moment that it happened, and its rich potential has been released very well. Over the course of nine decades, ‘May Fourth’ has never really been neglected, let alone forgotten. We keep giving it all kinds of significance. Among the huge number of books about it, some are profound and revealing, some sing the same old tunes, and some are over-interpretations. To be honest, I worry sometimes that overenthusiastic ‘May Fourth commemorations’ might tempt various political forces to pose as lovers of culture, bringing about exaggerations, distortions, and deformations of the ‘May Fourth image.’ Looking back on Chinese intellectual culture of the twentieth century, ‘May Fourth’ is most worthy of sustained dialogue. The socalled ‘May Fourth Movement’ does not just include the student protest that took place in Beijing on May 4, 1919. At the very least, it includes three inter-related components: intellectual enlightenment, literary revolution, and political protest. Even though China later experienced some earth-shattering changes, we are still profoundly influenced by the intellectual, academic, literary, and political positions and methods that were established at that time. Generations of Chinese people, each from their own perspective, have engaged in dialogue with ‘May Fourth,’ provided it with all kinds of ‘epochal significance,’ and invited it to be involved in the social trans-

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formations of their own eras. And it is this repeated dialogue, confrontation, and fusion that has gradually shaped the intellectual setup of today’s China. Each generation looks at historical events through differentcoloured spectacles, or ‘preconceptions.’ This is the quandary, and the fate, that each historian has to face. There is certainly truth in the famous saying that ‘all history is contemporary history.’ Yet to wallow in this recognition easily leads to imperiousness and conceit. Historians are facing huge piles of ‘fragments of culture’ in all shapes and sizes. Based on our specialist knowledge, we do our best to use some of these fragments to piece together, restore, and reconstruct history. This in itself is a pretty dangerous thing to do. If you are overambitious, completely neglecting the actual people of the past, and only giving free reign to your own talent and imagination, you will for sure end up with a distortion. Of course there is no way in which we can present a complete picture of long-vanished historical scenes, but does that mean we should just give up trying? As well-trained observers we have a duty to try and cut across all kinds of cover-ups, so that we get within touching distance of the crux of the events, and enter into dialogue with history. To some extent, our attempts to ‘return to the actual scene’ take place in the full knowledge that it cannot be done. Yet we avail ourselves of this process of searching to carry out a direct spiritual dialogue with the people of May Fourth and the New Culture. That kind of ‘dialogue’ is multi-faceted and full of vitality, and closely connected with the intellectual trajectory of each individual searcher. Only that kind of ‘May Fourth’ is worth our trust, and our affection. I am grateful to Professor Michel Hockx and to Brill Publishers. Thanks to their generous help, my dialogue with May Fourth has been able to move beyond its national boundaries and become intelligible for readers in the Anglophone world. Chen Pingyuan Chinese University of Hong Kong Guesthouse September 4, 2009

NOTE FROM THE TRANSLATORS This translation is based on the 2005 Peking University Press edition of Chen Pingyuan 陈平原, Chumo lishi yu jinru wu si 触摸历史与进 入五四, and on electronic files of all chapters kindly provided by the author. The Chinese edition includes some illustrations, which were not included in this English edition. This has led to the omission of one paragraph, in Chapter One, as is explained in a footnote to the relevant passage. Furthermore, the Chinese original contains a number of appendices as part of Chapter Six and also at the end of the book. These appendices are copies of primary sources dealt with at length in the main text. In consultation with the author, they have not been included in the English translation. Referencing in footnotes and bibliography follows the Chicago Manual of Style. However, in line with a convention applied in the Chinese original, no page numbers are given for journal sources, many of which come from pre-1949 Chinese journals that did not practise continuous page numbering. In cases where the author cites Chinese translations of works originally written in English, we have tried to locate the relevant passages in the original English-language publications, and cited those instead. When the author cites Chinese passages for which published translations in English could be found, we have cited those translations and added the relevant bibliographical information in footnotes. For English spelling we have followed the Oxford English Dictionary and for Chinese transcription the ‘Basic Rules of Hanyu Pinyin Orthography’ (as found on http://www.pinyin.info). When citing sources using different transcription systems, the transcription has been changed to Hanyu Pinyin. Following the original text, all Chinese characters are in simplified (jianti 简体) script, also when older material is cited. Chinese characters for names of people and places are provided only at their first occurrence in the main text. Titles of Chinese books, journals, and articles generally appear in the main text in English translation only, so as to enhance readability, although some exceptions were made when we deemed it important to provide the reader with the Chinese title as well. In the footnotes, all titles of Chinese-language work are given in Hanyu Pinyin, Chinese characters, and English translation at their first occurrence. We have

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made grateful and extensive use of existing translations of titles of Chinese sources referred to in English-language scholarship. Titles which are not commonly translated (e.g. ‘the Shuowen,’ ‘the Huainanzi’) are given in Chinese only. In cases where Chinese publications themselves carried subtitles in other languages, those have been used instead of more ‘literal’ translations. For instance, Beijing daxue rikan 北京大学日刊 is referred to by its English name The University Daily and the journal Gaizao 改造 is referred to by its Esperanto title La Rekonstruo. The same principle has been applied to names of educational institutions, thus Beijing daxue 北京大学 appears as ‘Peking University,’ and its common acronym Beida 北大 is translated as ‘PKU.’ We have allowed ourselves one exception: the journal Xin qingnian 新青年, the topic of Chapter Two, is referred to not by its official subtitle La jeunesse, but by the English translation New Youth, since this has been common practice in English-language studies for many years. Where we considered it necessary to indicate the original Chinese terms or phrases (in transcription and characters) on which a ‘free’ translation is based, these appear in round brackets. Dates of birth and death for historical figures have been inserted in round brackets, also in those cases where the original text did not provide such information. Other additions to the main text made by the translators in order to improve readability or intelligibility are in square brackets. Footnotes, or parts of footnotes, added by the translators are preceded by the phrase ‘[Translator’s note].’ We should like to thank Bart Dessein, Bernhard Fuehrer, Hong Hockx-Yu, Bryan Hugill, Liying Sun, Tian Yuan Tan, and Chloe Yan for providing advice, help, and quality control during the translating and editing process. Most especially, we wish to thank Chen Pingyuan, for his trust in our work, and for his patience.

INTRODUCTION

SEEING HISTORY IN TEXTS, SHOWING ESSENCES THROUGH DETAILS According to many eminent scholars, ‘May Fourth’ New Culture has long become an outdated area of investigation, no longer worthy of special attention. A number of reasons are given for this. The amount of scholarly work available in the field is immense. What needed to be said, has been said; new discoveries are hard to make. After more than eighty years of political rivalry, the topics and the evidence have for the most part been ‘polluted’ by ideology. For thirty years the wind blew from one direction and then for thirty years it blew from the other direction. Now should be the time for the long-oppressed late Qing period to take centre stage. I am convinced, however, that this once so popular and now seemingly somewhat ignored topic still possesses boundless vitality. The US scholar Vera Schwarcz has said that ‘the “remembered history” of May Fourth’ needs to be confronted seriously because those multifarious ‘statements’ do not constitute ‘history’ in the strict sense, but rather express certain political views and positions. ‘Commemoration (jinian 纪念) and remembrance (huiyi 回忆) have been intricately linked on the Chinese mainland and in Taiwan. Personal memory, never immune to the demands of public history, 1 became even less so after 1949.’ This is one side of the problem. Another side is that the ‘May Fourth’ movement is so extremely well-known and has been rationalized to such an extent that, summoned by countless commemorative ceremonies, the ‘reminiscences’ of those involved have become ever clearer over time and ‘the imaginations have suddenly become surprisingly, gratifyingly, 2 and terrifyingly abundant.’ All this constitutes a tremendous obstacle 1

Vera Schwarz, The Chinese Enlightenment: Intellectuals and the Legacy of the May Fourth Movement of 1919 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 243. 2 In his preface to the second edition of Writing on the Edge of Life, Qian Zhongshu 钱锺书 writes: ‘In creative writing our imagination is often pitifully meagre. But when it comes to reminiscing, regardless of whether it is about things from a few days or a few years ago, to do with oneself or with others, the imaginations suddenly become surprisingly, gratifyingly and terrifyingly abundant.’

2

INTRODUCTION

for reading, understanding, and interpreting ‘May Fourth’ as an ideological current, a literary revolution, and a political movement. Nevertheless, the latent limitlessness of interpretative activity about, for instance, a diverse and complex political movement or an authoritative compilation of texts does not mean that such interpretations are completely unfounded, nor that they can flow 3 unhampered and spread at will. Naturally interpreters’ readings of events or texts always leave something to be desired, as they are constricted by subjective and objective conditions. However, interpretations do vary in quality and sophistication. More importantly, interpretative activities by scholars may have a converse impact on the reminiscences concerning an event (such as ‘May Fourth’) by those involved. I do not mean to blot out the huge differences between official and unofficial ‘memories of May Fourth,’ nor to circumvent the fact that both leftists and rightists enjoy using ‘May Fourth’ for their articles. I merely wish to emphasize that each and every scholar doing research on ‘modern China’ can join the ranks of those who construct the ‘May Fourth’ tradition. It does not matter whether you argue for continuation or for resistance: facing ‘May Fourth’ is the fate that we share. Twelve years ago, at the ‘Conference in Commemoration of May Fourth’ at Peking University, I presented a lecture entitled ‘Leaving “May Fourth” Behind,’ in which I said: Apart from its original significance as a historical incident, ‘May Fourth’ has, to a very large extent, become a symbol of the twentiethcentury Chinese people’s reform of tradition and response to the challenge of Western culture. Each generation’s commemorations of ‘May Fourth’ and interpretations of ‘May Fourth’ are inevitably permeated by its own issues and responses. On the other hand, however, the New Culture Movement that has been named after ‘May Qian Zhongshu, Xiezai rensheng bianshang 写在人生边上 (Writing on the Edge of Life) (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1990), 5. 3 I agree with the semioticist and novelist Umberto Eco when he says: ‘To say that interpretation (as the basic feature of semiosis) is potentially unlimited does not mean that interpretation has no object and that it “riverruns” merely for its own sake.’ And also: ‘Between the mysterious history of a textual production and the uncontrollable drift of its future readings, the text qua text still represents a comfortable presence, the point to which we can stick.’ Umberto Eco, with Richard Rorty, Jonathan Culler, and Christine Brooke-Rose, Interpretation and Overinterpretation, ed. Stefan Collini (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 24, 88.

INTRODUCTION

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Fourth’ has a fairly fixed historical connotation. Its cultural slogans and its scholarly directions emerged during the late Qing and have continued until the present. In other words: in the realm of thought and culture, we are to this very day continuing to live the legacy of ‘May 4 Fourth.’

To this very day, I remain convinced that, in order to ‘transcend May Fourth,’ one must first of all have a thorough understanding of the historical context, the political stances, the cultural tastes, and the academic directions of the ‘May Fourth’ generation. In human history, there have been many ‘crucial moments’ from which massive forces have radiated and exerted decisive influences on later generations. This is something one must confront seriously, whether one likes it or not, if one wants to obtain a sense of direction and forward movement in one’s thinking and dialogues. In my opinion, ‘although the “incident” has long passed, it has been examined and dissected so thoroughly by earlier generations of scholars that it has become an indispensable element in the thinking 5 of those that have followed.’ This is the important role that ‘May Fourth’ has played in the advance of twentieth-century Chinese intellectual culture. As later scholars we must maintain a relationship of constant dialogue with ‘May Fourth’ (including its ideologies, its cultural trends, and its political operations) and other crucial moments, crucial individuals, and crucial doctrines. This is a necessary ‘thinking exercise’ as well as a necessary trajectory towards ‘spiritual maturity.’ Dialogues with ‘May Fourth’ can take the form of reminiscences and descriptions, as well as reconsiderations and critiques; however, one should not be allowed to ignore or purposefully avoid it. In this respect, for my generation, ‘May Fourth’ is both history and reality, not only scholarship, but more a type of mentality. 4

See my ‘Zouchu “wu si”’ 走出’五四’ (Leaving ‘May Fourth’ Behind), in Xuezhe de renjian qinghuai (Zhuhai: Zhuhai chubanshe, 1995), 6975. In the essay, I summarize the academic paradigm established by ‘May Fourth’ as follows: ‘A westernized frame of reference; an education system based on specialization; panpolitical scholarly pursuits; research directions represented by terms like “evolution,” “doubting antiquity,” and “the common people.”’ 5 See my ‘Wufa huibi de “1968”’ 无法回避的‘1968’ (The Unavoidable ‘1968’), Wanxiang 1 (1998). See also my Zhuyu ji 茱萸集 (Dogwood) (Shenyang: Chunfeng wenyi chubanshe, 2001), 113124.

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It should be pointed out that it is characteristic for this book to incorporate the ‘late Qing’ into the discussion of ‘May Fourth,’ for instance when looking at the editorial direction of Xin qingnian 新青 年 (New Youth), at Zhang Taiyan’s 章太炎 (1869–1936) use of vernacular, at Fu Sinian’s 傅斯年 (1896–1950) annotation of [Zhang Taiyan’s] Guogu lunheng 国 故 论 衡 (Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning), or at Liang Qichao’s 梁启超 (1873–1929) discussion of Chinese teaching in secondary schools. This is more than just a specific discursive strategy. It is a scholarly position that I have always held. When discussing ‘May Fourth,’ one should pay special attention to ‘the “late Qing” inside “May Fourth.”’ Conversely, when doing research on the ‘late Qing,’ one should strive to disclose ‘the “May Fourth” inside the “late Qing.”’ To my mind, the collaboration and joint efforts between those two generations completed the transformation of Chinese culture from the classical to the modern. In the preface to my 1988 The Transformation of the Narrative Modes of Chinese Fiction, I made special mention of the following: There is doubtlessly a big difference between the May Fourth writers and the writers of ‘New Fiction,’ whom they called ‘the Old New Faction,’ both in terms of ideology and in terms of concrete aesthetic experience. Yet I insist on discussing the ‘New Fiction’ authors, such as Liang Qichao, Wu Jianren 吴趼人 (1866–1910), and Lin Shu 林纾 (1852–1924), together with May Fourth authors, such as Lu Xun 鲁迅 (1881–1936), Yu Dafu 郁达夫 (1896–1945), and Ye Shengtao 叶圣陶 (1894–1988), in order to emphasize that they together completed the 6 transformation of the narrative modes of Chinese fiction.

Ten years later, when I published The Establishment of Modern Chinese Scholarship, I emphasized the same point in the preface: The acknowledgment that the late Qing New Learning (xin xue 新学) have latently and subtly conditioned the development of contemporary Chinese culture is fairly easily accepted. But this study goes further than that, as it highlights how ‘collaboration’ between scholars of the late Qing and May Fourth generations opened up new realms for modern Chinese scholarship … The strategy of discussing the innovation of scholarly paradigms by tying together scholars of the wuxu 戊戌 [1898] and the May Fourth 6

Zhongguo xiaoshuo xushi moshi de zhuanbian 中国小说叙事模式的转变 (The Transformation of the Narrative Modes of Chinese Fiction) (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1988), 3031.

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[1919] generation requires not only an emphasis on the ‘collaboration’ between the two but also a clear delineation of the beginning and ending of the period. It is relatively easy to decide on the beginning, but opinions differ as to where the period should end. To my mind, by the year 1927, the new scholarly paradigms of the Chinese academy had been confirmed, the basic disciplines and the important topics had been outlined, and the majority of great scholars who were to have a lasting impact on the century had appeared on the scene. Moreover, following the spread of uniform public opinion and party-based education, the heteroglossia and ideological pluriformity heralded by the late Qing had ceased to exist. In its place had come a rivalry between parties and doctrines with steadfast positions and unmistakable banners. After 7that year, twentieth-century Chinese scholarship had entered a new era.

Because of this combined perspective on ‘May Fourth’ and the ‘late Qing,’ I have been forced to proceed along two lines. Originally I was mainly arguing for the ‘late Qing’ to have a position in intellectual history and literary history. During the past ten years, following the rapid rise in popularity of the ‘late Qing,’ scholars have been caricaturizing ‘May Fourth’ and the main emphasis of my work has shifted to explaining the mental attraction and the complexity of ‘May Fourth.’ The literary figures and scholars who were active during the half century from 1880 to 1930 can be roughly divided in a ‘wuxu generation’ and a ‘May Fourth generation.’ The former includes people like Huang Zunxian 黄遵宪 (1848–1905), Lin Shu, Kang Youwei 康有为 (1858–1927), Liang Qichao, and Tan Sitong 谭嗣同 (1865–1898); the latter includes people like Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培 (1868–1940), Chen Duxiu 陈 独 秀 (1879–1942), Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1885–1967), and Hu Shi 胡适 (1891–1962). These are indeed two different generations but, in terms of intellectual doctrines and literary tastes, there are many elements that overlap or interlink. It is these two generations who together created what nowadays we refer to time and again as ‘New Culture.’ Therefore I prefer to discuss these two generations together, without professing any bias towards either ‘May Fourth’ or the ‘late Qing.’ 7

Zhongguo xiandai xueshu zhi jianli—yi Zhang Taiyan Hu Shizhi wei zhongxin 中国现代学术之建立—以章太炎胡适之为中心 (The Establishment of Modern Chinese Scholarship, with Focus on Zhang Taiyan and Hu Shizhi) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998), 68.

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It should be easy to understand that my focus will shift between the ‘late Qing’ and ‘May Fourth’ depending on the topic. It is also easy to explain, when one considers the many aspects of New Culture, that I shall shuttle back and forth between different disciplines, including literature, politics, art, and education. What perhaps does require some explanation is why such important topics have eventually taken the shape of a number of case studies. In discussing ‘May Fourth’ New Culture, my entry points turn out to be a demonstration, a magazine, a university president, a collection of articles, and a volume of poetry. Can a discursive strategy like that really shoulder the responsibility of taking readers ‘inside the May Fourth Movement?’ With a topic like the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture Movement, about which so many widely diverging opinions exist, it really is a case of ‘looking across it seems a ridge, from the side it seems a peak / near 8 and far and high and low, it’s different all the time.’ As a researcher, one can look at the high places and the big parts, or one can look at the tiny places and the deep parts. My strategy is the latter—to see history in texts and to show essences through details. What I call ‘touching’ history is nothing else than reconstructing actual scenes through details, digging up ideologies from texts, and demonstrating developments through case studies. My objects of discussion include visible ones, such as a demonstration, a magazine, a university, and a volume of poetry, as well as intangible ones, such as ideology, style, canon, and the literary field. If the point of entry is small, then the digging must be deep, otherwise it has little significance; not every description of tiny fragments points the way towards a successful reconstruction of history. Elsewhere I have cited two statements about knowledge, one by Hu Shi and one by Wang Guowei 王国维 (1877–1927), to demonstrate the distinction between ‘big’ and ‘small’ in academic research. The former said: ‘All knowledge is equal;’ the latter said [to one of his students]: ‘Your 8

[Translator’s note] The author is quoting the opening couplet from the Song dynasty poet Su Shi’s 苏轼 (Dongpo 东坡, 1037–1101) poem ‘Ti Xilin bi’ 题西林 壁 (Written on the Wall of West Forest Temple). The remaining two lines of the poem, to which the author is implicitly referring, are very famous: ‘The true face of Lu Mountain, I know not what it is / just because right now I am located in its midst.’ In other words: when dealing with the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture Movement, one often cannot see the wood for the trees.

INTRODUCTION

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textual research is quite exact, but its significance is small.’ When taken out of context, there seems to be a tension here. In academic training, as long as one comes up with a neat, straightforward solution to a problem, one will be awarded full marks. However the pursuit of study is not the same as doing practice exercises: there must be a higher pursuit. And at that level, whether or not something is of ‘great’ or ‘small’ significance can have an impact on value judgments. Naturally the terms ‘big’ and ‘small’ here do not refer to the actual volume of the objects but to their potential for having a wider impact, to lead to deeper findings and explanations and to fit 9 within one’s own frame of mind and cultural ideals. My approach towards my research, selecting a number of key links within the New Culture Movement, mulling over them carefully, and moving slowly forward step by step, was inspired by Lu Xun. He selected ‘medicine, alcohol, women, and buddhas’ as topics for discussing writings from the Han, the Wei, and the Six Dynasties. This was a scholarly risk, but Lu Xun was successful. ‘To abandon any attempts at comprehensive coverage, grabbing hold of a number of noticeable cultural phenomena, “writing big things about small topics,” does not only require depth of knowledge but it even more 10 requires the sharp eye of a thinker who can penetrate history.’ For my discussion of ‘May Fourth’ New Culture, I have selected the student movement on the square, the dialogue between styles in New Youth, Cai Yuanpei’s concept of a university, Zhang Taiyan’s experiments with the vernacular, the teaching of literary history at Peking University, and the canonization process of New Poetry. Perhaps they do not all meet the stipulated standard, but they each have their own characteristic features. I remember that, when Chapter One of this book was published as a separate article, a friend from Taiwan quizzed me on whether or not I had taken my cue from the Annales School or from New 9

Cf. ‘Bianhou’ 编后 (Editor’s Afterword), Xiandai Zhongguo 2 (2002). Hu Shi´s statement can be found in his ‘Shuihu zhuan hou kao’《水浒传》后考 (Later Research on The Water Margin); Wang Guowei’s lines are quoted in Yao Mingda’s 姚名达 ‘Ai yu duan yi’ 哀余断忆 (Scattered Memories after Mourning). 10 See ‘Zuowei wenxueshijia de Lu Xun’ 作为文学史家的鲁迅 (Lu Xun as Literary Historian), in my Wenxueshi de xingcheng yu jiangou 文学史的形成与建 构 (The Formation and Construction of Literary History) (Nanning: Guangxi jiaoyu chubanshe, 1999), 1455.

INTRODUCTION

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Historicism. My response was straightforward: Indeed, I had read work by Stephen Greenblatt, Hayden White, Fernand Braudel, and Jacques Le Goff, but I would not dare to make wild claims linking my work to theirs. In presenting my research the way I had, I had been inspired by three Chinese scholars. Most people will realize that the title of Chapter Six of this book is a reference to Qian Zhongshu’s 钱锺书 (1910–1998) collection of random jottings Writing on the Edge of Life. It is not that I am pursuing ‘the calm and carefreeness of someone relaxing after work,’ but rather that I realize that ‘May Fourth’ New Culture is: ‘A really big book! I can’t finish it so quickly.’ Rather than act like those critics ridiculed by Qian Zhongshu, who ‘shoulder the heavy duty of guiding the readers and chiding the authors,’ and who ‘will have a whole bunch of opinions after reading only a few pages of a book,’ it is better to ‘browse at leisure’ and to ‘jot a few notes in the margins,’ 11 recording a few vivid responses that are truly one’s own. This discursive strategy of refusing to be overly systematic and emphasizing sincere vivid responses is clearly visible in his famous works such as On the Art of Poetry and Limited Views: Essays on 12 Ideas and Letters. My inclination to write in the ‘margin’ has yet another origin, namely Jin Kemu’s 金克木 understanding of the marginal. In his essay ‘On “Margins”’ he puts it very clearly: ‘People nowadays like to talk about the centre. They don’t pay much attention to the margins. Actually there is a lot to write about margins. Without margins, where would the centre come from? The centre is measured from the margins.’ There are margins of space, such as borders; margins of time, such as when new turns to old; and then there are ‘margins between phenomena and their significance, between authors and their readers.’ All such margins are worthy of serious consid13 eration. 11

Cf. Qian Zhongshu, Writing on the Edge of Life, 12. [Translator’s note] English titles of Qian’s Tan yi lu 谈艺录 and Guanzhui bian 管锥编 are those given by Ronald Egan in his ‘Introduction’ to Qian Zhongshu, Limited Views: Essays on Ideas and Letters, transl. Ronald Egan (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 1998), 1, 4. 13 See my ‘“Du shu shidai” de jingling—huainian Jin Kemu xiansheng’ ‘《读 书》时代’的精灵—怀念金克目先生 (The Spirit of ‘the Age of Reading’—In Memory of Jin Kemu), Du shu 12 (2000). See also Dogwood, 78. 12

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Finally, my emphasis in historical research on sympathy and consideration towards the people of the past, and my wariness of ‘over-interpretation’ were to some extent influenced by Chen Yinke 陈寅愘 (1890–1969). In a discussion of philosophical history, Chen wrote: The sources on which we base ourselves today are but the smallest part of what has been preserved from that period. If one wants to view a complete structure using only these fragmentary remnants, one must possess the eye and the spirit of an artist admiring an ancient painting or sculpture. Only then can one truly understand the purposes and the objects of the ancients’ theories. What I call ‘truly understanding’ requires a profound journey of the mind, to be in the same realm as the theorizing ancients and to express sympathy for the reason why they so painstakingly formulated their arguments the way they did. Only then can one judge the correctness and the achievements of their theses 14 without sounding estranged or grandiloquent.

Understanding the difficulty for people of today to enter into history, as well as the complexity of what is called reconstructing history, is not something that allows for grand empty statements. Perhaps for historians, clear-cut sequences, definite causes and results, neat arrangements, and intricate systems are not always good things. To examine and reconstruct history on the basis of some details, fragments, and case studies that I consider of lasting significance, as I have done in this book, is a way of circumventing some of the problems of ‘grand narratives,’ but it might also lead one to the other extreme, namely to ‘pluck the feathers’ off a real-life cultural movement and leave them scattered. I have tried to be on my guard against this. To put it differently: hidden behind all the interesting people and stories still lie my own theoretical concerns. They include: the relationship between multivocality (duoshengbu 多声部) and the main theme (zhuxuanlü 主 旋 律 ) when reconstructing historical scenes; the ways in which the ‘late Qing’ and ‘May Fourth’ generations both joined forces and engaged in competition; the tension within the New Culture Movement between monopolizing public opinion and advocating scholarship; the ideal shape and 14

Chen Yinke, ‘Feng Youlan Zhongguo zhexue shi shangce shencha baogao’ 冯 友兰中国哲学史上册审查报告 (Reader’s Report on Volume One of Feng Youlan’s History of Chinese Philosophy), in Jinmingguan conggao erbian (Shanghai: Guji chubanshe, 1980).

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INTRODUCTION

development of universities in China nowadays; the function of the media; and the significance of genre. What we encounter nowadays can only be ‘fragments of culture.’ In that sense, it is actually quite wise to rely heavily on ellipsis when discussing history. My six modest chapters merely sketch one side of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture. If they can provide readers with some vivid responses and help them to get ‘inside the May Fourth Movement,’ then I shall be content. Yuanmingyuan Gardens, West Beijing, June 9, 2005

CHAPTER ONE

ON THE DAY OF MAY THE FOURTH: AN ALTERNATIVE NARRATIVE OF THE ‘MAY FOURTH’ MOVEMENT About the ‘May Fourth Movement’ ‘May Fourth Movement’ is a proper noun with a very high usage frequency in twentieth-century China. Most people can tell you something about it and academics, especially, are all intimately familiar with it. As a newly-emerged branch of ‘practical learning’ (xianxue 显学) (new in relation to the study of the Four Books, the Five Classics, and the poetry of the Tang and Song dynasties), the volume of research monographs on ‘May Fourth’ can truly be called staggering. Over the past eighty years, participants and opponents, forerunners and latecomers have all gone to great lengths to leave behind their own impressions of ‘May Fourth.’ To analyse all those colourful yet mutually contradictory views is the work of scholarly specialists. The average reader need only have a general understanding of that mass movement, which has been so profoundly influential and has been so incessantly discussed by later generations. So I picked up the authoritative Concise Encyclopædia Britannica, hoping to obtain a simple and concise answer. Compared to specialist works attempting to establish their own views, reference works emphasize accuracy, succinctness, and simplicity. We all know that turning to reference works is the most appropriate way to familiarize oneself quickly with a particular context. But what I discovered really shocked me. Something as complicated and multi-faceted as ‘May Fourth’ of course cannot be dispensed with using a few sentences; however, I had not expected there to be so many errors and omissions in the encyclopaedia. Obviously my statements about people being able to ‘tell you something about it’ or being ‘intimately familiar with it’ were too optimistic. Below is the entry on ‘May Fourth Movement’ in the Concise Encyclopædia Britannica, followed by some comments and additions. I italicized some passages that I shall return to in my discussion.

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May Fourth Movement, a mass movement that occurred in China on May 4, 1919. The movement was directed toward opposing imperialism and the Northern warlord government. The movement is usually held to be one of modern China’s cultural and intellectual enlightenment movements. In January 1919, as the terms of the peace treaty with Germany were negotiated by various countries, the news spread to China that the Peace Conference had decided to transfer Germany’s territorial privileges in China’s Shandong province to Japan. At the same time, the Japanese government issued an ultimatum to the government in Beijing, led by the warlord Yuan Shikai, posing twenty-one demands, aimed at Japan’s sole domination of the whole of China. When the news spread that the Northern warlord government was about to sign the peace treaty and agree to the twenty-one demands, more than 3,000 students from 13 colleges in Beijing organized a boycott of classes, issuing slogans such as ‘fight for sovereignty abroad and drive out the traitors at home,’ ‘cancel the twenty-one demands,’ and ‘refuse to sign the Peace Treaty.’ They also organized a demonstration. The government’s police and military suppressed the movement, arresting 32 students, leading to a general boycott of classes by students from Beijing colleges, followed by students all over the country taking to the streets, organizing demonstrations, holding propaganda meetings, and carrying out boycotts against Japanese goods. On June 3 and June 4, the Northern government carried out widespread arrests, rounding up 1,000 students in Beijing alone. The momentum of the movement spread to all major cities. Workers in Shanghai, Nanjing, Tianjin, and other cities went on strike. Merchants in Shanghai closed their shops in support of the students and workers. The country’s cultural circles also expressed their sympathy for the mass struggle, which subsequently developed into a nationwide revolutionary movement. The Northern government was eventually forced to release the arrested students, to dismiss three pro-Japanese cabinet ministers, and to agree not to sign the Peace Treaty and the twenty-one demands. On the eve of the May Fourth Movement, some radical intellectuals such as Li Dazhao, Chen Duxiu, and Mao Zedong began to publish magazines and articles that advocated democracy and science, criticized Chinese traditional culture, disseminated Marxist ideology, and promoted New Culture. Moderate intellectuals, represented by Hu Shi, were opposed to Marxism but strongly supported literary reform, proposing to replace classical writing with vernacular. They advocated freedom of marriage, opposing parental arrangements. They proposed to ban prostitution. They favoured pragmatism over Confucian doctrine. The movement spurred the re-

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organization of the Nationalist Party and provided the theoretical and organizational basis for the founding of the Communist Party.1

Commentators on the ‘May Fourth Movement’ tend to have vastly differing interpretations, depending on their political stance or their ideological inclination. Those who focus on enlightenment will single out the founding of New Youth, the reforms at Peking University, and the rise of the New Culture Movement as decisive influences on the ‘May Fourth Incident.’ The timeframe of their discussion will usually be from 1917 to 1921. Those who cite patriotism will emphasize the resistance against warlord rule by students and urbanites and the opposition to imperialist hegemony. They will as much as possible understate or even sever the link between the political protest on May 4 and the preceding New Culture Movement. However, neither of the two would talk only about ‘culture and thought’ and pay no attention at all to ‘politics and society.’ If one admits that the protest gathering in Tiananmen Square on May 4 was of epochal significance, then one’s discussion must not only be about ‘enlightenment,’ but must also incorporate ‘political revolution.’ The ‘Twenty-One Demands’ refer to the Japanese imperialists’ failed attempt to destroy China through a set of secret clauses which were presented to Yuan Shikai 袁世凯 (1859–1916) by the Japanese ambassador in a face-to-face meeting in January 1915. On May 7 of that same year, the Japanese issued an ultimatum, demanding a response from Yuan Shikai within 48 hours. Two days later, Yuan basically agreed to all the Japanese demands except the fifth clause which he declared he had ‘allowed to be discussed at a later date.’ In January 1919, the Chinese delegates at the Paris Peace Conference fought for the annulment of the ‘Twenty-One Demands,’ for the return of Shandong, and for the abolishment of imperialists’ special 1

[Translator’s note] The author here cites the 1986 Jianming Buliedian baike quanshu 简 明 不 列 颠 百 科 全 书 (Concise Encyclopædia Britannica) (Beijing, Shanghai: Zhongguo dabaike quanshu chubanshe), which is a Chinese translation of the 1984 15th edition of The New Encyclopædia Britannica. However, the entry on the May Fourth Movement in the English ‘original’ is very different from that in the Chinese ‘translation’ and contains none of the inaccuracies highlighted here. The entry was rewritten by the authors of the Chinese edition in order to assure compliance with ideological guidelines, yet this process was carried out at the expense of factual accuracy, demonstrating exactly the lack of ‘general knowledge’ about the May Fourth Movement that is the target of the author’s critique here.

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privileges in China. It was not about whether or not the ‘Twenty-One Demands’ should be agreed to. Moreover, Yuan Shikai had died on June 6, 1916, so the use of the expression ‘at the same time’ creates the mistaken impression that Yuan was still in power in China in 1919. In reality, the president of China was Xu Shichang 徐世昌 (1855–1939), the premier was Qian Nengxun 钱能训 (1869–1924) and the foreign minister, who led the delegation to the Paris Peace Conference, was Lu Zhengxiang 陆徵祥 (1871–1949). The ‘more than 3,000 students from 13 colleges in Beijing’ did not boycott their classes, but they held a demonstration. That event took place on May 4, 1919. When the government took heavy-handed measures and arrested 32 students, the student representatives of all the schools held a meeting the next day and decided to boycott all classes from that day. They also sent out cables all over the country and petitioned the President. The ‘Petition to the President’ was signed by representatives of twenty-three institutes of higher learning, representing 9,860 students. The Northern government was forced to release the detained students on June 7. On June 10, Cao Rulin 曹汝霖 (1877–1966), Zhang Zongxiang 章宗祥 (1879–1962), and Lu Zongyu 陆宗舆 (1876–1941) were dismissed from their offices. However the three pro-Japanese officials were not all ‘cabinet ministers’ as the text claims. Cao was Minister of Transport, but Zhang was the envoy to Japan, while Lu was the Director-General of the Mint (bizhiju 币制 局). Even after dismissing Cao, Zhang, and Lu, the Northern government still intended to submit to the imperialists. On the 17th, they sent a cable to the delegates at the Peace Conference ordering them to sign the Treaty. On the 23rd, they told them to ‘act as circumstances dictate.’ It was not until June 25, as domestic pressure continued to grow, that President Xu Shichang informed the Chinese delegation in Paris that they could refuse to sign. Due to the conditions of telecommunications at the time, the government’s cable did not arrive until the night of June 28. The signing of the Treaty had been planned for the morning of that same day. According to both Lu Zhengxiang and Gu Weijun 顾维钧 (V.K. Wellington Koo, 1887–1985) in their memoirs, their decision not to sign was taken on their own initiative. According to largely similar newspaper reports in Shishi xinbao 时事新报 (China Times) and Minguo ribao 民国日

ON THE DAY OF MAY THE FOURTH

15

报 (Republican Daily News), large numbers of Chinese workers and students living in France had surrounded the special envoy’s residence on the 28th in order to prevent them from going to the meeting to sign the Treaty. On July 5, 1919, the Chen bao 晨报 (Morning News) published an article entitled ‘How China Came to Refuse to Sign the Treaty.’ The article referred to a telegram sent by Lu Zhengxiang and his colleagues on June 28, which was received in the evening of 3 July. Only at this stage did people in China obtain a detailed understanding of how the refusal to sign the Treaty had come about. Lu states: ‘We had not expected the Conference to be quite so imperious, not considering the honour of our nation in the slightest of ways. How could we not be outraged?’ and ‘We had no choice but to refuse to attend the signing.’ Having failed in their mission as conference delegates, all they could do was resign from their duties and accept the consequences. On July 11, the Morning News published ‘Contents of the Government’s Telegram of Reprimand to the Special Envoy.’ The article stated: ‘Sources claim that two days ago the Government sent a cable to the special envoy, asking him to inform the other nations that “China has refused to sign because of staunch opposition from its people. The Government has acceded to public opinion and refused to add its signature. However, China is most hopeful that it will be able to sign at a later stage, as soon as a satisfactory compromise has been reached. We look forward to the Peace Conference being extended, to allow for ample discussion.”’ Predictably, when this ‘reprimand’ was made public, it incited widespread public outrage. On July 15, the Morning News published ‘Update on the Government’s Attitude towards Foreign Policy,’ in which it was claimed that there was indeed huge international pressure on the Chinese government to ‘sign at a later date,’ with Japanese public opinion being especially outspoken about it. ‘Yet our government continues to deny stringently that it sent a reprimand and called for a later signing, stating that it never had any intention to sign.’ Whereas the former part is difficult to verify, the latter part is a blatant lie. In discussing the intellectuals who influenced the shaping and development of the ‘May Fourth’ movement, the order in which Li, Chen, and Mao are listed defies comprehension. Even when excluding the ‘moderates’ Cai Yuanpei and Hu Shi, the most

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influential ‘radical’ has to be Chen Duxiu. Especially when talking about founding journals, what could be more deserving of emphasis than Chen’s editorship of New Youth? As for the student union journal Xiangjiang pinglun 湘 江 评 论 (Xiang River Review), founded by Mao Zedong 毛泽东 (1893–1976) in Hunan, it published only five issues in all (Numbers 14 and one extra issue, published in June and July of 1919). Even if the contents were of the highest quality, it would still not manage to squeeze into the top three of most important ‘May Fourth’ journals. What is even more worth noticing is that the first issue of the Xiang River Review was published on July 14, 1919. To discuss it in the context of ‘the eve of the May Fourth movement’ is wholly inappropriate. ‘Pragmatism,’ being a method of thought, and ‘Confucian doctrine,’ being a system of values, are not entirely comparable. During the ‘May Fourth’ period, the group around Hu Shi was by far not the only one to critique ‘Confucian doctrine.’ Moreover, Hu Shi’s acceptance of Western learning was not limited to ‘pragmatism.’ In the debate on ‘issues versus isms,’ ‘pragmatism’ could be put to good use. However, when the New Culture advocates ‘smashed the Confucian shop’ (dadao Kong jia dian 打倒孔家店), neither their ultimate aims nor their theoretical weapons had much to do with ‘pragmatism.’ To reduce the ideological trends of the ‘May Fourth’ period to Marxism as represented by Li Dazhao 李大钊 (1888–1927) and ‘pragmatism’ as represented by Hu Shi is a vestige of the 1950s national campaign to criticize Hu Shi. The above comments have merely verified historical facts. The ways in which political ideology and frames of reference have limited explanations of the significance of the ‘May Fourth’ movement are even more problematic and not to be discussed for the moment. What I have written above contains no shocking statements at all, nor is it in any way original. My aim in singling out an authoritative encyclopaedia, representing a system of common knowledge, was to make one point clear: ‘May Fourth’ may have been commemorated for decades, but it is not necessarily understood by the public, nor by scholars. So how then did the ‘May Fourth’ movement come about and how has it been commemorated and interpreted by later generations?

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The Day of May the Fourth The ‘May Fourth’ movement had an impact on Chinese people’s spiritual life and social changes for the entire twentieth century. The trends and strategies for discussing the movement are ever-changing. The research can stretch across a long period of time, or it can be a description of moments; it can provide a complete perspective or a private narrative; it can be rational analysis or it can be emotional reconstruction. Given that most outcomes of research on ‘May Fourth’ tend to lean towards the former, this book is intended to fill in some of the gaps, placing emphasis on the momentary, the private, and the emotional. Starting from the small and the concrete, I hope to develop a side of ‘May Fourth’ that has so far received little attention. I have assumed that readers of this book have a general impression of the emergence and development of the ‘May Fourth’ movement. What we need to understand are the concrete details of the political demonstration that took place in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square on that day. Out of the many descriptions of the ‘May Fourth’ movement, I have selected as the main thread of my narrative an article from the May 5, 1919 issue of the Morning News, entitled ‘Shandong wenti zhong zhi xueshengjie xingdong’ 山 东 问 题 中 之 学 生 界 行 动 (Student Activism in Response to Shandong Question). This ‘live report’ from a journalist, though containing some obvious bias, is clearly closer to ‘real events’ (if one accepts such a concept) than the ever more vivid later recollections by individuals from all walks of life. Each part of my discussion below will be preceded by a quote from the Morning News article, followed by my own verifications and further expansions. I hope that combining the old and the new in such a way will help us to cross through historical time and space, taking a new look at what happened back then. A Beautiful Spring Day It was Sunday yesterday and the weather was bright. Your reporter was driving to Central Park for an outing. When I arrived at Tiananmen, I saw a large crowd of students, each holding white banners and handing out pamphlets, surrounded by masses of onlookers. The entire road from Tiananmen to Zhonghuamen was packed with groups of students. I quickly got out and went over to have a look …

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That May 4, 1919 was a Sunday is of the utmost significance. After all, the students’ aim in marching to East Jiaomin Alley (Dongjiaominxiang 东交民巷) was that they were hoping to hand a statement to the U.S. and U.K. envoys, expressing the Chinese people’s readiness to pledge their lives to the retrieval of its rights and interests in Shandong and asking the envoys to ‘convey these intentions to your country’s governments and to the Peace Conference, and to lend sympathetic support to our nation.’2 Whether or not it was naive to expect the U.S. and U.K. to do the right thing is beside the point here. Had it not been a Sunday, at the very least the U.S. envoy might have come out to receive the statement. This would undoubtedly have eased the students’ sense of indignation and events might well not have become more intense. Both the contemporary sources and the later reminiscences point to the fact that the organizers of the student movement initially had no intention of ‘burning down Zhaojialou 赵家楼.’ History is a kaleidoscope, full of countless contingencies. It was a tense situation right from the start and emotions were running high. Nobody at the time had considered such details as whether or not there would be anyone to receive the statement on a Sunday, while later commentators were in no position to make different assumptions. Compared to this indisputable ‘Sunday,’ the more flexible expression ‘the weather was bright’ is worth some more attention. The young students who were committed to saving the nation would not have given any thought to the weather conditions. However, on the day of the demonstration those conditions created the effect of having large crowd gatherings. Especially that series of dramatic events that led from ‘the gathering at the Gate of Heavenly Peace’ to ‘the humiliation at East Jiaomin Alley’ and to ‘burning down Zhaojialou’ was not unrelated to the weather conditions. For later commentators trying to approach ‘May Fourth,’ the first determining circumstance that we must try to recreate is this not so unimportant ‘bright weather.’ The weather on the day of ‘May Fourth’ has not received attention from people at the time, nor from later historians, unlike the weather on June 3. On that day, Beijing students took to the streets in great 2

‘Xueshengtuan shang Mei gongshi shuotie’ 学生团上美公使说帖 (Students’ Statement to the U.S. Envoy), Chen bao, May 6, 1919.

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numbers to give lectures, while military police surrounded Peking University’s third pavilion, turning it into a temporary prison. That day has gone down in history with ‘a howling wind’ and ‘dark clouds across the sky.’ Police arrests and howling wind go together well and make for good writing. The first example appeared in a report in Morning News on June 5: Yesterday afternoon there was a sudden change in weather in Beijing: a howling wind, thick dark clouds, followed by thunder, lightning, and rain. Darkness descended. In our editorial office, the telephone stopped working and the lights went out. Your reporter inadvertently experienced a sense of despair for the times and pity for the people. Why? Because at the same moment in time the heavens were displaying their anger, those few hundred young students were being surrounded. At that time when I thought of the situation in the Beiheyan 北河沿 area,3 I heaved a sigh amidst the lightning flashes, and I said: ‘Oh! What sort of sight is this!’4

In Meizhou pinglun 每周评论 (Weekly Review) no. 25, published on June 8, an article by Chen Duxiu using the pseudonym Zhiyan 只眼 also mentioned the government’s deployment of military police to round up students giving street lectures: At that moment there was a roaring of thunder and a strong wind, black clouds covered the sky, dust was everywhere blinding people. It was oh so dismal and gloomy!5

Writings like this are realistic and symbolic at the same time and most suitable for expressing political tendencies. That is why historians discussing ‘June Third’ are fond of quoting the semiliterary descriptions by Chen Duxiu and others. The 3rd of June was indeed a windy, rainy day, but it does not seem to have been as serious as stated in the articles by the Morning News reporter and by Chen Duxiu. Weather details are meticulously recorded in Lu Xun’s diary. His entry for that day reads: ‘Clear. Cloudy in the afternoon.

3

[Translator’s note] The area where Peking University was located in 1919. ‘Hai, zhe shi shenme jingxiang’ 咳，这是什么景象 (Oh, What Sort of Sight is This), Chen bao, June 5, 1919. 5 Zhiyan (Chen Duxiu), ‘Liu yue san ri de Beijing’ 六月三日的北京 (Beijing on June Third), Meizhou pinglun 25, June 8, 1919. 4

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Accompanied Xu Jixuan 徐吉轩 to the Huguo 护国 Temple to look at a room. In the evening some strong winds followed by drizzle.’6 Using Lu Xun’s diary, we can also recapture a sense of the weather in the beginning of May. It was rainy on May 1, it turned bright on May 2, it became windy at night on May 3, and on May Fourth it was ‘overcast’ (tan 昙). 7 Weather like that is good for outdoors activities. The 4th of May 1919 was the fifth day of the fourth month according to the lunar calendar, two days before the Beginning of Summer (lixia 立夏), when the climate is usually mild. According to the customs of the old Beijing there would be temple fairs in the Miaofeng 妙峰 mountain range from the first to the fifteenth day of the fourth lunar month. One source describes these events as ‘burning more incense than anywhere else in the world.’ 8 Another great occasion was the Festival of Bathing the Buddha (yu fo hui 浴佛会) on the eighth day of the fourth lunar month, described as follows: ‘Out in the streets and in the temples and monasteries tarpaulins and canopies are put up, where tea and salted beans are handed out. Yellow cotton and silk are used to make banners that read “Auspicious Destinies For All” (pu jie liang yuan 普结良缘).’9 In the China of the ‘May Fourth’ period, the climate and customs of the old capital Beijing were not all that different from the Qing dynasty. The transition from Spring to Summer was still most worthy of nostalgic reminiscence and most suitable for trips and outings. Yu Dafu famously said that Beijing Spring arrives late and leaves early: ‘Spring arrives devoid of faith, Spring departs without a trace. In the blink of an eye, in the city of Beiping, the light of Spring will have flashed by like a dashing horse. Soon after the stove in the room has been removed, you might find yourself putting up mat shelters.’10 Because ‘the light of Spring’ is so fleeting in Beijing, ‘Spring walks’ 6

Lu Xun quanji 鲁 迅 全 集 (Complete Works of Lu Xun) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1981), vol. 14, 358. 7 Ibid., 355. 8 Fucha Dunchong 富察敦崇, ‘Yanjing suishi ji’ 燕京岁时记 (Record of the Seasons in Yanjing), in Dijing suishi jisheng, Yanjing suishi ji, by Fucha Dunchong and Pan Rongbi (Beijing: Guji chubanshe, 1981), 63. 9 Pan Rongbi 潘荣陛, ‘Dijing suishi jisheng’ 帝京岁时纪胜 (Descriptions of Scenic Spots during the Different Seasons in the Imperial Capital), in ibid., 18. 10 Yu Dafu, ‘Beiping de siji’ 北平的四季 (The Four Seasons in Beiping), in Beiping yigu (Shanghai: Yuzhou feng she, 1936).

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(taqing 踏青) were a popular pastime for all classes. Even Zhou Zuoren, who once wrote that ‘Miaofeng Mountain is very a busy place but I have not yet had time to visit,’11 was appreciative of the Beijing people’s enthusiasm for Spring outings. However, in May 1919 the nation was in crisis. This was not an appropriate time for refined literati pursuits. Yet it is intriguing that later reminiscences often bring out a kind of Spring fragrance. Yang Zhensheng 杨 振 声 (1890-1956), one of the students who was arrested on ‘May Fourth,’ later wrote: ‘The fourth of May was a bright day with no wind, but all the time it felt to me as if wind and clouds were overhead.’12 The ‘wind and clouds’ were probably meant to be symbolic and have little to do with the ‘overcast’ conditions reported in Lu Xun’s diary. Another Peking University student, Fan Yun 范云, paid attention not only to wind and clouds, but ended up writing about the surrounding environment: ‘May 1919 in Beijing were days when Spring was warm and flowers were fragrant, and our patriotic enthusiasm grew stronger by the day.’ 13 He, too, was not satisfied with simple realistic description and had to use the warm spring and fragrant flowers as metaphors for ‘patriotic enthusiasm.’ Writers of literature are probably the only people who would pay so much attention to these details of daily life. Bing Xin 冰 心 (19001999), in a reminiscence forty years later, said that what she remembered most was that ‘there was a strong wind outside the window that day and the scent of locust tree blossom was so heavy it made my head hurt.’ 14 Wang Tongzhao’s 王 统 照 (18971957) description is even more detailed: In front of Tiananmen and inside Zhengyangmen, the locust and willow trees lining the road were swaying in gust after gust of wind, and from across the red walls of Zhongshan park (called Central Park at the time) to the West, the fragrance of all kinds of different flowers

11

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Beiping de chuntian’ 北 平 的 春 天 (Spring in Beiping), in Fengyu tan (Shanghai: Beixin shuju, 1936). 12 Yang Zhensheng, ‘Huiyi wu si’ 回 忆 五 四 (Remembering May Fourth), Renmin wenxue, no. 5 (1954). 13 Fan Yun, ‘Wu si neitian’ 五四那天 (The Day of May Fourth), Beijing ribao, May 4, 1957. 14 Bing Xin, ‘Huiyi wu si’ 回 忆 五 四 (Remembering May Fourth), Renmin wenxue, no. 5 (1959).

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and plants was spreading, noticeable even where people were few and the wind was weak.15

Of course, as Wang Tongzhao added, the students that day were in no mood to appreciate flowers. All that was on their minds was: ‘The nation is doomed! Arise, countrymen!’ For the reconstruction of the live atmosphere of a historical event, however, the fragrance spreading across those red walls is anything but a superfluous turn of phrase. In late imperial and early Republican times, Beijing was ‘a green metropolis where one would see trees all around rather than rooftops’ and where, in Spring, the thing that Yu Dafu found hardest to forget, was ‘that layer of fresh green inside and outside the city, that deluge of fresh green.’16 The people of Beijing have always been quite sensitive towards the appreciation of flowers and trees, as evidenced by quotes such as ‘its most famous flowers are rosebushes (meigui 玫瑰) and its colours are divided into true purple and light yellow; its most outstanding trees are the sal trees, best appreciated near the reclining Buddha in the Fragrant Hills’17 and ‘in April, when the flowers bloom, the cries of the peddlers along the streets have a melodious ring to them; waking up in the morning to that sound, is quite an experience.’18 According to the ‘Table of Flower Blooming Seasons’ in the Commemorative Publication for the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of Central Park, the following flowers would bloom and attract visitors to the park between mid-April and mid-May: ‘Lilac, mountain orchid, apricot flower, white lilac, Chinese redbud, begonia, flowering plum, Chinese rose, yellow rose (huangcimei 黄刺梅), Chinese wisteria, white peony, peonies of various other colours, roses (qiangwei 蔷 薇 ), Chinese herbaceous peony and rosebushes.’ 19 Although this commemorative publication dates from two decades later, the blooming seasons will not have changed all that much. Unfortunately the Spring of 1919 was widely ignored by the people of Beijing. The pressing national crisis caused most people’s 15

Wang Tongzhao, ‘Sanshiwu nian qian de wu yue si ri’ 三十五年前的五月四 日 (The Fourth of May Thirty-Five Years Ago), Renmin wenxue, no. 5 (1954). 16 Yu Dafu, ‘The Four Seasons in Beiping.’ 17 Pan Rongbi, Descriptions of Scenic Spots, 20. 18 Fucha Dunchong, ‘Record of the Seasons,’ 64. 19 Zhongyang gongyuan nianwu nian jinian kan 中 央 公 园 廿 五 年 纪 念 刊 (Commemorative Publication for the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of Central Park) (Beijing: Zhongyuan gongyuan shiwusuo, 1939), 122123.

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attention to turn towards the young students rallying in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The three thousand young students, set off against the red roses yet with no interest in admiring flowers, held white banners and demonstrated in cohorts. Their slogans have been recorded, but how they were dressed is another important element in our reconstruction of the scene. Fifteen years after ‘May Fourth,’ Sun Fuyuan 孙伏园 (18941966) said to Qian Xuantong 钱玄同 (1887–1939): ‘You were wearing an unlined long gown of Summer cloth and a Mongolian style felt hat. I remember it vividly.’20 But Beijing weather during the transition from Spring to Summer is unpredictable, or as Zhou Zuoren put it, in Beijing ‘it seems as if Spring has no independent existence. You could either call it the beginning of Summer, or the end of Winter. The wind and the heat of the sun provide extremely little time for wandering around carefree in a single lined jacket. Shortly after you stop feeling cold, you start to feel hot.’21 ‘Although in early morning it feels a bit chilly, it is already oppressively hot by midday,’ so that it really does not matter what you wear. According to Wang Tongzhao’s reminiscence, the students ‘mainly wore long gowns, although some wore short black uniforms.’ 22 The abovementioned report from the Morning News describes the appearance of infantry commander Li Changtai 李长泰 (?1922) by the red walls of the Gate of Heavenly Peace as follows: ‘He wore an oldstyle velvet embroidered mandarin jacket and a brown-coloured woollen gown.’ Judging by extant photographs, people were dressed in a mixture of Spring and Summer outfits. Some might say that an investigation into dress merely adds a visual image. However, whether or not their dress suited the weather has a bearing on the state-of-mind of the demonstrators. Many of the published reminiscences mention that, in the afternoon of that day, the weather became gradually hotter. To wait for almost two hours outside East Jiaomin Alley in such heat would have played a part in tempers becoming ‘heated.’ As it is said in a book entitled May Fourth: ‘As those three thousand singularly determined students 20

Sun Fuyuan, ‘Huiyi wu si dangnian’ 回忆五四当年 (Remembering the Year of May Fourth), Renmin wenxue, no. 5 (1954). 21 Zhou Zuoren, ‘Spring in Beiping.’ 22 Wang Tongzhao, ‘The Fourth of May Thirty-Five Years Ago.’

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where baking in the heat of the sun, they showed no signs of becoming weary, but they inevitably expressed resentment.’23 Gathering at the Gate of Heavenly Peace When your reporter arrived, there were only six or seven hundred students. Shortly after, the various cohorts of students gathered from the East, West, and South, holding their white banners... [The representative of the College of Law and Political Science said:] ‘When everyone is here, we will hold a demonstration, to let the people of our country know about the situation. After the demonstration we will go to East Jiaomin Alley to deliver a statement to the embassies of Britain, the USA, France, and Italy, to express our sentiments. After that we will come back here and hold a meeting to discuss our next steps ...’ [A department head from the Ministry of Education tried to dissuade them, to no avail, and the infantry commander Li Changtai appeared by the red walls of the Gate of Heavenly Peace.] A student representative addressed Commander Li in carefully chosen words: ‘We are going to the legations today, only to express our patriotic sentiments. I assure you, Sir, that we shall be cautious in all our actions.’ The students shouted: ‘Let’s go! Let’s go!’ Commander Li said nothing, removed his glasses, and read one of the pamphlets carefully. After a while he said to the crowd: ‘Very well. You may leave at your discretion. But please be very careful not to incite international intervention.’ When he had finished, he gave some instructions to the police officers, got in his car, and left. The students all set off in southerly direction.

Gathering in front of the red walls of the Gate of Heavenly Peace, the students could of course only come from the East, West, and South. They could not possibly have come charging out of the Forbidden City to the North. It seems the reporter chose his words carefully. The absence of the North in his report was much more accurate than the countless later descriptions using general expressions like ‘coming from all directions.’ This, however, does not mean that all institutes of higher education in Beijing in those days were located to the East, West, and South of the Gate of Heavenly Peace. On the contrary, of the thirteen colleges participating in that day’s demonstration, eight were located to the North of Chang’an

23

Cai Xiaozhou 蔡晓舟 and Yang Jinggong 杨景工, eds., Wu si 五四 (May Fourth), reprinted in Wu si aiguo yundong, ed. Zhongguo shehui kexueyuan jindaishi suo (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexueyuan chubanshe, 1979), vol. 1, 454455.

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Boulevard. The names and student numbers of the thirteen colleges are listed in the table below:24 Name of college National University of Peking National Higher Normal College of Peking National College of Law and Political Science of Peking National Industrial College of Peking National Agricultural College of Peking National Medical College of Peking Institute of Railroad Administration Academy of Police Officers Peking Institute of Tax Administration China University Hui-wen University University of the Republic Ch’ao-yang University

Student number 3000/2400 925/700 /700 200/150 200/150 200/130 /200 /300 /320 1400/1450 /80 300/300 200/350

The two different figures in the student number column are both approximations (e.g., ‘over 300’ has been counted as 300). The former is based on Jingguan’s 静 观 ‘New Survey of Beijing Institutes of Higher Education,’ 25 the latter is according to the signatures on the ‘Petition to the President,’ submitted by the students on May 5, 1919.26 The Morning News article mentions a few colleges that were involved in the rally but it leaves out Peking University, which played a leading role. This confirms that the reporter wrote only what he saw and remained faithful to his own observations. The Peking University students had been delayed by discussions with

24

[Translator’s note] In the Chinese original, this table also contains a listing of the addresses of the colleges, followed by a short paragraph referring to a map of Beijing that appears as an illustration. Since the illustrations of the original are not included in this translation, the paragraph in question has not been translated. English translations of names of colleges have been taken from the list provided in Chow Tse-tsung, The May Fourth Movement: Intellectual Revolution in Modern China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960), 386-387. 25 Jingguan, ‘Beijing zhuanmen yishang xuexiao xin diaocha’ 北京专门以上学校 新调查, Shen bao, July 12, 1919. 26 ‘Shang Dazongtong shu’ 上大总统书 (Petition to the President), Chen bao, May 7, 1919.

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representatives from the Ministry of Education trying to dissuade them. As a result, they were the last to arrive at the Gate. The reporter’s record of the speech by the student of the College of Law and Political Science did not misrepresent the students’ intentions. The original plan was indeed to deliver a statement and to express popular sentiment. This is clear from the ‘Notice from Beijing Educational Circles’ drafted by Peking University student Luo Jialun 罗家伦 (1897–1969). As a loyal disciple of Hu Shi, Luo drafted the flyer for the mass rally in the vernacular, which clearly made it more convenient to disseminate. This flyer, which was distributed along the way, was ‘most simple and understandable’ (a comment added by the Morning News reporter when citing the entire text of the flyer), and therefore it has been widely circulated. The Japanese demands at the Peace Conference to annex Qingdao and to administer all the rights to Shandong are going to succeed! Their diplomacy has triumphed! Our diplomacy has failed! If Shandong is lost, it will wreck China’s territory! If China’s territory is wrecked, China will perish! That is why we from the educational circles have lined up today to go to the various legations in order to ask the countries involved to do justice. We urge our country’s industrial and commercial sectors to rise up and organize a national assembly, to fight for sovereignty abroad and to drive out the traitors at home. China’s fate depends on this! Today we propose to our compatriots these two principles: China’s land may be conquered but it must not be forfeited! China’s people may be killed but they must not surrender! The country will perish! Countrymen arise!27

Although this was an impassioned announcement, it did not propose to adopt extreme actions. It merely called upon citizens to pay attention to the Qingdao question. The hope was ‘to fight for sovereignty abroad and to drive out the traitors at home’ through convening a national assembly. In comparison, the ‘Manifesto from Beijing Educational Circles,’ drafted by another Peking University student, Xu Deheng 许德珩 (1890–1990), was a lot more radical. Are there those among our compatriots who cannot bear the suffering of slaves and cattle and who are anxious to come to their rescue? If so, then the crucial moves are to hold a national assembly, to make public speeches, and to send a telegram [to the delegates in Paris urging them] 27

‘Beijing quanti xuejie tonggao’ 北京全体学界通告 (Notice from Beijing Educational Circles), Chen bao, May 5, 1919.

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to hold on [to our demands]. As for those who are willing to betray their country and to sleep with the enemy, their final reckoning will come from guns and grenades. When the crisis comes, I trust we shall face it together!28

This was only written violence, as the demonstrating students did not really carry ‘guns and grenades.’ (According to the Higher Normal College student Kuang Husheng 匡 互 生 (1891–1933), they did consider this, but failed to acquire any.) The popular chivalry and rampant assassinations of the late Qing were still very much alive in people’s memory. After the founding of the Republic, the government banned party activities and condemned political assassinations (at least on the surface). The manifesto’s open mentioning of ‘guns and grenades’ was not unrelated to the then popular ideas of anarchism. From the small differences between these two important documents, we can get an inkling of the different voices in the student movement. The infantry commander Li Changtai’s appeal shows that the authorities were mainly concerned about causing an international conflict. Clearly, the government had not yet realized the enormous power of the impending student movement, nor the serious social consequences it might cause. Nor did the students use any schemes to deceive the authorities, as the demonstration at first indeed seemed rather peaceful. If the students had not been angered and decided on the spur of the moment to go to Zhaojialou, the demonstration on the day of May the Fourth would probably not have gotten out of hand. However, any spontaneous mass movement contains many different variables and can change direction at any time. Moreover, among the students there was a distinction between moderates and radicals. It was not just Commander Li who was unable to predict the seriousness of the situation. The government and the military police had also not expected that events would take such a rapid turn. Only this can explain why Cao Rulin, while already knowing the demonstration slogans of the students on the streets, had no sense of danger and had returned home as usual after attending the President’s lunch banquet.

28

‘Beijing xueshengjie xuanyan’ 北 京 学 生 界 宣 言 (Manifesto from Beijing Educational Circles), Shi bao, May 6, 1919.

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The reason why the students assembled in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace is because it is adjacent to Central Park to the West. In early Republican times, this was the most important space for public activity. During the Ming and Qing dynasties, the areas around the Gate of Heavenly Peace were all forbidden territory. With the establishment of the Republic, they were opened to the public and the East-West avenue instantly became a thoroughfare. ‘Consequently, it was inevitable that a park would be designed to serve as a place of relaxation for the gentlemen and ladies of the capital. The Alter of Earth and Harvests (shejitan 社 稷 坛 ), to the right-hand side of Duanmen 端门, offers beautiful vistas and an enchanting scenery, and was opened as a park on October 10, 1914.’29 In the early years of the Republic, the capital’s literati would often choose Central Park as the place for their elegant gatherings (yaji 雅集), whereas largescale mass gatherings would invariably take place in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The Gate of Heavenly Peace was originally called the Gate of Receiving Heaven (Chengtianmen 承天门). It was built in the fifth year of the Ming dynasty reign period Yongle 永乐 (1417) and it is the main gate to the imperial palace. In the eighth year of the Qing dynasty reign period Shunzhi 顺治 (1651), it was rebuilt and given its current name. More than three centuries later, the basic lay-out of the building has not undergone any major changes. The road from the Gate of Heavenly Peace to the Gate of China (Zhonghuamen 中华门) (previously the Gate of the Great Ming and the Gate of the Great Qing) used to be the road for the imperial carriage. On either side of it were the central government offices of the Ming and Qing dynasties. Even after the change to a Republic, street names like Board of Revenue and Population Street (Hubujie 户部街), Board of War Street (Bingbujie 兵部街), and Board of Justice Street (Sifabujie 司法部街) would still remind people of the fact that this location was an irreplaceable centre of government. The significance of the Gate of Heavenly Peace had changed from the sacred, forbidden place where the Emperor made his proclamations to a public space where young students expressed the will of the people; however, its 29

Zhu Qiqian 朱启钤, ‘Zhongyang gongyuan ji’ 中央公园记 (A Note on Central Park), in Commemorative Publication for the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of Central Park, 131.

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function as a political symbol had not changed. Rallies, speeches, and demonstrations in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace will always produce a huge social impact. This has become one of the ‘tricks of the trade’ of twentieth-century Chinese political operating. Of course it helps that there is abundant space, but what is more important is that it symbolizes political power. Those two incomparably beautiful columns in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace had witnessed so many moving political scenes! Just to mention the more recent ones, only nineteen years prior to 1919 there was the gunfire of the Eight Powers Allied Army; some seven years prior, Empress Dowager Longyu (1868–1913) 隆裕 had issued the proclamation announcing Puyi’s 溥仪 (19061967) abdication; and only half a year earlier, more than 30,000 students from over sixty colleges, secondary schools, and primary schools in Beijing had held a huge rally and march to celebrate the victory of the allied nations. In the afternoons of the two days following that rally, November 15 and 16, 1918, Peking University had organized a lecture meeting, aimed at the general public, in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace, with speakers including Cai Yuanpei, Chen Duxiu, Hu Shi, Ma Yinchu 马 寅 初 (1882–1982), Chen Qixiu 陈 启 修 (1886–1960), and Ding Wenjiang 丁文江 (1887–1936).30 This time, however, it was a very different kind of rally. The organizers were neither the government, nor the schools, but the students themselves. The students taking to the streets directed their protests both at the imperialist powers and at the Chinese authorities. The most eye-catching banner at the rally was the one carrying the four characters huan wo Qingdao 还我青岛 (Return our Qingdao), written by the Peking University law student Xie Shaomin 谢绍敏 (1896–1939) the previous night in his own blood after he had bitten his finger and ripped off his own shirt. Another one was the elegiac couplet written by the Normal College student Zhang Runzhi 张润 芝:31 30

See the reports in Shen bao, November 16, 1918, and Beijing daxue rikan, November 27, 1918. See also the published lectures by Cai Yuanpei, Li Dazhao, Tao Menghe 陶孟和, and Hu Shi in Xin qingnian 5, nos. 5 and 6 (1918). 31 See Song Xianting 宋宪亭, ‘Wu si Tiananmen dahui shang yifu yinrenzhumu de duilian zhi laili’ 五四天安门大会上一副引人注目的对联之来历 (The Origins of an Eye-Catching Couplet During the Rally at the Gate of Heavenly Peace on May Fourth), in Wu si yundong yu Beijing gaoshi 五四运动与北京高师 (The May Fourth

30

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Betraying the nation in pursuit of glory, we always knew that Cao Man’s offspring would have no names on their gravestones; Favouring and toadying to foreigners, who would have thought that Zhang Dun’s evil followers would stare death in the face.32 Beijing educational circles are united in mourning. The stench of the traitors Cao Rulin and Zhang Zongxiang will linger forever.

This is exactly what reverberated in the students’ manifesto and the demonstration slogan: ‘Fight for sovereignty abroad and drive out the traitors at home.’ The book May Fourth, published in July 1919, does not only record the above-mentioned manifestos, flyers, slogans, and couplets. It also describes in simple language the atmosphere of the rally: The first to arrive were Higher Normal College and Hui-wen University. Peking University were the last to arrive at the Gate of Heavenly Peace because as their main group was about to set out, representatives from the Ministry of Education as well as military police officers had tried to dissuade them and there had been a long discussion. All the early arrivals welcomed the later arrivals with applause, to which the later arrivals responded by waving their banners. They were marching in step, looking very serious. The Westerners who saw them all praised them highly.33

Applause met with waving banners, marching in step and serious expressions, these rituals of political protest demonstrations had already been more or less established. Unlike common ‘disturbances,’ the student demonstrations did not interfere with public order and therefore it was seen as a sign of civility and attracted widespread sympathy. So how did the students hold their rally, on such a big square, with no sound amplifying equipment? Some say that people stood on the stone lions in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace holding speeches, but I am more inclined to believe what Wang Tongzhao said, that the speakers were standing on square tables. Moreover, the majority of Movement and Peking Higher Normal) (Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue chubanshe, 1984). 32 [Translator’s note] Cao Man 曹瞒 is Cao Cao 曹操 (155–220), who is seen as a traitor to the Han dynasty in the classic novel San guo yanyi 三国演义 (Romance of the Three Kingdoms). Zhang Dun 章惇 (1035–1105) is described as a traitor to the Northern Song dynasty in Sima Guang’s 司 马 光 Zizhi tongjian 资 治 通 鉴 (Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government). 33 Cai Xiaozhou and Yang Jinggong, eds., May Fourth, 454455.

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people at the scene were in reality unable to hear the content of speeches clearly. They were able to grasp the gist of them because there were many banners and constant shouting of slogans. But that was more than enough. Having read the manifestos, shouting the slogans, the ranks started to move to the South, to the East, and to the North. The Humiliation at East Jiaomin Alley The students attempted to march eastwards through [East] Jiaomin Alley, but police stopped them from entering there. This greatly aggravated the students, who had no choice but to turn North. They emerged from Wangfujing Avenue and then went through the Dongdan Archway to Zhaotangzi Alley, where they entered Cao Rulin’s mansion at Zhaojialou Lane.

The many later reminiscences differ only slightly in their descriptions of the route taken by the demonstrators on May 4. Being blocked at East Jiaomin Alley and then turning towards Zhaojialou left a deep impression and this guarantees that there are no mistakes concerning the general direction in any of the published recollections. Differences occur only when it comes to actual names of intersections where they turned or streets and alleys they marched through. The reporter’s live account is generally reliable, but it pales into insignificance when compared to the report by Bai Qichang 白歧 昌, platoon leader of the military police of the Beijing division of the Northern government army: At 14:30 hours the entire student group left the Gate of Heavenly Peace, turning East towards the western entrance to East Jiaomin Alley. They reached the entrance to the U.S. Embassy, where they were blocked. Their representatives tried to negotiate but no permission to proceed was granted. They then turned North to Fugui Street, marching eastwards across Yuhe Bridge, then South crossing East Chang’an Street, crossing Mishi Avenue and entering Shidaren Alley, then to South Little Street and into Dayangyibing Alley, exiting to the East and turning North, then heading East towards the entrance to the Cao residence at Zhaojialou.34

The report submitted by a platoon commander whose duty it was to follow the student ranks on that day must be most authoritative. If the 34

‘Wu si aiguo yundong shiliao’ 五四爱国运动史料 (Source Materials on the May Fourth Patriotic Movement), Lishi jiaoxue, no. 6 (1951).

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march went underway at 2:30pm and by 4pm they were already at Zhaojialou (as evidenced by quite a few published recollections) then the delay at East Jiaomin Alley cannot have lasted for as long as two hours, as claimed by many reminiscences. Be this as it may, the obstruction at East Jiaomin Alley is still the crucial factor in causing the incident to take a turn for the worse. The platoon commander only mentions that student representatives negotiated and were refused permission, lacking the Morning News reporter’s attention to the students becoming ‘greatly aggravated.’ In the book May Fourth, the students’ turn towards Zhaojialou is linked even more directly to the wait at the entrance to the legation quarter: The students had been standing outside the legation quarter for as long as two hours and large numbers of city people had joined their ranks. The masses were filled with righteous indignation and were eager to vent it at one of the traitors. Therefore it was decided that they would first find the Cao residence and after that those of Zhang and Lu.35

Why did the setback suffered at the entrance to the legation quarter lead to wanting to ‘vent’ at ‘one of the traitors?’ The reason was not just that it was the aim of the demonstration to ‘fight for sovereignty abroad and drive out the traitors at home,’ but even more that East Jiaomin Alley, this ‘state within a state,’ was in itself a symbol of the loss of sovereignty. The statement urging the imperialist powers to ‘protect justice’ was not accepted. Faced with the arrogant policemen and the hideous barracks of the legation quarters, the sense that Chinese people were being humiliated was strengthened. Luo Jialun and four other student representatives went up to the U.S. Embassy to negotiate. The envoy was not available, so they just left the earnestly formulated ‘statement.’ In fact, Chinese sentiments towards the United States of America and its president Woodrow Wilson were positive in those days, which explains the use of a candid cliché: ‘Please convey these intentions to your country’s government and to the Peace Conference, and lend sympathetic support to our nation.’ Other student representatives went to negotiate at the British, French, and Italian embassies, but only succeeded in obtaining promises that the statement would be delivered on their behalf. As for the request to be allowed to march through the legation quarter, this was never granted. The reason why 35

Cai Xiaozhou and Yang Jinggong, eds., May Fourth, 454455.

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the students wanted to go East rather than North was of course that they hoped to get to the Japanese Embassy, which was only one street away. There is a stark contrast between the scene of three thousand hot-tempered young students stuck in the bottleneck of the West entrance to East Jiaomin Alley and the scene half a year earlier, when thirty thousand students from colleges, secondary schools, and primary schools gathered in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace to celebrate the allied victory and the U.S., U.K., and French envoys all came on stage to deliver speeches. There is of course a practical reason here, in that the various embassies were indeed closed on Sundays. The U.S. and other envoys had not intentionally stayed away. However, the Paris Peace Conference had squandered the reasonable rights and interests of the Chinese people and clearly illustrated how, in international relationships, the strong devour the weak. That is why nationalist sentiments in China were getting stronger and stronger. The marching ranks were not allowed into East Jiaomin Alley partly because access was controlled by the Chinese government, but more specifically because of the restrictions imposed by the Boxer Protocol. East Jiaomin Alley was originally called East Jiangmi Alley. During the Ming and Qing dynasties it was part of the area reserved for ‘the five boards and the six treasuries’ (wu bu liu fu 五部六府) around the Gate of Heavenly Peace. During the Qianlong 乾 隆 (1736–1795) and Jiaqing 嘉 庆 (1796–1820) reign periods there appeared at this location a ‘guesthouse’ where foreign emissaries could reside temporarily. After the Opium War, British, Russian, German, and French embassies were established. During the Boxer Rebellion, the Empress Dowager Cixi 慈禧 (1835–1908) tolerated and in fact instigated the Boxers to besiege the East Jiaomin Alley legation quarter, bringing about the invasion of Beijing by the Eight Powers Allied Army. The next year, the Qing court was forced to sign the humiliating Boxer Protocol, sacrificing sovereignty to the Eight Powers. From then on, East Jiaomin Alley effectively became a ‘foreign concession.’ In his ‘Record of the Boxer Rebellion,’ the late Qing author Zhongfangshi 仲芳氏 wrote the following in his entry for the fifteenth of the fifth month of the year xinchou 辛丑 (1901): The area of East Jiaomin Alley extends from Chongwen Avenue in the East to Qipan Street in the West, to the city wall in the South and to the first Dongdan Cross Street (Dongdan toutiao 东单头条) in the

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North. In accordance with the Protocol, it has been assigned as an area for foreigners and Chinese are not allowed to live in the vicinity. The foreigners are carrying out large-scale works there, constructing army barracks and embassies, foreign buildings that rise up to the sky. They have built forts on all sides, a hundred times more impressive than the ones that were destroyed. Ancestral halls, government offices, storehouses, and residences that belonged to our country have been taken over and torn down. Words cannot express my grief!36

Apart from ‘forts on all sides’ the legation quarter also contained an entire set of administrative, legal, economical, and cultural institutions that were independent of the Chinese government. Moreover, at the East and West ends of the Alley there were iron gates, guarded day and night by foreign military police. This truly was a state within a state. Not only were Chinese officials and commoners not allowed to enter at will, even rickshaws needed a special permit to be allowed to pass. In view of this, the fact that police blocked the students’ way was definitely not an attempt to make things difficult for them. For these young students, however, the Protocol was one thing and ‘justice’ was another. The rule that it was forbidden to enter the legation quarter for a demonstration without decree from the President and a diplomatic note belonged to the Protocol; what the students were querying was if such an unequal ‘agreement’ was in line with ‘justice.’ The new generation of educated people, having been edified by the New Culture Movement, had learned to think independently: ‘If it has always been like this, does that make it right?’ 37 The justifiable obstruction by the police at the western entrance to East Jiaomin Alley did not appease the students’ resistance. On the contrary, it created a fierce backlash: ‘The students were deeply frustrated. The country had not yet perished, but already they were not allowed to pass through their own land. If the country were to perish, what more humiliation and pain would they have to

36

Zhongfangshi 仲 芳 氏 , ‘Gengzi jishi’ 庚 子 记 事 (Record of the Boxer Rebellion), in Gengzi jishi, ed. Zhongguo kexueyuan lishi yaniiusuo di-san suo (Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 1959). 37 [Translator’s note] A direct quote from Lu Xun’s 鲁迅 famous story ‘Kuangren riji’ 狂人日记 (Diary of a Madman), from a passage where the ‘madman’ queries a youngster who defends the practice of cannibalism on the grounds that ‘it has always been like this.’

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suffer?’ 38 Forty years later, Yang Hui 杨晦 (1899–1983) wrote a reminiscence in which he once again emphasized the feelings of anger among the student ranks as they were unable to pass through the legation quarter: The young students’ blood was boiling, but right there in front of them was a cold, solid fact: The demonstration was not allowed to pass through the legation quarter! The anger blasting through their lungs was of no help at all! Why were our ranks not allowed to pass through our own country’s land? Legation quarter? What legation quarter? It is our disgrace!39

Yang Hui added that as everybody was agitated and expressing their outrage, the suggestion to go to Zhaojialou caused sentiments to be stirred up even more. This description by Yang Hui is consistent with the above-mentioned source claiming the students were eager to vent their anger at one of the traitors. According to Kuang Husheng’s reminiscence, when the student ranks, having been blocked at East Jiaomin Alley for a long time, decided to head straight for Cao Rulin’s home, ‘Fu Sinian, who was leading the demonstration, became concerned that things might get out of hand and tried his utmost to prevent the move, but to no avail.’40 Fu Sinian, Luo Jialun and other members of the Renaissance Society (xinchao she 新潮社) were focused mainly on ideological and cultural reform. They had little interest in concrete political movements and they did not advocate extreme measures. It was to be expected that they would advise against heading for Zhaojialou. The question is: was the students’ turn towards the Cao residence and towards violent action the result of mass excitement or had it been secretly planned? The Beijing Normal College student Xiong Mengfei 熊 梦 飞 (1895–1962), who was a Beijing Student Association representative, wrote in an obituary for Kuang Husheng in the 1930s that during the rally at the Gate of Heavenly Peace there had been a debate about 38

Cai Xiaozhou and Yang Jinggong, eds., May Fourth, 454455. Yang Hui, ‘Wu si yundong yu Beijing daxue’ 五四运动与北京大学 (The May Fourth Movement and Peking University), in Guanghui de wu si 光辉的五四 (The Glorious May Fourth) (Beijing: Zhongguo qingnian chubanshe, 1959). 40 Kuang Husheng, ‘Wu si yundong jishi’ (A Record of the May Fourth Movement), in Wu si yundong huiyi lu 五四运动回忆录 (Reminiscences of the May Fourth Movement) (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1979). 39

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whether to go to the Presidential Palace, to the Foreign Ministry, or to the British and U.S. embassies. (This is not very likely. The aims of the student demonstration, to present a petition and issue a statement, were perfectly clear from the start. The move to the legation quarter had been planned and was not decided on at the Gate of Heavenly Peace.) Xiong went on to say: ‘At that moment, Husheng harboured a different intention and gathered his diehard followers at the front. [When blocked at East Jiaomin Alley] those at the front called out: “To the Cao residence!” People were angered and excited and started to join in, and the shouting shook the roof tiles.’ 41 What he suggests is that the students were drawn towards Zhaojialou by Kuang Husheng and his ‘diehard followers’ and that this had been planned in advance. Another Normal College student, Yu Jing 俞劲 (1895–1969), also mentioned that the demonstration was originally supposed to move to the Presidential Palace to hand over a petition, ‘but those who walked at the front of the ranks (including some who had attended a secret meeting on the eve of May Fourth) intentionally led the long lines of demonstrators towards Cao Rulin’s mansion at Zhaojialou.’42 However, Zhou Yutong 周予同 (18981981) and Zhang Shiqiao 张石樵 (1894–1989), who marched together with Kuang Husheng, did not mention Kuang’s efforts in redirecting the demonstration. Zhou wrote that their small group had a secret meeting the night before the demonstration and that they had hoped to use extreme measures rather than peaceful petitioning. On the actual day of the demonstration, however, Kuang and his group had not planned to go to the Cao mansion. ‘When the ranks of demonstrators reached the entrance to East Jiaomin Alley, someone suddenly yelled that we should go to Cao Rulin’s residence at Zhaojialou to demonstrate. Amidst mass excitement, this resonant call was embraced by the masses.’ 43 Zhang Shiqiao, roommate and close friend of Kuang, while marching together with him, heard the suggestion to head for 41

Xiong Mengfei, ‘Yi wangyou Kuang Husheng’ 忆亡友匡互生 (In Memory of My Friend Kuang Husheng), Shida yuekan 5 (1933). 42 Yu Jing, ‘Dui huoshao Zhaojialou de yidian huiyi’ 对火烧赵家楼的一点回忆 (A Short Reminiscence About Burning Down Zhaojialou), in Reminiscences of the May Fourth Movement, vol. 2. 43 Zhou Yutong, ‘Wu si huiyi pianduan’ 五四回忆片断 (Bits of Reminiscences of May Fourth), Zhanwang, no. 17 (1959).

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Cao’s home and thought it made sense, as it was in line with the plan to punish the traitors, ‘which we had already agreed upon previously.’44 All that these two eyewitnesses emphasize is that the proposal to go to Zhaojialou fitted with their own intentions. They made no mention of Kuang playing any role in it. In my view, this kind of ‘sudden inspiration’ is part of the typical charm of a mass movement. There is no telling who proposed what. This one says this and the other says that, members of the crowd excite each other and before you know it there is ‘a great beginning.’ Kuang Husheng was right when he wrote: ‘At this moment the various elements of the crowd had no individual existence. We were all chanting together and marching together.’ 45 It is difficult to determine who influenced whom. To trace the origin after the fact, to decide what is true and what is not, and to clarify who was the first to shout ‘Let’s head for the Cao residence!’ is not really possibly, nor is it necessary. As a basically spontaneous movement, ‘May Fourth’ differs from the countless later student movements engineered by political parties exactly because its ‘authorship’ is unclear. Burning Down Zhaojialou At 4pm exactly flames appeared from the roof of the Cao residence. It was difficult to verify how the fire started, as different people gave different accounts. Around 6pm, the fire eventually died down. The students set out to return in neat rows, but at that point the police started to make arrests. Apparently dozens of students were taken into custody.

The ranks of demonstrators went North, then East, then North again, then East again. Their vast numbers kicked up dust all along the route. ‘At the time the Beijing streets were already covered in mud and sand. Spring was turning into Summer and whenever there was a breeze, the effect of those thousands of people treading along would naturally be a billowing cloud of dust, penetrating mouths and nostrils.’ 46 Amidst the excitement nobody cared about small things 44

Zhang Shiqiao, ‘Huainian wu si zhuangshi Kuang Husheng’ 怀念五四壮士匡 互生 (Remembering the May Fourth Hero Kuang Husheng), in The May Fourth Movement and Peking Higher Normal College. 45 Kuang Husheng, ‘A Record of the May Fourth Movement.’ 46 Wang Tongzhao, ‘The Fourth of May Thirty-Five Years Ago.’

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like this. The students continued shouting their slogans and handing out their printed flyers. Around 4:30pm the ranks of demonstrators, apparently still neatly lined up, finally arrived at Cao Rulin’s residence at 2 Zhaojialou, not far from the Foreign Ministry. It was a two-storey Western-style building, all doors and windows closed shut and with two hundred military police guarding the area. Logically speaking, the dramatic scenes that followed should not have occurred. Students broke a window with their bare fists and went inside; they opened the main gate; Zhang Zongxiang was beaten up; Zhaojialou was burned down. After the events, President Xu Shichang issued an order, blaming the police for not guarding the residence properly and reminding them of their responsibility to defend it.47 Cao Rulin himself firmly believed that Wu Bingxiang 吴 炳 湘 (1874–1930), the Chief of the Constabulary, was opposed to him and had allowed the students to get out of hand. Attributing the lack of ‘proper guarding’ by the police to their superior hinting at them to go easy or, as is said in countless reminiscences, to their being touched by the students’ patriotic fervour, is not in accordance with the facts. The armed policemen, when faced all of a sudden with those courageous students, truly were at a loss how to handle the situation. The dramatic events at Zhaojialou were the climax of the ‘May Fourth’ demonstration. From that day until today, there have been intriguingly many different versions of the events. Two crucial parts of the plot have constantly attracted various opinions over the years and need to be verified. The first is: who took the bold step of breaking a window? The second is: how was the house set on fire? In his ‘A Record of the May Fourth Movement’ of 1925, Kuang Husheng merely wrote the following: ‘Those few passionate students who were prepared to sacrifice themselves took advantage of the moment when everybody was shouting and screaming to jump on a window sill in the surrounding wall, breaking through the iron shutters and tumbling into Cao Rulin’s residence.’ 48 When Kuang passed away in the early 1930s his fellow student Xiong Mengfei wrote an obituary in which he claimed that ‘Husheng leapt up to the

47 48

‘Dazongtong ling’ 大总统令 (Presidential Decree), Chen bao, May 8, 1919. Kuang Husheng, ‘A Record of the May Fourth Movement.’

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window, broke the iron grid with his fists, and entered.’ 49 In the 1950s, another one of Kuang’s fellow students from the Higher Normal College, Zhou Yutong, provided further verification: ‘He first smashed the glass window with his fists, then he crept through the window into the house and then he opened the main gate from the inside.’ Zhou knew this because in the evening after the demonstration, when he returned to campus, he had seen Kuang with his hands covered in blood and Kuang had said that it was because he had broken the glass.50 The story of Kuang shattering the window has become more fantastic the wider it was spread and could almost rival some of the stories in martial arts novels. In the early 1960s, the Higher Normal College student Yu Jing wrote in his ‘A Short Reminiscence About Burning Down Zhaojialou’: ‘Suddenly someone from the front of the ranks (one of those who had attended the secret meeting on the eve of May Fourth; he hailed from Hunan and was a student in the Higher Normal College mathematics department; he was trained in martial arts and possessed extraordinary physical strength) leapt up to a little window to the right with complete disregard for his own safety.’ What followed was police pulling at his legs and a crowd of students trying to release him: ‘He looked inside and noticed several dozens of policemen aiming their guns at him. Thereupon he started on a speech and finally the policemen let their consciences speak and lowered their guns.’51 In the late 1970s, another Normal College student, Xia Minggang 夏明钢 (Xiufeng 秀峰, 1895–1976) gave an even more splendid description: ‘Kuang bent aside two of the metal bars in front of a window in the western courtyard. (In his younger years he had mastered martial arts. His force was so great that he was able to straighten out a bent bolt on a metal gate just by squeezing it.) He made an opening, crawled through it, brushed aside the policemen standing guard and opened the main gate, upon which the masses swarmed inside.’52 49

Xiong Mengfei, ‘In Memory of My Friend Kuang Husheng.’ Zhou Yutong, ‘Bits of Reminiscences of May Fourth.’ 51 Yu Jing, ‘A Short Reminiscence About Burning Down Zhaojialou.’ 52 Xia Minggang, ‘Wu si yundong qinli ji’ 五四运动 亲历 记 (My Personal Experience of the May Fourth Movement), in The May Fourth Movement and Peking Higher Normal College. 50

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In the mid-1980s, yet another version emerged, paying attention to the high wall around the Cao residence. The author was once again a Normal College student, named Zhang Shiqiao. In his ‘Remembering the May Fourth Hero Kuang Husheng’ he wrote: ‘Kuang Husheng noticed a window in the Cao residence. Making use of his martial arts techniques, which he had studied since childhood, and lifted up by his fellow students, he smashed the window and jumped inside.’53 The story of the martial arts specialist Kuang Husheng being the first to jump into the Cao mansion courtyard is challenged, however, by two other sources. The authors of the two articles discussed below were both active figures on the day of ‘May Fourth’ and they were both arrested the same day. One was Kuang’s fellow Normal College student Chen Jinmin 陈荩民 (Hongxun 宏勋, 1895–1981). In his 1979 article ‘Remembering Being in the Struggling Ranks of the May Fourth Movement,’ there is this passage: Because I am tall, I got on the shoulders of my fellow student Kuang Husheng, climbed onto the wall, smashed a window and was among the first to jump into the Cao mansion courtyard. Together with other students I shattered the lock on the front gate, opened it, and then the students outside pushed their way in.54

Someone else who claimed to have been on Kuang’s shoulders and climbed onto the wall was Peking University student Xu Deheng. In his article ‘Sixtieth Anniversary of the May Fourth Movement’ he wrote that Kuang Husheng (Rixiu 日休) was tall and that he was standing under two outward facing windows of the Cao residence: When the military police were not paying attention, we got on Kuang Rixiu’s shoulders, climbed up the wall, opened a window facing the street, and jumped in. Then we opened the big gate and the masses of students swarmed inside.55

Chen claims to have been ‘among the first’ to jump into the Cao courtyard, while Xu speaks of ‘we’ who climbed through the window. Neither of them readily assert to have been the very first. The 53

Zhang Shiqiao, ‘Remembering the May Fourth Hero Kuang Husheng.’ Chen Jinmin, ‘Huiyi wo zai wu si yundong de zhandou hanglie li’ 回忆我在五 四运动的战斗行列里 (Remembering Being in the Struggling Ranks of the May Fourth Movement), Beijing shida, May 8, 1979. 55 Xu Deheng, ‘Wu si yundong liushi zhounian’ 五四运动六十周年 (Sixtieth Anniversary of the May Fourth Movement), in Reminiscences of the May Fourth Movement. 54

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problem is: If Chen and Xu’s statements are correct, then there is no way that this ‘human staircase’ Kuang Husheng could have been the first to jump into the courtyard. But who can guarantee that there were no mistakes in Xu and Chen’s reminiscences, sixty years after the fact? Chu Dagao 初大告 (1898–1987), one of the other Normal College students who was arrested, seems to have realized that the two versions were contradictory and so he created two fronts attacking alongside each other: ‘The Normal College student Kuang Rixiu, bravely standing on someone’s shoulders, climbed in through the window of the janitor’s room and opened the main gate. Another Normal College student, Chen Jinmin, climbed over the wall and entered that way. The students surged inside, only to discover that Cao Rulin and the others had already caught on to the events and left the building via the back door.’56 Chen’s separate charge has, at least on the surface, resolved the contradictions in the accounts by Normal College students. Yet the question of who was standing under the feet of Peking University student Xu Deheng awaits further investigation. Much more dramatic, complicated, and confusing than the opening of a window was the ‘burning’ of Zhaojialou. The publications entitled May Fourth and ‘The Wave of Qingdao,’ which came out in July and August of 1919, both oppose the suggestion that the students set fire. The former evaluates four different theories as to why the Cao residence caught fire and concludes: ‘All four theories make sense, but it remains impossible to prove how the building actually caught fire.’ 57 The latter manages to mash together an electrical fire and arson by Cao himself, painting this amazing picture: ‘It was the youzheng 酉正 hour 58 and the electric lamps were lit. Suddenly, fire blazed and the crowds were incensed as they realized: Cao wanted to burn the students to death, to vent his resentment.’59 Forty years later, Yang Hui still insisted that Cao had set fire to his own residence, for a very simple reason: ‘These shameless politicians 56

Chu Dagao, ‘Wu si yundong jishi’ 五四运动纪实 (A Record of the May Fourth Movement), in The May Fourth Movement and Peking Higher Normal College. 57 Cai Xiaozhou and Yang Jinggong, eds., May Fourth, 454455. 58 [Translator’s note] The hour youzheng is between 6 and 7 pm. 59 Gong Zhenhuang 龚振黄, ed., ‘Qingdao chao’ 青岛潮 (The Wave of Qingdao), in Wu si aiguo yundong, vol. 1, 168.

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betrayed their country. They were capable of anything. As soon as the fire flared, it turned the students into lawbreakers, so naturally they could then be arrested and punished.’60 Yang’s arguments are ‘politically correct,’ yet he did not present a shred of new evidence. The suggestion that Cao set fire to his own residence is very hard to corroborate. At the time, the police investigation into the cause of the fire at the Cao residence did not yield a clear conclusion. If the students had started the fire (either by setting fire to the silk curtains over one of the beds or by pouring petrol onto a rug and lighting it), the police would have had to pursue the students’ legal responsibility. If, on the other hand, the fire was started by members of Cao’s family, in order to escape under cover of fire, or if Cao had incited his family members to start the blaze in order to let the students charging into the residence burn to death, then Cao or his family members would have had to be reproached or indeed convicted. Since neither side was to be offended, the best plan available was to suggest an ‘electrical fire.’ In this way nobody was to blame and formalities, such as evidence gathering, formal charging, and putting on trial, could altogether be dispensed with. The most vivid description of this appeared in the English-language North China Herald of May 10, 1919: ‘As the dispute with the police took place, an electric lamp was broken and an electrical wire short-circuited, causing fire to break out.’61 The same paper also stated that, in order to make concessions and avoid trouble, the Ministry of Education even promised ‘to obtain the release of those arrested by attributing the cause of the fire at Cao’s house to accidental breakage of the electric lights.’ 62 On May 7, the government was forced to release the students who were arrested and no further inquiries into the cause of the fire at the Cao residence were made, thanks to this wonderful excuse. Still, as the Industrial College student Yin Mingde 尹明德 (1894– 1971) put it at the time, everybody knew that the students started the fire, but that this could not be admitted. ‘In those dark, despotic, counter-revolutionary times, the students did not dare to admit to 60

Yang Hui, ‘The May Fourth Movement and Peking University.’ [Translator’s note] I have been unable to find these exact lines in the May 10, 1919 issue of North China Herald, therefore the English quote here is based on the Chinese text. 62 North China Herald, May 10, 1919, 347. 61

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starting the fire, fearing it might provide a handle to the counterrevolutionary clique, so they falsely stated that Cao had set fire to his own residence, in order to disperse the masses. Since the police authorities had not found any matches on the students, they did not dare rashly to accuse the students of arson.’ 63 The demands of the political struggle in those days ruled out the option of acknowledging the students’ actions. Only after the circumstances had changed did ‘burning down Zhaojialou’ become an internationally celebrated heroic undertaking. It remains unclear, however, as to who started the fire and how. It has been suggested that the students searched the servants’ quarters, found half a can of paraffin and came up with the idea to ‘burn those bastards.’64 Others have said that ‘the crowd became even angrier when they could not find Cao Rulin, then someone found a can of petrol in the garage and everybody shouted “Burn down this robber’s nest!” They splashed petrol onto the stove and then the flames flared up.’65 Yet others claimed that ‘there was one student who was a smoker and was carrying matches. When he saw how luxurious the bedroom was and found Japanese women there, he was so incensed that he used his matches to set fire to the green silk bed curtains. Instantly the whole room was on fire and the rest of the house caught fire as well.’66 These three versions are all from Peking University students who were at the scene, yet even they are unable to point the finger at the actual arsonist. Clearly information is still scarce. Judging from currently available sources, it seems most likely that the arsonist must have been a student of the Higher Normal College. No students from other colleges have come forward to claim this huge honour. Even those from Peking University, with their customary sense of superiority, have only managed some vague statements. Moreover, a student of the Peking University Chinese Department, Xiao Fang 萧 芳 , has stood up and given evidence, bestowing upon others the honour of having started the fire: 63

Yin Mingde, ‘Beijing wu si yundong huiyi’ 北京五四运动回忆 (Memories of the May Fourth Movement in Beijing), in Reminiscences of the May Fourth Movement. 64 Yang Zhensheng. ‘Remembering May Fourth.’ 65 Fan Yun, ‘The Day of May Fourth.’ 66 Xu Deheng, ‘Sixtieth Anniversary of the May Fourth Movement.’

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When I came to the entrance to the Cao residence, I saw two students wearing long gowns, holding a tinplate canister filled with paraffin. ‘Let’s light it,’ they whispered. Then they went into the building North of the courtyard, lifted a rug, folded it, placed it on the square table, splashed paraffin on it and set it alight with matches. In an instant thick smoke started to rise. I was right behind them. I saw it with my own eyes. We all knew that they were students of the Higher Normal College.67

As for Normal College students themselves, they have been quite forthright in laying claim to the heroic deed. They only differ when it comes to which Normal College student started the fire. Normal College student Zhang Shiqiao claims: ‘I saw with my own eyes how a Normal College student set fire to the house using paraffin. I even threw in a torch myself. Zhaojialou caught fire instantly. […] Even nowadays there are still many people who wrongly state that Kuang Husheng was the one who started the fire to burn the traitors. This should be corrected. In reality it was Yu Jing (also known as Yu Shenchu 慎初). We cannot let history be rewritten on this point.’68 Yu Jing himself, however, writing in the late 1970s, granted the honour to Kuang Husheng.69 And Kuang Husheng? All he says in his 1925 ‘Record’ is that the students set fire ‘to vent the anger of the moment.’ He did not say who started it.70 When the journal Sources for Modern History republished Kuang’s article in 1957, his old classmate Zhou Weiqun 周为群 provided additional source materials which confirmed that it had been Kuang Husheng who set fire to the Cao residence. However, he also added the following intriguing passage: The students entered the Cao residence in order to argue with the traitors. When they were nowhere to be found, Kuang Husheng took out the set of matches he had prepared in advance and decided to set fire. Duan Xipeng 段锡朋 (1896–1948) discovered this and held him back, saying: ‘I can’t take that responsibility!’ Kuang responded

67

Xiao Fang, ‘Huoshao Zhaojialou de pianduan huiyi’ 火烧赵家楼的片断回忆 (Memory Fragments of Burning Down Zhaojialou), in The May Fourth Movement and Peking Higher Normal College. 68 Zhang Shiqiao, ‘Remembering the May Fourth Hero Kuang Husheng.’ 69 Yu Jing, ‘A Short Reminiscence About Burning Down Zhaojialou.’ 70 Kuang Husheng, ‘A Record of the May Fourth Movement.’

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resolutely: ‘Nobody wants you to! And you’re right, you can’t take responsibility.’ And then he started the fire.71

Duan Xipeng was a student leader from Peking University and Peking University was the backbone of the student movement. (There was a saying at the time: ‘Strike or no strike, PKU decides.’ [ba bu ba, kan Beida 罢不罢，看北大]) Therefore Duan, similar to Fu Sinian who was leading the demonstration, did feel that he was ‘responsible’ for what went on. Yet mass movements are like that: there are always times when the ‘organizers’ or ‘leaders’ are not in control. The simple reason is that those who mustered up the courage to stand up against authority were unlikely to worship the command of some ‘temporary leader.’ When it came to them making their own decisions, neither Fu Sinian nor Duan Xipeng could contain the situation. So who could have contained the situation? The correct answer is: nobody. Yet the most extreme slogans and actions tend to be the most tempting to a mass movement. In that sense, the so-called ‘situation’ easily came under the influence of the most extreme students, rather than the most moderate ones. Duan Xipeng was not the only person at the time who took exception to setting fire to the Cao residence. Zhou Yutong wrote that ‘this action did not meet with the approval of all students present.’ He went on to say: ‘Some students, especially those from the College of Law and Political Science, felt that setting fire and using physical violence was no longer rational behaviour, that it was a violation of the spirit of the resolution adopted at the big meeting. They were quite reproachful.’ 72 Yet had it not been for this ‘irrational’ and anonymous fire, the police would not have been able to justify their arrests and the resistance by students and by inhabitants of the city would not have spread like a raging fire. The whole ‘May Fourth’ Movement would have come to a different conclusion. Seen in this light, the kind of defiance regardless of any consequences demonstrated by those like Kuang Husheng was more 71

When Kuang Husheng’s ‘A Record of the May Fourth Movement’ was republished in Jindai shi ziliao, no. 2 (1957), this passage was added, with the comment that the material had been provided by ‘a certain gentleman.’ In Xin wenxue shiliao, no. 3 (1979) Kuang’s article was again reprinted and at that time it was explained that the old classmate was Zhou Weiqun. 72 Zhou Yutong, ‘Bits of Reminiscences of May Fourth.’

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impassioned and had more striking results than the concern for being ‘civilized’ and ‘rational’ by the students from Peking University and the College of Law and Political Science. Locked Up Overnight in the Police Station Dozens of students are said to have been arrested. Not all of those arrested were involved in violence or destruction of property. Last night there were already people going to the police station to post bail for them, in order to avoid further inciting public anger …

Just as Kuang Husheng said, by the time the police started making formal arrests, ‘most of those who had used excessive force in the attack on the Cao residence had already exhausted themselves and had returned to their dorms to rest.’73 As for the minority of students who had maintained discipline, those who had broken up and scattered, and those who were only onlookers, they were surrounded by large numbers of policemen who, scrambling into action under the watchful eye of the constabulary chief and the infantry commander, had no option but to cuff them and take them away. Among the thirty-two students arrested, twenty were from Peking University, eight from Normal College, two from the Industrial College, and one each from China University and Hui-wen University. By seven o’clock that evening the news that some student demonstrators had been arrested had spread throughout the city. Students at all colleges all held meetings to discuss emergency rescue strategies, since there was a rumour going around that the detained students would be ‘punished by military law.’ 74 The most excited meeting of all was that held at the No. 3 courtyard of Peking University, especially because Cai Yuanpei, the university president, came out to address it, expressing his sympathy for the students’ patriotic motives. This has been widely reported and remembered. Other meetings were held that night: Cao Rulin and his clique were biding their time in the Grande Hotel des Wagon-Lits (liu guo fandian 六国饭店), trying to determine a strategy for counterattack; and Premier Qian Nengxun met at home with members of his cabinet to discuss how to penalize the universities and how to deal with the students. And then there were the efforts to post bail for the students 73 74

Kuang Husheng, ‘A Record of the May Fourth Movement.’ Ibid.

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mentioned in the newspaper report cited above in what was probably a reference to the activities of Wang Daxie 汪大燮 (1860–1929) and Lin Changmin 林长民 (1876–1925). Since the Morning News was run by political intellectuals like Liang Qichao, it knew more about the ins and outs of the activities of the Civil Diplomacy Association (guomin waijiao xiehui 国民外交协会), which supported the student movement. Moreover, the reasons for posting bail mentioned in the report, such as ‘to avoid further inciting public anger’ and ‘not all of those arrested were involved in violence or destruction of property’ are similar to those mentioned in the petition submitted by Wang and others to the police bureau the next day, asking for the students to be released on bail. Compared to the various shady activities by the politicians, the fate of the arrested students drew more sympathy from both contemporaries and later readers. Predictably, dramatic descriptions about how the students were tortured in prison but kept up their resistance cannot really satisfy the needs of a reader who wants to gain a detailed understanding. The reminiscences of those involved give us a sense of being there, but they are not necessarily correct. Chen Jinmin, one of the students from Beijing Normal College who were arrested, wrote in his ‘Remembering Being in the Struggling Ranks of the May Fourth Movement’ that after his arrest he was first detained in the infantry commander’s offices and then sent under escort to the police station that same night. The arrested students were held in a number of cells: ‘I was in a cell with Normal College student Xiang Daguang 向大光 and five others from other colleges. We shared a single wash basin and we were treated quite harshly but we were full of energy and not scared at all.’75 However, Peking University student Xu Deheng claimed the following: All thirty-two of us were locked up in a cell in the infantry commander’s offices. It was cramped and filthy. There was only one big kang 炕 and on either side of the room there was a urine bucket. The stench was everywhere. Every half hour we were supposed to respond to orders to raise our heads and turn over, so as to prove that the ‘criminals’ were still alive.76

75 76

Chen Jinmin, ‘Remembering Being in the Struggling Ranks.’ Xu Deheng, ‘Sixtieth Anniversary of the May Fourth Movement.’

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Of the two accounts, Xu’s is definitely the more colourful. In fact, both accounts have holes in them and only by putting them together does a complete picture emerge. Initially, the students who were arrested on the day of ‘May Fourth’ were held in two separate places (twelve at the infantry commander’s offices and twenty at the police station). In the middle of the night they were all brought together in the police station. Being with thirty-two people in one cell was the situation during that first night, while being with six or seven people in one cell was the adjustment made the following day. It is to be expected that they were treated harshly but it would be misleading to imagine the bitter fate suffered by these students in terms of chains and torture, common practice in prisons at the time. In the Morning News of May 6, there is an article entitled ‘The Student Incident: Yesterday’s Events,’ with nine small sub-headings: ‘Yesterday’s student strikes;’ ‘Names of arrested students;’ ‘Students’ situation after arrest;’ ‘Meeting of college presidents;’ ‘Beijing public opinion outrage;’ ‘Wang, Wang, Lin post bail;’ ‘Minister of Education resigns;’ ‘Meeting at the Grande Hotel des Wagon-Lits;’ and ‘Zhang Zongxiang’s injuries.’ The item ‘Students’ situation after arrest’ is most helpful to our understanding of the situation of the imprisoned students: After the arrested students had entered the police station, they were subjected to some questioning by police, but without any result. Apparently they did not subject the students to any overly harsh treatment. On the first night they made three rooms available to them, to be shared between thirty-two people. The students, however, were unwilling to be separated and stayed in one place. Yesterday the police provided meals, divided over five tables with six or seven students at each table. Students told visitors that they were not in any kind of hardship and that the diplomatic situation continued to be their foremost concern. Some asked visitors to carry messages, urging their fellow-students to place the nation above anything else. They also stated that at the police station they were free to read newspapers.77

Did the Morning News reporter paint too pretty a picture of the authorities? Did he embellish the bloody realities of life in prison? I don’t think so. Throughout the time of the ‘May Fourth’ movement, the Morning News consistently and outspokenly supported the 77

‘Xueshengjie shijian zuo wen’ 学 生 界 事 件 昨 闻 (The Student Incident: Yesterday’s Events), Chen bao, May 6, 1919.

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students and criticized the government. Despite repeated warnings from the police authorities, it never wavered from its position. Moreover, the basic content of this report is confirmed by an article in Chen Duxiu’s journal Weekly Review. In the Weekly Review of May 11, 1919, there is an article by Yiwan 亿万, entitled ‘Major Activism by Beijing Citizens over the Past Week,’ which recounts the experiences of the students in prison in terms not too dissimilar from the report in Morning News: Some protesters who were arrested were taken to the infantry commander’s offices. They were severely maltreated and forced to stand for hours in a narrow cage (zhanlong 站笼). At midnight, they were taken to the police station. Those who had been detained by police or military police were treated better, although they, too, had been tied up and beaten. The first day at the police station they suffered and they had little freedom of movement and speech. The next morning, Wu Bingxiang visited them and the treatment they received improved. They were allowed to move about freely in the courtyard. The day after they were given a copy of the Yishi bao 益世 报 (Benefit the World News). From the police’s perspective, this was all preferential treatment…78

Prison is not a hotel and of course there were many inconveniences. What I want to point out, however, is that there was an obvious difference between the way the students were treated at the infantry commanders’ offices and at the police station. In ‘Remembering the Year of May Fourth,’ Sun Fuyuan writes that the students began to calm down after they had been moved to the police station. ‘At that moment the prevalent sentiment among the students was that, while at the military commander’s office they were in danger of being executed or decapitated at any moment, things would be a bit more civilized at the Beijing Municipal Constabulary Office.’79 Why did the students and the media seem so forgiving towards the police office? One likely reason is that the Chief of the Constabulary, Wu Bingxiang, had not wanted to arrest anybody and only gave the order to quell the protests under pressure from Cao Rulin. The next day he went to check on the students in person and made immediate 78

Yiwan, ‘Yi zhou zhong Beijing de gongmin huodong’ 一周中北京的公民大活 动 (Major Activism by Beijing Citizens over the Past Week), Meizhou pinglun 21, May 11, 1919. 79 Sun Fuyuan, ‘Remembering the Year of May Fourth.’

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improvements to the way they were treated: they were moved to larger accommodation, they were no longer forbidden to talk to each other, they were given newspapers to read, and they were provided with meals worth ten cents of silver each—the standard for senior police officers.80 Yet there was another reason, one which has been largely ignored in later accounts, and that is that the ‘police office’ of the late Qing and early Republic was also a product of New Learning. If its chief inspector had not been forced to order their suppression, it is highly unlikely that the police would have been willing to oppose the students. According to the reports, Wu Bingxiang proposed to give the students ‘preferential treatment’ because he was strongly aware of the seriousness of the situation and of the fact that the students were no ordinary criminals. What should also be considered is that the government itself was unsure how to handle the student movement and that many sectors in society were speaking out in opposition against the detention of patriotic students. It is therefore only natural that the constabulary chief would be somewhat apprehensive. But why, then, did the office of the infantry commander not share these concerns? Why were violent methods used there? The answer lies in the special status of the police office as an element of New Learning. In early Republican Beijing, as was the case during the final years of the Qing, social order was overseen jointly by the infantry commander’s office and by the police. The latter was a product of the late Qing, established after the Boxer Rebellion, ‘in emulation of the police authorities of modern civilized nations.’ In 1907, Dr Hattori Unokichi 服部宇之吉 (1867–1939), who at the time was a principal instructor at the Imperial University,81 edited and published a History of Beijing which claimed to encompass ‘all matters pertinent to Beijing.’ The book mentions that there were long-standing abuses in China’s law courts and that the establishment of the police office had ‘wiped out the corrupt practice of bribery.’ It emphasizes, somewhat over-idealistically, that the difference between the newly-established office and age-old institutions, such as the Ministry of Punishments (xing bu 刑部) and the office of the infantry commander, lies in it 80

Cai Xiaozhou and Yang Jinggong, eds., May Fourth, 456457. [Translator’s note] i.e. Jingshi daxuetang 京师大学堂, the precursor of Peking University. 81

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being ‘fully devoted to its task to annihilate injustice and to redress humiliation.’ However, the notion and practice of administering social order on the basis of the letter of the law, rather than on the basis of the ‘wisdom’ of senior prosecutors or the ‘knowledge’ of their clerks and advisers, does carry strong modern overtones. Hattori cum suis hold these things in high regard, saying that they represent ‘a gratifying phenomenon in the legal affairs of the Qing Empire.’82 It was by no means a coincidence that the infantry commander’s office maltreated the students whereas the police were relatively tolerant towards them. These facts are linked to the different origins of the two law enforcement institutions. In the Morning News of May 8, there is a small article entitled “Beijing jingcha zhi aiguo’ 北京警 察之爱国 (The Patriotism of the Beijing Constabulary), which states: ‘In the process of detaining the students, the behaviour of the police was extremely civilized. The students were treated well, and after their release the Beijing Student Association made a point of sending someone to deliver a letter of thanks.’ I doubt that this was ‘black humour.’ When taking into consideration that one of the thirteen schools that participated in the demonstrations was the Police Academy, which came under the direct jurisdiction of the Ministry of the Interior, it is impossible to deliver a completely negative verdict of the early Republican constabulary. Nevertheless, the social design of the Morning News reporter is clearly overly idealistic. In emphasizing the mutual understanding between the police and the students, he seems to want to express the following conviction: maintaining order and expressing popular intent both have their justifications and their restrictions. If this were true, then the behaviour of both sides would indeed be ‘extremely civilized.’ Unfortunately, the Northern government had no such magnanimity. It would not allow for young students to challenge its authority and right from the start it decided to apply high pressure policies, which resulted in increasingly fierce repercussions. Subsequently the students’ ideology became increasingly radical and the government’s measures increasingly despicable. The most obvious result of this mutual agitation was that, later on, students who ended up in prison 82

Qingmo Beijing zhi ziliao 清末北京志资料 (Materials for the Local History of Beijing at the End of the Qing) [Chinese translation of Hattori Unokichi, ed., Pekin shi 北京史 (History of Beijing)] (Beijing: Yanshan chubanshe, 1994), 122123.

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no longer received the ‘preferential treatment’ of the ‘May Fourth’ days. ‘Scholarly dignity’ became a ‘disgrace’ and the more knowledge one had the more reactionary one was deemed to be. For a very long period of time, students became the police’s primary surveillance targets. For a normally-functioning society, such a serious opposition between police and students is undoubtedly most regrettable. Unhappy to be only reporting ‘facts,’ the enthusiastic reporter who wrote ‘Student Activism in Response to Shandong Question,’ towards the end of his piece, finally departs from the actual scene (xianchang 现场) and sums up the state of affairs: Looking at all that has happened, one must admit that the students’ behaviour was at times extreme. However, the impetus for all this lies in the diplomatic issues, not in any form of common harassment. When crowds gather, there are often transgressions, this is the same in any country. The government should demonstrate its insight in the matter and handle it in a calm and reasonable manner. At the same time it should make diplomatic efforts to strengthen our sovereignty and to strive for a fundamental solution. If the cause is removed, problems like this should no longer occur.83

Unfortunately, later events would dash the honest hopes of this reporter and of countless common people. The government did not ‘strive for a fundamental solution’ and the students’ actions were therefore ‘at times extreme.’ One must demonstrate ‘insight in the matter’ and adopt a ‘reasonable’ approach to the demonstration of ‘May Fourth,’ as well as the countless later student movements. Ninety years on, the Morning News reporter’s appeal continues to be relevant. How to Get inside History In the Morning News of May 20, 1919, it was reported that ‘the Beijing Students Association held a meeting and decided that, as of yesterday, there would be a boycott of classes, and that this would be its final effort.’ The paper also copied the texts of the ‘Class Boycott Manifesto’ and of the ‘Petition to the President.’ What interests me is that both these documents already make formal use of the term ‘May 83

‘Student Activism,’ Morning News, May 5, 1919.

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Fourth Movement.’ The former defines the nature of the ‘May Fourth’ movement as ‘to fight for sovereignty abroad and to drive out the traitors at home;’ the latter refers to Cao, Zhang, and Lu’s treason and abuse of power as ‘treachery that public opinion could not eliminate and crimes that the law could not stop,’ so that ‘the May Fourth Movement is the true indication of the citizens’ righteous indignation.’84 It is not clear who the author of those two documents was. However in the Weekly Review of May 26, Luo Jialun using the pseudonym Yi 毅 published his ‘The Spirit of the May Fourth Movement,’ the opening line of which is: ‘So what is the May Fourth Movement?’ Luo’s article commends the students for their ‘spirit of sacrifice’ in ‘battling with the powers of darkness with bare hands and empty fists.’ Moreover he predicted that ‘this spirit of sacrifice will not be obliterated, as it truly is the stuff that a new China will be made of (zaizao Zhongguo de yuansu 再造中国的元素).’85 Chinese people invested tremendous enthusiasm into this emerging movement. Newspaper reports almost invariably sided with the students, determining that they had committed no crimes but had made contributions. Moreover the publication of books with titles like A Record of the Shanghai Boycotts (June 1919), Seven Days of Public Protest (June 1919), How the Shanghai Boycotts Saved the Nation (July 1919), May Fourth (July 1919), The Movement in Qingdao (August 1919), and The Student Campaign (September 1919) makes one marvel at the consistent position taken by the publishing world, as well as its rapid response to the situation. It is rare that a mass movement, as it unfolds, receives such widespread support and is so quickly ‘named’ and ‘defined.’ Over the past eighty years, despite having been discussed by politicians and intellectuals with vastly differing perspectives and opinions, this ‘May Fourth’ movement, shaped from its inception by ‘positive characters,’ has hardly ever been wholly discredited. Amidst actual struggles, the question of how to shape the image of ‘May Fourth’ has always been linked to issues of obtaining popular support and inheriting orthodoxy, something the various schools and factions were always acutely aware of. The ‘reception history’ of ‘May 84

‘Xuejie fengchao yue nao yue da’ 学界风潮越闹越大 (Student Campaign Gathers Force), Chen bao, May 20, 1919. 85 Yi (Luo Jialun), ‘Wu si yundong de jingshen’ 五四运动的精神 (The Spirit of the May Fourth Movement), Meizhou pinglun 23, May 26, 1919.

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Fourth’ is an enigmatic branch of learned scholarship. Without the necessary support, it would be reckless to oppose such a complex army of opinion. So the second-best option is to avoid grand reasoning and to write little essays. Compared to those who hoist high ‘the banner of May Fourth,’ coloured by their own interpretation, the kind of small-scale effort made in this chapter can only locate itself in the margins. The nice thing about being in the margins is that one need not shoulder the heavy burden of providing a comprehensive introduction, assessment, nor reconsideration of the ‘May Fourth’ movement. One can follow one’s interests and select some individuals and events that are worth discussing, and write about them freely. For example, past discussions of the vast impact of the ‘May Fourth’ demonstrations on Chinese society have always focused on responses by collective entities, such as the students, the urban population, or the workers, whereas I place more emphasis on the perceptions of individuals. The copious reminiscences by participants and bystanders provide us with excellent leads to take us inside the depths of history, ‘to return to the actual scene.’ In reminiscences from decades later, the passage of time will undoubtedly have caused things to be ‘forgotten,’ while the ‘pollution’ caused by ideology is even more difficult to avoid. Once we contrast them with the newspaper reports of the time and with archival materials, we will often obtain unexpectedly good results. In the afternoon of ‘May Fourth,’ Bing Xin was at the German hospital in East Jiaomin Alley, looking after her brother. She learned from a maid servant who came to drop off a change of clothes that there were lots of students holding white banners demonstrating out on the streets and that ‘crowds of people were lining the streets to watch.’ 86 Zheng Zhenduo 郑振铎 (18981958), who lived close to Zhaojiaolou, had just woken up from his midday nap when he heard people shouting that there was a fire. Shortly after he witnessed police chasing a student dressed in a blue long gown.87 Shen Yinmo 沈尹默 (1883–1971) was walking home after a meal in the upstairs dining room at Huixian Hall (Huixiantang 会贤堂), facing the Shicha Lakes (Shichahai 什刹海). He ‘saw that the street was covered in 86

Bing Xin, ‘Remembering May Fourth.’ Zheng Zhenduo, ‘Qian shi bu wang’ 前事不忘 (Past Events Not Forgotten), Zhongxuesheng, no. 5 (1946). 87

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water and heard people saying that the fire department was fighting a fire in the Cao mansion at Zhaojialou, and that the fire had been set by students from Peking University.’ 88 When the news of the demonstrations spread to the Tsinghua campus (Qinghua yuan 清华 园 ) in the western outskirts of Beijing, Wen Yiduo 闻 一 多 (18991946) wrote out a copy of Yue Fei’s 岳 飞 (1103–1142) famous 12th-century patriotic poem ‘Man jiang hong’ 满江红 (Red Fills the River) and secretly pasted it to the dining room door later that evening. 89 Such lively and interesting details not only provide further testimony regarding the day of the ‘May Fourth’ demonstration, but they also put us in the position of ‘spectators’. When it comes to helping us to ‘touch history,’ these detailed reminiscences are in no way inferior to all those lengthy formal accounts that start from the New Culture Movement and the Paris Peace Conference. Sun Fuyuan wrote: ‘The historical significance of May Fourth is becoming clearer year by year, yet year by year the concrete impression of May Fourth is fading.’ 90 Without being enriched by countless details, the ‘concrete impression’ of the ‘May Fourth’ movement is bound to ‘fade year by year.’ A ‘May Fourth’ without ‘concrete impressions’ is nothing but slogans and banners, and will never truly be remembered by later generations of young people. Seen in this way, the provision of details and scenes to help readers to ‘return to the actual scene’ is by no means a dispensable aspect of ‘May Fourth’ research. The Ancient Greeks said that one cannot step into the same river twice. The ‘return to the actual scene’ can only be an effort to create a simulation of the actual scene, using all kinds of available methods. And the ‘process’ of creation itself might well be more fascinating than the unsatisfactory ‘result.’ When you listen to friendly conversations between scholars who know the materials, they will not just tell you which historical mysteries have been resolved, but they will also openly admit that other details are subject to debate, their truth impossible to determine. To provide such an ‘open text’ is not to shun one’s responsibility, but it shows appreciation for, as well 88

Shen Yinmo, ‘Wu si dui wo de yingxiang’ 五四对我的影响 (How I Was Affected by May Fourth), Jiefang ribao, May 4, 1950. 89 Wen Yiduo, ‘Wu si lishi zuotan’ 五四历史座谈 (Forum on May Fourth History), in Wen Yiduo quanji (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1982), vol. 3, 535. 90 Sun Fuyuan, ‘Remembering the Year of May Fourth.’

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as reservations about, the limitless ‘history of reminiscences.’ For those who were present during the time of the ‘May Fourth’ movement, the main pitfall that they face in ‘remembrance of things past’ is not what they forget, but what they create. Since the incidents themselves are widely known and the sequence of events is ‘common knowledge,’ those who remember will easily find a mould to fit into. Through reminiscence after reminiscence, re-telling after re-telling, and revision after revision, a wonderful yet only partly recognizable story is inadvertently created. The thoughts that throng one’s mind at first slowly start to transform as one moves along and finally even the authors themselves are firmly convinced of their correctness. All those ‘May Fourth stories’ based on half-truths: to disregard them would be a pity, to cite them would be unreliable. If they can be verified, then all the better. But the problem is that there are some crucial details that will never be recovered. ‘Lining up’ different versions side by side and preserving the richness of the historical materials reminds the reader that by far not all ‘primary sources’ can be relied upon. Back to the Actual Scene of ‘May Fourth’ Over half a century ago, in an article for the People’s Daily entitled ‘Looking Back and Looking Ahead,’ Yu Pingbo 俞平伯 (19001990) described how, because he had been an eye-witness to the events, ‘whenever “May Fourth” comes around, Peking University students will come to ask me to write a few lines in commemoration, but I always look for excuses or delay writing them.’ The reason he would give for his reservations was that he had been ‘only a tiny footsoldier, not worthy of discussing these glorious events.’ In reality, however, what made him uncomfortable was that the ‘May Fourth’ commemorative activities had largely become ‘routine business’ (lixing gongshi 例行公事). Starting from May 4, 1920, when the Morning News published a special edition with commemorative articles, the discussion of ‘May Fourth,’ at least at Peking University, has become a ‘fashion’ as well as an inevitable ‘ritual.’ These annual commemorations have of course done a great deal to spread the reputation of the ‘May Fourth’ movement. On the other hand, however, they have resulted in the

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original vitality of ‘May Fourth’ being simplified into a straightforward, rousing slogan. This is what the poet Yu Pingbo disliked and bemoaned in the following words: Although the universities in this ancient city commemorate ‘May Fourth’ on a yearly basis, it has become a mere formality. The enthusiasm of some of our friends has cooled and, to be honest, so has mine. There are times when I am unable to engage in open, enthusiastic commemoration. The new students are always excited and full of admiration on this great day, but they, after all, were not there at the time, so it is unavoidable that they are not as close to it.91

In recognition of the new regime, Yu Pingbo eventually changed his mind and started talking about ‘May Fourth’ and after that there was no way back. Over the following decades, true to his original sentiments, he refused to drift with the tide and he used hardly any big words, empty phrases, or clichéd expressions. Yu’s discussions of ‘May Fourth’ stand out for their independence. When reading his ‘Memories of May Fourth’ and his ‘Memories of “May Fourth” on the Sixtieth Anniversary,’ published respectively in 1959 and 1979, I was deeply impressed by the tone of his writings because it was so vastly different from many of the ‘politically correct’ tributes that were published around the same time. Interestingly, Yu is in fact not the only eye-witness who wrote about ‘May Fourth’ in such a tone. The commemorative articles listed below, by ten different authors, share a similar tendency, although not all of them can measure up to Yu Pingbo’s enthusiasm and talent for writing. Yang Zhensheng, Peking University student: ‘Wu si yu xin wenxue’ 五 四 与 新 文 学 (May Fourth and New Literature), in Wu si sa zhounian jinian zhuanji 五四卅周年纪念专辑 (Special Collection for the Thirtieth Anniversary of May Fourth) (Shanghai: Xinhua shudian, 1949). * ‘Cong wenhua guandian shang huishou wu si’ 从文化观点上回首 五四 (Looking Back at May Fourth from the Perspective of Culture), Guancha 6, no. 13 (1950). * ‘Huiyi wu si’ 回 忆 五 四 (Remembering May Fourth), Renmin wenxue, no. 5 (1954). 91

Yu Pingbo, ‘Huigu yu zhanwang’ 回顾与瞻望 (Looking Back and Looking Ahead), Renmin ribao, May 4, 1949.

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Sun Fuyuan, Peking University student: * ‘Wu si yundong zhong de Lu Xun xiansheng’ 五四运动中的鲁迅先 生 (Lu Xun During the May Fourth Movement), Zhongguo qingnian, no. 9 (1953). * ‘Huiyi “wu si” dangnian’ 回忆‘五四’当年 (Remembering the Year of ‘May Fourth), Renmin wenxue, no. 5 (1954). Wang Tongzhao, China University student: ‘”Wu si” zhi ri’ ‘五四’之日 (The Day of May Fourth), Minyan bao, May 4, 1947. * ‘Sanshiwu nian qian de wu yue si ri’ 三十五年前的五月四日 (The Fourth of May Thirty-Five Years Ago), Renmin wenxue, no. 5 (1954). Xu Qinwen 许钦文 (18971984), Peking University secret auditor (toutingsheng 偷听生): * ‘Wu si shiqi de xuesheng shenghuo’ 五四时期的学生生活 (Student Life in the May Fourth Period), Wenyi bao, no. 8 (1959). * ‘Yi Shatan’ 忆沙滩 (Remembering Shatan), Wenhui bao, May 4, 1959. * ‘Lu Xun zai wu si shiqi’ 鲁迅在五四时期 (Lu Xun in the May Fourth Period), Renmin wenxue, no. 5 (1979). Zheng Zhenduo, Institute of Railroad Administration student: * ‘Qian shi bu wang—ji wu si yundong’ 前事不忘——记五四运动 (Past Events Not Forgotten—Remembering the May Fourth Movement), Zhongxuesheng, no. 5 (1946). ‘Wu si yundong de yiyi’ 五四运动的意义 (The Significance of the May Fourth Movement), Minzhu zhoukan 29 (1946). ‘“Ren” de faxian—wei jinian “wu si” zuo’ ‘人’的发现——为纪念‘五 四 ’ 作 (The Discovery of ‘Man’—In Memory of ‘May Fourth’), Xinmin wanbao, May 4, 1948. * ‘Ji Qu Qiubai zaonian de er san shi’ 记瞿秋白早年的二三事 (Some Memories of Qu Qiubai’s Early Years), Xin guancha, no. 12 (1955).

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Zhou Yutong, Higher Normal College student: ‘Wu si de qianxi—dao Husheng xiong’ 五四的前夕——悼互生兄 (The Eve of May Fourth—Mourning for Husheng), originally published in Zhuidao Kuang Husheng xiansheng zhuanhao 追悼匡互 生先生专号 (Special Issue in Commemoration of Kuang Husheng) (1933), reprinted in Wu si yundong yu Beijing gao shi 五四运动与北 京 高 师 (The May Fourth Movement and Peking Higher Normal) (Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue chubanshe, 1984). * ‘Wu si he liu san’ 五四和六三 (May Fourth and June Third), Jiefang ribao, May 4, 1959. * ‘Wu si huiyi pianduan’ 五四回忆片断 (Bits of Reminiscences of May Fourth), Zhanwang, no. 17 (1959). [His 1979 essay ‘Huo shao Zhaojialou’ 火 烧 赵 家 楼 (Burning Down Zhaojialou) is virtually identical to this publication.] Wen Yiduo, Tsinghua School student: ‘Wu si lishi zuotan’ 五四历史座谈 (Forum on May Fourth History), Dalu 5 (1944). ‘“Wu si” yundong de lishi faze’ ‘ 五 四 ’ 运 动 的 历 史 法 则 (The Historical Laws of the ‘May Fourth’ Movement), Minzhu zhoukan 1, no. 20 (1945). ‘“Wu si” duanxiang’ ‘ 五 四 ’ 断 想 (Random Thoughts on ‘May Fourth’), Wu si jinian tekan 五 四 纪 念 特 刊 (May Fourth Commemoration Special Edition), ed. Xinan lian da ‘Youyou tiyuhui’ (1945). Yu Pingbo, Peking University student: ‘Huigu yu zhanwang’ 回 顾 与 瞻 望 (Looking Back and Looking Ahead), Renmin ribao, May 4, 1949. * ‘Wu si yi wang—tan Shi zazhi’ 五 四忆 往 — — 谈〈 诗 〉 杂 志 (Memories of May Fourth—About the Magazine Poetry), Wenxue zhishi, May, 1959. ‘“Wu si” liushi zhounian yi wangshi’ ‘ 五 四 ’ 六 十 周 年 忆 往 事 (Memories of ‘May Fourth’ on the Sixtieth Anniversary), Wenhui bao, May 4, 1979.

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Bing Xin, Peking Union Women’s College student: * ‘Huiyi “wu si”’ 回忆‘五四’ (Remembering May Fourth), Renmin wenxue 5 (1959). ‘Huiyi wu si’ 回忆五四 (Remembering May Fourth), Wenyi luncong 8 (1979). ‘Cong “wu si” dao “si wu” 从‘五四’到‘四五’(From ‘May Fourth’ to ‘April Fifth’), Wenyi yanjiu 1 (1979). Chuandao 川岛 (19011981), Peking University student: * ‘Shaonian Zhongguo xuehui’ 少年中国学会 (The Young China Association), Beida zhoukan, May 4, 1950. * ‘Wu si huiyi’ 五四回忆 (Memories of May Fourth), Wenyi bao, no. 8 (1959). * ‘Wu si zayi’ 五四杂忆 (Random Memories of May Fourth), Beijing wenyi, no. 9 (1959). Items marked * are included in Wu si yundong huiyilu 五四运动回忆 录 (Reminiscences of the May Fourth Movement) (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1979) and its addenda (xubian 续 编 ). However, many of the articles in that collection were subjected to editorial cuts and title changes.

There can be no doubt that the ‘May Fourth’ movement is worth commemorating, but the question is: in what way? Broadly speaking there are three strategies available. Firstly, ‘carrying the spirit forward’ (fayang guangda 发扬光大), which would inevitably mean prominent involvement by politicians. Secondly, ‘interpreting history,’ which would be the position of the scholar, would be focused on the past, and would emphasize abstract academic notions. Thirdly, ‘recollecting past events,’ mulling over details, settings, and states of mind, suitable only for ‘literati’ (wenren 文 人 ) in the broadest sense of the word. Both in the political world and in the scholarly world, the former two types of commemoration are much more illustrious than those individualized recollections. They have always resided in the margins where they received little attention. I especially value those individualized narratives because they are founded in the spiritual needs of the people involved, but I also have an eye on the intellectual outlook of later generations. For those

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literati who had the good fortune to participate in this great historical event, the memories of ‘May Fourth’ could never be eroded by time. More likely they will have formed mental impressions that will have stayed with them all their lives. In the mid-1950s, when Wang Tongzhao published his recollection of ‘May Fourth,’ he wrote: ‘It gives me a special kind of excitement that I can now quietly reflect on the events that took place on this day thirty-five years ago. No matter how calmly I look back, something inside me still wants to jump out.’ In the 1970s, when visitors asked Zhou Yutong to talk about when he took part in the ‘May Fourth’ movement, ‘he heaved an emotional sigh and said: “I am so old now!” He was so agitated that he broke out in tears and it took a long time for him to calm down.’92 As for Wen Yiduo, he published his reminiscences of the ‘May Fourth’ movement around the same that he famously ‘banged the table and rose to his feet.’ 93 Bing Xin’s discussion of ‘May Fourth’ in connection with ‘April Fifth’ 94 adumbrated her political stance going into the 1980s. 95 It would seem that the historical memory of having participated in the ‘May Fourth’ movement in one’s youth is far more than just the stuff of dinner table conversation. Rather, it is something that can arouse youthfulness, ideals, and enthusiasm at any time. For the latecomers, those of whom Yu Pingbo said that they might be full of admiration but, since they ‘were not there at the time, it is unavoidable that they are not as close to it,’ the main obstacle keeping them from getting inside ‘May Fourth’ is not any ideological difference, but rather a lack of genuine emotion. Even someone like Sun Fuyuan, who was there at the time, was concerned about the 92

Cf. Wang Tongzhao, ‘The Fourth of May Thirty-Five Years Ago’; Yun Fu 云 复 and Hou Gang 侯刚, ‘Fang Zhou Yutong xiansheng’ 访周予同先生 (A Visit to Zhou Yutong), in The May Fourth Movement and Peking Higher Normal, 182. 93 [Translator’s note] Wen Yiduo famously denounced Guomindang secret agents at the memorial service for a murdered colleague. Later that same day (July 17, 1946), Wen was himself assassinated in broad daylight. 94 [Translator’s note] ‘April Fifth’ refers to the Tiananmen incident in 1976, when Beijing residents openly defied the government by publicly commemorating the late premier Zhou Enlai 周恩来 (1898–1976). 95 [Translator’s note] Bing Xin came out in support of political reform during the 1980s and famously was one of the thirty-three signatories of an open letter to the National People’s Congress in February 1989, calling for the release of political prisoners.

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‘concrete impression of the May Fourth movement fading year by year.’ For the latecomers, without any first-hand experience, it is even harder to get an accurate image of events. Only by seeking support from random yet sincere ‘recollections,’ such as those by Yu Pingbo and Bing Xin, can we manage to get closer to the determining circumstances of ‘May Fourth’ in a more or less relaxed fashion. If our hope is to make the memory of ‘May Fourth’ live on in subsequent generations of young people, it will not suffice to rely on accurate and flawless explications of its significance. There must also be palpably realistic, concrete impressions. For readers who hope to get ‘inside May Fourth’ through ‘touches of history,’ the ‘random’ reminiscences of people like Yu Pingbo and Bing Xin may well be the best reading materials. Since Bing Xin passed away, our direct connection with the ‘May Fourth’ movement has basically ceased to exist. Important figures in Chinese politics, academia, and culture of the 1930s and 1940s almost all had direct or indirect links with the ‘May Fourth’ movement. In the 1950s and 1960s, due to the fact that many witnesses of ‘May Fourth’ were still alive and due to the large-scale promotion by the new regime, the historical significance of the ‘May Fourth’ movement became common knowledge. Yet as time moved on, we have become further and further removed from the determining circumstances of ‘May Fourth.’ It has come to be praised or used more and more as a political or cultural symbol, while the ‘life and blood’ sentiments have come to be ignored. I have always been wary of specialist discourses that are overly concerned with neatness and uniformity. The goal of entering ‘private memory’ is to break through established theoretical frameworks, to bring out a more complex image of ‘May Fourth,’ and to enrich or even revise the imaginings of historians. For the common reader, this approach can provide a kind of ‘live experience’ that cannot be found in any of the formal accounts, and can tempt them to take a genuine interest in getting into history. Needless to say, due to the passage of time, the reminiscences of decades later cannot always be accurate and, moreover, they are limited by the perspective of the narrators. Such reminiscences must be juxtaposed with original reports and archival materials in order to achieve optimum effect. People often talk about history as a ‘mirror,’ as if one would only discuss ‘May Fourth’ to meet the demands of today’s reality. I

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wonder if this kind of research agenda, eager for quick success and instant benefit, will not easily lead to history being tailored to modern needs. I have mixed feelings about the countless scholarly accounts of ‘May Fourth’ that were published in the past eighty years. If you temporarily put aside the serious inquiry into ‘the true May Fourth spirit’ and instead follow the pens of Yu Pingbo and others, you will be eased into history and I guarantee you will come to like ‘May Fourth,’ feel closer to it, and come to embrace it. As to how to understand it, or how to evaluate it, that is entirely a question of individual viewpoints and skills. It must not be forced. My aim in listing the reminiscences by ten Beijing students of the time (with the exception of Zhou Yutong, who became a scholar, the others were all writers; Chuandao and Xu Qinwen did not arrive in Beijing until over half a year after the ‘May Fourth’ movement erupted but they could still sense the special spiritual atmosphere of the era) is to allow readers with a genuine interest in ‘May Fourth’ to see that massive event, which influenced the course of China’s twentieth-century history and which is destined to become a major topic of debate and an important ideological resource in the new century, through the eyes of those who witnessed it. To put it plainly, I really have a very simple wish: that the image of ‘May Fourth’ will come alive in the minds of young people. Appendix The main content of this chapter was originally presented as a paper entitled ‘Touches of History: An Entry into “May Fourth” China’ at the first-ever conference on the ‘May Fourth’ movement in Taiwan (‘Conference on the Eightieth Anniversary of the May Fourth Movement,’ organized by the College of Liberal Arts of National Chengchi University, April 2425, 1999), where it was positively received. On April 26, 1999, a report entitled ‘Paper by Chen Pingyuan Reconstructs the Actual Scene of May Fourth,’ written by Jiang Zhongming 江 中 明 , appeared in the Lianhe bao 联 合 报 (United Daily News). After some revision, the article appeared as a chapter in the 2003 Taiwanese edition of this book (published by Eryu wenhua publishers in Taibei). When Professor Chen Yan 陈燕 of the Chinese Department of National Sun Yat-sen University in

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Gaoxiong read the book, she wrote me a letter telling me that she had collated her father Chen Qiqiao’s 陈其樵 diary for the period May 412, 1919 in Zhuanji wenxue 54, no. 6 (1989). She later kindly sent me the article, entitled ‘Qishi nian qian “wu si” canjiazhe de riji— yige dangshi Beijing gao shi xuesheng qinbi liuxia de jianzheng” 七 十年前‘五四’参加者的日记——一个当时北京高师学生亲笔留下 的见证 (The Diary of a ‘May Fourth’ Participant from Seventy Years Ago—An Eyewitness Account Penned by a Student of Peking Higher Normal), as well as a photocopy of the diary kept by Chen Qiqiao when he was a first-year student in the English department of the Higher Normal College. It carried the title ‘Zijiangxuan riji (jiwei mengchun)’ 自疆轩日记（己未孟春） (Zijiang Pavillion Diary [First Month of Spring, 1919]) and it provided me with corroborating evidence for the outcomes of my research. For instance, the author’s account of a walk in Central Park the day before ‘May Fourth’ provides further support to my section called ‘A Beautiful Spring Day’: At half past two in the afternoon, I went to the park and found most of the peonies had already withered, except for a few dozen in front of the Laijinyu Pavillion (Laijinyu xuan 来今雨轩). The potted plants only had green leaves left, but no more flowers. I remembered last Spring, when I went to the park and saw only potted flowers. Sitting among the flower beds, smelling the fragrances of the rare plants and unusual flowers, my mind felt refreshed.

His long account of what he saw and heard the next day is the most detailed ‘May Fourth diary’ that I have ever seen. Based on the original manuscript of the diary, as well as Professor Chen Yan’s collated edition, I present here a revised edition, for future reference: Fifth day96 (i.e. May 4), clear skies Yesterday I wore a lined jacket, today a single jacket, so unpredictable is the Beijing weather. At 1pm today, a citizens’ meeting about the failure of our diplomacy will be held at Tiananmen. After lunch I slept for two hours, then hired a rickshaw to go to Tiananmen. Students from Peking University, the College of Law and 96

[Translator’s note] As noted above, according to the Chinese lunar calendar, May 4, 1919 was the fifth day of the fourth month, rather than the fourth day of the fifth month.

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Political Science, China University, and my own university had already arrived, about three thousand of them. I had a fever from my smallpox vaccination and was afraid to exert myself, so I planned to listen to the speeches and then return to campus. Then I realized that the speeches were already finished and the students, each of them holding banners, were preparing to march the streets. I gathered I should have enough strength to walk a few miles, so I asked Mr You 尤 for a white banner with the words ‘Return Our Qingdao’ on it, and marched forward with the crowd. From Tiananmen we went South, out Zhonghuamen and then to the East, preparing to go through East Jiaomin Alley. When we got to the U.S. Embassy we could not go any further. We chose four delegates to explain to the U.S. enjoy the students’ true intentions. The Embassy must have had its misgivings, because we were not allowed to go through East Jiaomin Alley. Then from the Embassy we went North, crossing Chang’an Street and Chongwenmen Boulevard. Along the route we handed out statements on behalf of all students (detailed elsewhere), as well as pieces of paper with texts like ‘Traitor Cao Rulin’ and ‘Traitor Zhang Zongxiang’ on them. When we came to the entrance of Cao Rulin’s mansion at Zhaojialou, people became even more agitated, and some shouted: ‘Death to the traitor Cao Rulin!’ and ‘Kill Cao Rulin!’ Delegates from the various colleges spoke again: when getting to the traitor Cao’s gate, we should throw the banners saying ‘Traitor’ into his house to shame him. Then there were banners flying everywhere, as well as bricks and stones, and the air was filled with the sound of swearing voices. Only about half of the crowd had passed, when suddenly there was chaos. A lot of people fell and all around there were people losing hats and shoes and breaking glasses. People called for the crowd to stop moving and there was no danger. At that point people were getting angrier, as they gathered in front of Cao’s gate. The gate was firmly shut and some agitated people banged on it with stones, while the crowd shouted ‘Kill the traitor!’ At that point there was already police everywhere, but they did not intervene. A student from one of the colleges broke a window facing the street and went inside, opening the gate for the crowd, and then everybody squeezed inside and started smashing the Cao family furniture. They looked for the traitor Cao everywhere but could not find him. They did find a Japanese man who was shielding someone else. Those who recognized him shouted out: ‘That’s the traitor Zhang Zongxiang!’ Unable to curb their anger, the crowd beat him up. With injuries to his head and his back and shielded by the Japanese man, he was taken via to rear exit to the Sino-Japanese Collegial Hospital (Ri Hua tongren yiyuan 日华同仁医院). People looked everywhere for Cao Rulin, but he was nowhere to be found and had probably escaped via the rear exit. All of Cao’s wives, concubines, and children were allowed to run away. Just as everybody was trying

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their best to smash everything, there was suddenly fire in the house. The police shouted that there was a fire and asked the students to leave quickly and orderly. Then the crowd began to retreat and disperse. Some who were not strong enough to run away were forcefully arrested by the police (by then they had received orders from Duan and Wu that they should wait for an opportunity to make arrests). Thirty-nine people were detained and taken away from the scene (twenty-three from Peking University, eight from Higher Normal, and eight from the Engineering School). When the smashing became intense, Zhongshi 仲实 and I had made our way to Moqing’s 墨卿 house. As we passed by the rear exit of Cao’s mansion, we noticed dozens of armed police standing guard. By the entrance to Ganyu Alley, we ran into Moqing and Danting 丹 庭 who had come back from the market. I stayed at Moqing’s house for a short while, then I went back to the dormitory together with Zhongshi and Danting. I found Jinqin 金琹 and Chenxiang 辰湘 had returned much earlier and were having dinner. Since I was still running a fever, I only ate an egg. After dinner, Chenxiang went to the University for a meeting. Moqing and Cheng’an 承庵 both got home. When Chenxiang came back, he gave an account of the meeting. Cai Jiemin 蔡孑民 [i.e. Cai Yuanpei] had been there. He had said that there was no need to talk about what happened but that somehow matters had to be resolved. He asked the students to go to class as normal tomorrow and said that he would go to the police office to bail out the students who had been detained. Students proposed to send out people to contact all the newspapers; to send people to the police office to comfort the detainees; to liaise with all colleges to ensure co-ordinated action; to send people to the Diplomatic Association, to ask for their assistance. At night, I talked to Cheng’an and we decided to spend the night at the dormitory. Moqing went home. I did not go to bed until one o’clock. What the students did today was not their original intention. A sudden upsurge of anger had caused people to break in and enter and to beat up the traitor. If this had been planned, then they would have gone in from the front and the back at the same time, so that both the traitors Cao and Zhang would have been unable to escape and save their lives. Traitor Zhang is severely injured and his life is in the balance. Traitor Cao did not suffer a beating, but he must be frightened out of his wits. Wonderful! Wonderful! I hope the other traitors will learn! I hope that the whole nation will have been alerted! I spent five coppers on rickshaws.

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LITERATURE FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF INTELLECTUAL HISTORY: STUDIES OF NEW YOUTH In late 1919, the journal New Youth 新青年 carried an advertisement for a reprint of the first five volumes that read: ‘New Youth might be regarded as a chronicle of the intellectual changes that have taken place in China over the last five years. Not only does it show how the thoughts of its members have changed, but quite a few changes in 1 non-members’ thinking are represented as well.’ This advertisement was presumably penned by the editors of New Youth, for it is quite different from the reprint announcement by the Qunyi 群 益 Publishing House half a year earlier. Qunyi put emphasis on New Youth being ‘a well-edited, excellent journal to appear in recent times that promotes new literature and advocates new thinking from 2 beginning to end.’ The editors’ own version is more natural and direct in using the perspective of intellectual history. Four years later, Hu Shi printed ‘A Letter to Gao Yihan 高一涵 and His Friends’ in his journal The Endeavor in which he expressed his thoughts on history and his aspirations: In the last 25 years, there have only been three journals that have represented an era, that have created a new epoch. Those three are Shiwu bao 时务报 (The Chinese Progress), Xinmin congbao 新民丛报 (New Citizen Miscellany), and New Youth. The journals Min bao 民报 (The Minpao Magazine) and Jiayin 甲 寅 (The Tiger) cannot be 3 counted among them.

In composing this list of journals ‘that represented an era,’ Hu Shi never explained his reasons for excluding the widely popular Dongfang zazhi 东 方 杂 志 (Eastern Miscellany), or the Minpao 1

‘Xin qingnian di-yi, er, san, si, wu juan hezhuangben quan wu ce zaiban’ 《新 青年》第一、二、三、四、五卷合装本全五册再版 (A Complete Single-Volume Reprint of Volumes 1-5 of New Youth), Xin qingnian (hereafter XQN) 7, no. 1 (1919). 2 ‘Xin qingnian zi yi zhi wu juan zaiban yuyue’ 《新青年》自一至五卷再版预 约 (Advance Orders for Reprint of New Youth Vols. 1–5), XQN 7, no. 5 (1919). 3 Hu Shi, ‘Yu Gao Yihan deng siwei de xin’ 与高一涵等四位的信 (A Letter to Gao Yihan and His Friends), Nuli zhoubao 75 (1923).

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Magazine, which is highly regarded among historians. My guess is that to be considered a journal that had ‘created an epoch,’ it had to have a clear-cut political standpoint. Only then could it intervene with and influence the intellectual direction of an era. It would also require a broad and fairly regular readership and, finally, it would need to have been in circulation for a fairly long time. Based on these three criteria, the long-lived Eastern Miscellany and the constantly enraged Minpao Magazine cannot be counted among the journals that 4 ‘represented an era’ or ‘created a new epoch.’ In 1936, the cultural historian Guo Zhanbo 郭 湛 波 officially validated the hopes of the New Youth group when he wrote: ‘In New Youth it is clear to see [Chen Duxiu’s] changes in thinking, as well as 5 the shifts in intellectual circles at the time.’ Following this precedent, academics have largely tended to talk about New Youth in terms of changes in intellectual history. Scholars of widely different political persuasions still discuss New Youth using remarkably similar phrasing—e.g., stating the journal’s support of ‘democracy’ and 6 ‘science’ in much the same manner. Of course, the influential New Youth is quite different from the works of a single author. Situated in the nexus of intellectual, literary, and journal publishing history, further enquiry is clearly needed to understand its mode of operation 7 and evaluate its cultural and literary value. 4

See my ‘Zazhi yu shidai’ 杂志与时代 (Journals and Eras), in Jushui ji (Tianjin: Baihua wenyi chubanshe, 2001), 140–142. 5 Guo Zhanbo, Jin wushi nian Zhongguo sixiangshi 近 五 十 年 中 国 思 想 史 (Chinese Intellectual History in the Last 50 Years) (Jinan: Shandong renmin chubanshe, 1997), 82. (Reprint of the 1936 edition by Beiping renmin shudian.) 6 See Chapter 5 in Peng Ming 彭明, Wu si yundong shi 五四运动史 (The History of the May Fourth Movement) (revised edition) (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1998); Chapter 2 in Xiao Chaoran 萧超然, Beijing daxue yu wu si yundong 北京大学与五 四运动 (Peking University and the May Fourth Movement) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1986); Chapter 3 in Chow Tse-tsung, The May Fourth Movement; Chapter 2 in Vera Schwarcz, The Chinese Enlightenment. 7 In Ma Lie zhuzuo bianyiju 马列著作编译局 (Editorial Office for the Works of Marx and Engels), Wu si shiqi qikan jieshao 五四时期期刊介绍 (Introduction to Journals of the May Fourth Period) (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1978), Vol. 1, the last section of the chapter on New Youth discusses the journal in the context of periodical publishing work; Chapter 1 in Chen Wanxiong 陈万雄, Wu si xin wenhua de yuanliu 五四新文化的源流 (The Origins of May Fourth New Culture) (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1997) mentions ‘New Youth and its authors;’ my own ‘Xuewenjia yu yulunjia’ 学问家与舆论家 (Scholars and Public Opinion Makers), Du shu, no. 11

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The first issue of New Youth was published on September 15, 1915 with Chen Duxiu as the editor. The journal’s initial name was Qingnian zazhi 青 年 杂 志   (Youth Magazine). With the second volume, the name was changed to New Youth and the journal gradually became more distinct. By the last issue of Volume 2 (February 1917), Chen Duxiu had accepted the position as Dean of the Humanities Faculty at Peking University. Consequently the journal was edited in Beijing from the third volume onwards, but Qunyi Publishing House in Shanghai remained in charge of publication. In the Spring of 1920, Chen Duxiu moved South to take part in political activities and New Youth returned to Shanghai again, and finally moved to Canton. In July 1922, after nine full volumes, the journal was discontinued. From 1923 to 1926, the Central Committee of the CCP put out some quarterly and irregular issues, but in these the topic was political theory. It was no longer a journal run by a group of New Culture Movement intellectuals. So when I talk about New Youth as a ‘canonical’ source of ‘May Fourth’ New Culture, I am referring to the first nine volumes. The question of whether or not to include in the current study the later quarterly and irregular issues of New Youth edited by Qu Qiubai 瞿 秋 白 (1899–1935) cannot be answered without some understanding of the journal’s aims, nature, editorial staff, and mode of operation. These topics will gradually be brought to light in the following sections. The ‘Spiritual Unification’ of an Associates Magazine In order to understand the successes and failures of the famous New Youth, it is first necessary to situate the journal in the context of the countless other periodicals of the late Qing period and beyond. Practially all the main writers, including the Editor-in-Chief Chen Duxiu, had worked on other journals prior to working on New Youth and they had a good deal of experience in this new cultural enterprise. This is widely known. For example, Chen Duxiu ran Anhui suhua (1997) is about the letters and suigan in New Youth; Chapter 5 in Li Xianyu 李宪瑜, ‘Xin qingnian yanjiu’ 《新青年》研究 (New Youth Studies) (PhD diss., Peking University, 2000) deals with ‘columns and styles.’

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bao 安 徽 俗 话 报 (Anhui Vernacular News), Cai Yuanpei ran Jingzhong ribao 警钟日报 (Alarming Bell Daily News), Wu Zhihui 吴稚晖 (1865–1953) ran Xin shijie 新世界 (The New World), Zhang Shizhao 章 士 钊 (1881–1973) ran The Tiger, Qian Xuantong ran Jiaoyu jinyu zazhi 教育今语杂志 (The Educational Magazine), Ma Junwu 马君武 (1881–1940) co-edited the New Citizen Miscellany, Gao Yihan (1884–1968) edited Minyi 民彝 (Human Relations), Li Dazhao edited Yan zhi 言治 (Statesmanship), Hu Shi edited Jing ye xunbao 竞业旬报 (The Tournament), Liu Shuya 刘叔雅 (Wendian 文典, 1889–1958) edited Minli bao 民立报  (The People’s Stand), Wu Yu 吴虞 (1874–1939) edited Shu bao 蜀报 (Sichuan News), Xie Wuliang 谢 无 量 (1884–1964) was the main editorial writer on Jingbao 京 报 (Peking Press), Su Manshu 苏 曼 殊 (1884–1918) worked for Taipingyang bao 太平洋报 (The Pacific News), and Liu Bannong submitted works to Zhonghua xiaoshuo jie 小说界 (Chung Hwa Novel Magazine). The brothers Lu Xun and Zhou Zuoren submitted their writings to a number of periodicals, including Henan 河南 (Henan Magazine), Zhejiang chao 浙江潮 (Zhejiang Tide), Nüzi shijie 女子世界 (Women’s World), as well as partaking in the planning of the magazine Xin sheng 新生 (La Vita Nuova). Chow Tse-tsung reminds us that, ‘New Youth was established exactly one hundred years after the first appearance of a modern periodical 8 written in Chinese’ This means that we must not forget the surge in journals and newspapers published during that period. Chow’s reminder is particularly important in refuting the prevalent tendency to raise New Youth to the utmost importance in the history of journal publishing. However, I would also like to point out that the great wave of intellectuals turning towards the burgeoning journal and newspaper business only took place after the Hundred Days Reform in 1898. The thinking of New Youth’s writers and editors was inextricably interwoven with the various periodicals of the late Qing and early Republican eras, e.g., Qingyi bao 清 议 报 (The China Discussion), New Citizen Miscellany, The Minpao Magazine, and The Tiger. This means that the enterprise which Chen Duxiu 8

Chow, The May Fourth Movement, 45. The ‘hundred years’ begin with the Cha shisu meiyue tongji zhuan 察世俗每月统记传 (Chinese Monthly Magazine) on Malacca in 1815.

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undertook with his friends cannot be considered a ‘new painting on a blank canvas.’ They simply added a splash of colour to a field that was already criss-crossed with sketches. If we recognize this point, then we are not seeking to analyse their editorial techniques in the ordinary sense; rather we are seeking to analyse how Chen Duxiu and those around him improved on the techniques of those who came before him and used their journal as ‘an engine to spread culture and civilization.’ In the late Qing and early Republican periods, the blooming periodicals business had largely split the market into commercial papers, official journals of various organizations, and the so-called ‘associates magazines’ (tongren zazhi 同人杂志), ran by groups of like-minded individuals. These three main types each had their own modes of operation that sprang from differing cultural beliefs and this resulted in different editorial styles. Commercial papers, such as Shen bao 申报 (Shun Pao) and Eastern Miscellany, generally tried to cover as much as possible and strove to be fair and above-board in their editorials. The periodicals that officially represented various associations and political parties, such as New Citizen Miscellany and The Minpao Magazine, would appear quite suddenly with great fanfare, but easily succumbed to partisanship. As for the countless journals put out by small cliques and groups during the late Qing, they tried to garner a fairly broad appeal. Their advantage was that they were wide-ranging and open-minded, but their main weakness was that they lacked stable funding. Moreover, their group of writers was very small, so in case of unforeseen events to the staff, the papers would have to close right away. When Chen Duxiu set up New Youth, he relied on the support of 9 Qunyi Publishing House and thus he had a certain level of financing. But in other respects, it was a group journal, particularly concerning its cultural ideals and the low level of remuneration given to the authors that joined it. In the first three volumes, the ‘Rules for Submission’ stipulated that writers’ payment would amount to two to 9

According to Wang Yuanfang 汪原放, the Qunyi Publishing House offered a monthly fee of 200 yuan for editors and writers. Wang Yuanfang, Huiyi Yadong tushuguan 回忆亚东图书馆 (In Memory of the East Asia Library) (Shanghai: Xuelin chubanshe, 1983), 32.

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five yuan per one thousand characters—about average for books and 10 periodicals of the time. From the fourth volume onwards, all remuneration was cancelled and only group members could submit to the journal. In the third issue of the fourth volume, there was an ‘Announcement of the Editorial Department’ which stipulated: The rules for submission to this journal have been rescinded from the first issue of the fourth volume onwards. All compositions and translations will be done jointly by the editorial staff. No further manu11 scripts will be purchased.

This notice naturally reveals the editorial group’s extreme selfconfidence and highlights their desire to expound their ideas rather than seek monetary gain. From the late Qing onwards, there was hardly a lack of students and scholars making similarly high-minded statements, but sustained and sincere cooperation was rather rare among such groups. New Youth, however, had the enthusiastic participation of a large number of first-rate academics and this is an important reason for the journal’s success. Chen Duxiu had his secrets in attracting premiere talent. For the early issues he drew upon his friends from the erstwhile The Tiger and for the later issues he relied on his colleagues from Peking University. Both of these methods were masterstrokes, even to the extent that in talking about New Youth today, a mere listing of its writers is enough to astonish. New Youth was started solely by Chen Duxiu. The covers of Volumes 2 and 3 even said ‘Composed by Chen Duxiu’ (Chen Duxiu xiansheng zhuan 陈独秀先生撰). But New Youth was never the journal of a single person; from beginning to end it relied on numerous fellow supporters. The early issues of Youth Magazine, launched on September 15, 1915, were strongly reminiscent of The Tiger and did not display a new individual style. After a brief suspension during which the editorial policies were revised and the name was changed to New Youth, the journal came out with a fresh 10

See my Ershi shiji Zhongguo xiaoshuo shi 二十世纪中国小说史 (The History of Chinese Fiction in the 20th Century) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1989), vol. 1, 76–81. 11 ‘Benzhi bianjibu qishi’ 本 志 编 辑 部 启 事 (Announcement of the Editorial Department), XQN 4, no. 3 (1918).

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new look. In Volume 2, No. 1, there were two announcements. The first one read: From Volume 2 onwards, in order to push ourselves even harder and to better match the expectations of our distinguished readership, we have changed the name of the journal to New Youth. Moreover, we have procured the assistance of several well-known gentlemen, including Wen Zongyao 温宗尧 (1876–1947), Wu Jingheng 吴敬恒 (1865–1953), Zhang Ji 张继 (1882–1947), Ma Junwu, Hu Shi, and Su Manshu. This allows this journal to feature all the writings about youth. Henceforth, the content of this journal will be even12more excellent and that will benefit both the journal and its readership.

Chen Duxiu realized that the journal needed to make a fresh start since its original name was similar to others, and cleverly attributed the change in name to the wishes of the readership. The new name also stressed a distinction between new and old youth while giving 13 the journal a completely fresh image. The change won much praise among contemporary readers and has influenced how historians in 14 later ages have looked at the matter. The list of writers mentioned in the announcement above is restricted to the latest members who joined the writing group for the second volume. The writers in the first volume, such as Gao Yihan, Yi Baisha 易白沙 (1886–1921), Gao Yuhan 高语罕 (1888–1948), Liu Shuya, and Xie Wuliang, were not mentioned. Apart from Zhang Ji, who never wrote for the journal, all the other ‘well-known gentlemen’ whose participation was promised here did indeed keep their word and contributed to the journal. But looking at the contributors to the second volume, it is the number of literary giants 12

‘Tonggao’ 通告 (Announcement), XQN 2, no. 1 (1916). Cf. Chen Duxiu, ‘Xin qingnian’ 新青年 (New Youth), XQN 2, no. 1 (1916). 14 According to Xiao Chaoran, ‘Chen Duxiu responded to the wishes of the readers by changing the name of the journal by adding a “new” to it. This was to highlight the journal’s content on new thought and new culture.’ (Xiao, Peking University and the May Fourth Movement, 38.) This is a natural supposition. The truth was that the Shanghai jidu qingnian hui 上海基督教青年会 (Shanghai Young Men’s Christian Association) had written a letter to Qunyi Publishing House criticising Youth Magazine for being too similar to their Shanghai qingnian 上海青 年 (Shanghai Youth) founded in 1901. Chen Zishou 陈子寿 got Chen Duxiu’s agreement to change the name to New Youth. See Wang Yuanfang, In Memory of the East Asia Library, 32–33. 13

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not found on the list that is truly striking. These writers include Li Dazhao, Liu Bannong, Yang Changji 杨 昌 济 (1871–1920), Tao Lügong 陶履恭 (Menghe 孟和, 1888–1960), and Wu Yu. It is quite clear to see that the authorial group of the celebrated New Youth had basically taken shape by the end of Volume 2. Of all the extraordinarily talented individuals whose contributions to New Youth are so often recalled, the only ones who had not emerged at this stage were the Peking University professors. In 1936, the Shanghai East Asia Library (Yadong tushuguan 亚东图书馆) reprinted the first seven volumes of New Youth and made an announcement about it in which they listed some of its outstanding writers: Such as Hu Shi, Zhou Zuoren, Wu Zhihui, Lu Xun, Qian Xuantong, Chen Duxiu, Liu Bannong, Su Manshu, Cai Yuanpei, Shen Yinmo, Ren Hongjun 任鸿隽 (1886–1961), Tang Si 唐俟, Ma Junwu, Chen Daqi 陈大齐 (1886–1983), Gu Mengyu 顾孟余 (1888–1972), Tao Menghe, and Ma Yinchu.

These names were of course picked by the publisher and carried several strategic considerations. Putting Hu Shi, who joined the group from the second volume, at the top of the list shows his high prestige at the time. The founder, Chen Duxiu, was relegated to the middle of the list since he was currently serving a jail sentence which was hardly good publicity. The inclusion of Tang Si, a penname of Lu Xun, was an editorial mistake. The omission of Li Dazhao and Gao Yihan, who belonged to the later core group of six people taking turns editing the journal, is simply inexplicable. Even so, that a journal could assemble such a preeminent group of writers is quite astonishing and the envy of any number of journals following it. It is also worth noting how these writers who indeed became ‘well-known gentlemen’ happened to join this project at the right time and place. The writers of the first volume mostly had close connections with Chen Duxiu. From the second volume, the journal started breaking from its Anhui regional foundation, but the writers and editors of The Tiger and Zhonghua xinbao 中华新报 (Chinese 15 Times) remained the backbone. With the third volume, the authorial group expanded rapidly and the teachers of Peking University 15

Chen Wanxiong, The Origins of May Fourth New Culture, 6, 11–12.

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became an integral part. The key moment was when Chen Duxiu took the position as Dean of the Faculty of Humanities at Peking University and moved the editorial office from Shanghai to Beijing. The reason that the journal dared to take the step of not purchasing outside manuscripts was that it relied on the highest institute of learning in the land, the National University of Peking. For Volumes 3 through 7, the majority of manuscripts were from the hands of the students and faculty there. The editorship of the journal was also no longer the sole responsibility of Chen Duxiu. The issues in Volume 6 were edited in turn by each of the six university professors who made up the journal’s editorial board: Chen Duxiu, Qian Xuantong, Gao 16 Yihan, Hu Shi, Li Dazhao, and Shen Yinmo. Compared with the highly influential periodicals of the late Qing dynasty, such as New Citizen Miscellany and The Minpao Magazine, New Youth had a unique advantage in its support from Peking University, which secured ample academic resources for the journal. In the inaugural issue, a notice from the editor stated: ‘The desired aim of this journal is to discuss the ways of personal moral cultivation and national administration with our esteemed young readership,’ ‘The journal is devoted to teaching academic and intellectual trends of all countries,’ and ‘The writers for the journal will 17 all be talented and accomplished individuals.’ After getting the cooperation of the Peking University Faculty of Humanities, these three commitments were all easy to fulfil. The late Qing advocates of New Learning were all oriented towards newspaper publishing and academic institutions. For a man of learning, both of these pursuits 18 were considered ways to spread civilization and culture. But there were differences in methods of organization and benefits, so journal work and university work did not combine. When Cai Yuanpei enlisted Chen Duxiu and university professors began to work on New 16

‘Di-liu juan fenqi bianji biao’ 第 六 卷 分 期 编 辑 表 (Table of Editors for Volume Six), XQN 6, no. 1 (1919). 17 ‘Tonggao’ 社告 (Announcement), XQN 1, no. 1 (1915). 18 Cf. Zheng Guanying 郑观应, ‘Shengshi weiyan: xuexiao shang’ 盛世危言·学 校上 (Words of Warning to an Affluent Age: In School), in Zheng Guanying ji (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1982), vol. 1, 247. Also see Liang Qichao, ‘Ziyou shu: chuanbo wenming san liqi’ 自由书·传播文明三利器 (Treatise on Freedom: Three Instruments to Spread Civilization), in Yinbing shi heji: zhuanji (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1936), vol. 2, 41.

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Youth, this was of great historical significance. It brought academia and journal writing together in a perfect unison that in turn accelerated the advent of the New Culture Movement. The New Youth group from Peking University was fairly looseknit and favoured freedom of expression even though they shared common ideals. When talking about the cooperation between the university and the journal, there is one important point to make: New Youth was never an organ of the university. Volume 6, No. 2, carried this important notice: Recently many people have conflated New Youth and Peking University, resulting in all sorts of unfounded rumours. We hereby make this statement: Even though several of the editors and writers on New Youth belong to the university faculty, this journal is a completely private entity. Our opinions are our responsibility alone and bear no 19 relation whatsoever to Peking University. This we declare.

This was not simply an attempt to conceal the truth. It was partly a strategic consideration to shield the university from the fierce attacks of conservative critics. But the most important reason was that they wanted to maintain the journal as their central focus rather than submit to any external influence. During the late Qing, the periodical publishing industry mainly revolved around study societies, community groups, and political parties and was largely considered a means of delivering propaganda. But this began to change during the early Republican era with the popular spread of publishing houses and the thriving development of new-style institutions of education. Alongside the constantly growing number of readers oriented towards modern culture, these social changes benefited well-run journals like New Youth and gave them 20 great social influence. Therefore many independent intellectuals who had remained outside political groups and factions used journals to voice their opinions, find like-minded comrades, and promulgate

19

‘Xin qingnian bianjibu qishi’ 《新青年》编辑部启事 (Announcement of the New Youth Editorial Department), XQN 6, no. 2 (1919). 20 When Youth Magazine started, it only had a print run of 1,000 issues. After its name was changed, its circulation increased, reaching monthly sales of 15–16,000 issues. See Wang Yuanfang, In Memory of the East Asia Library, 32.

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joint statements. This created groups of intellectuals operating with 21 journals as their focus. By this point, the ‘associates magazine’ had already surpassed the mass media in any ordinary sense and had the ability to mobilize and organize people like a social organization. In the eyes of most people, the ‘New Youth group’ was no longer just a group of writers for some journal; it was a cultural unit with a clear political standpoint. The cohesion of the editorial group can be seen from the debate in early 1921 on whether to return the editorship to Beijing. The associates were strongly opposed to any kind of split, since it would ‘destroy 22 the unity of the New Youth spirit.’ After the journal became organized with a regular group, the individual characteristics of the writers and the control of the editorin-chief became markedly less distinct. For the first three volumes, the leading features were all penned by Chen Duxiu. From the fourth volume onwards, Chen’s essays were no longer inevitably given the main place. The reason that ‘by Chen Duxiu’ mostly became ‘by the editors’ was not that the Faculty Dean had become too busy but rather that the number of authors had increased rapidly. Those who were running the journal faced a dilemma: recruiting talent more widely would, of course, increase the journal’s prestige but, if a large number of ‘well-known gentlemen’ worked for it, this would inevitably weaken the authority of the main editor. According to Zhou Zuoren’s diary, the New Youth group met in Hu Shi’s home on October 5, 1919 to discuss editorial arrangements. The group decided that ‘from the 7th volume onwards, the journal will be edited by 23 Zhongfu 仲甫 [i.e. Chen Duxiu] alone.’ It was only Volume 6 that truly had rotating editorship but, as long as the journal remained in Beijing, Chen had to submit to the editorial control of the group and could not just do whatever he felt like as he could in the beginning. It was partly due to the worsening public opinion in Beijing that New Youth moved back to Shanghai, but also because Chen was bound by 21

See the second section of the introduction in Li Xianyu, ‘New Youth Studies.’ See ‘Guanyu Xin qingnian wenti de ji feng xin’ 关于《新青年》问题的几封 信 (A Few Letters about New Youth’s Problems), in Zhongguo xiandai chuban shiliao, ed. Zhang Jinglu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1956), vol. 1, 7–16. 23 Zhou Zuoren riji 周 作 人 日 记 (The Diary of Zhou Zuoren) (Zhengzhou: Daxiang chubanshe, 1996), vol. 2, 52. 22

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the sentiments of the group, preventing him from carrying out his plans for reform and revolution. The connection with Peking University ensured the success of New Youth and put the journal firmly on the path of cultural and intellectual reform. After returning to Shanghai and casting off the constraints of the university group, New Youth became a political organ supporting socialism. On September 1, 1920, in Volume 8, No. 1, the journal was reorganized to become an official organ of the Chinese Communist Party. The connection with Qunyi Publishing stopped and a journal office (Xin qingnian she 新青年社) was set up to take care of editing, printing, and distribution. Before long, Chen Duxiu moved South to Canton and entrusted the editorship of New Youth to Chen Wangdao 陈望道 (1891–1977), an unknown entity in 24 Beijing, which further infuriated the likes of Hu Shi. In addition to the personal disputes, the editorial direction of Volumes 8 and 9 was indeed completely different from before, so it is hardly surprising that the Beijing group was up in arms. For example, Nos. 1 through 6 of Volume 8 and No. 3 of Volume 9 contained a running series called ‘Studies of Russia’ that featured introductions to Soviet policy, economy, social education, and the position of women. Altogether 35 papers were included under this heading. Implying that the journal had taken a new incompatible direction, Hu Shi complained that ‘these days, New Youth has more 25 or less just become a Chinese edition of Soviet Russia.’ The new party affiliation did indeed go against the spirit of the original group 26 journal. Earlier the journal had also advocated Marxist teachings or 24

Hu Shi described the need for New Youth to return to Beijing like this: ‘As long as the journal remains in Beijing, we can compel the Beijing group to write articles for it. Otherwise Duxiu will have trouble soliciting manuscripts in Shanghai and who knows what total stranger will gain control of it?’ (‘A few Letters about New Youth’s Problems,’ 9.) The last sentence clearly shows some bitterness. The reference to a ‘total stranger’ reveals some of the personal feelings in the breakup. Chen Duxiu wrote a letter to Li Dazhao, Qian Xuantong, Hu and others in the group to notify them that ‘Wangdao has already moved the editorial department. In the future please send your manuscripts to Chen Wangdao of the editorial department to avoid mistakes.’ See Hu Shi laiwang shuxin xuan 胡适来往书信选 (Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979), vol. 1, 116. 25 ‘A Few Letters about New Youth’s Problems,’ 10. 26   Xu Baohuang 徐宝璜, who taught journalism at Peking University at the time, stressed: ‘If a periodical only represents the view of a single person or party, then it

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promoted the sanctity of labour, but always confined to the level of culture and thought. Taken as a whole, the journal had embraced a variety of teachings and ideologies. But now, one direction had risen above the others and the reflections of independent intellectuals were replaced by clear-cut political standpoints. New Youth was distorted beyond recognition. As a leading journal on Chinese cultural and ideological issues, New Youth of course had the right to respond to the needs of the age and to change in order to maintain its cutting edge position. The problem was that New Youth, in so doing, lost the qualities of a group journal. Even though Volumes 8 and 9 continued to print the writings of Hu Shi, Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren, and Liu Bannong, as well as relative newcomers like Chen Hengzhe 陈衡哲 (1893–1976) and Yu Pingbo, their writings were limited to not so relevant poetry and fiction. The leading texts were by leftists, such as Zhou Fohai 周佛海 (1897–1948), Chen Gongbo 陈公博 (1892–1946) and Li Ji 李季 (1892–1967), together with translations of Soviet documents. Due to the inclusion of works by people like Hu Shi, Volumes 8 and 9 still represent a ‘united front’ and a continuation of past practices. As for the issues that came out quarterly or irregularly between 1923 and 1926, these were official publications of the CCP, introducing the works of Stalin and Lenin. They have their own value but they severed any connection with the previous group journal, so that is a 27 topic for another discussion. is a faction journal. It does not represent public opinion. Newspapers are a product of society and therefore they have social support. If a periodical becomes a faction journal and prints articles that clearly go against public opinion, then it will not be respected in society and lose its previous influence.’ (Xu Baohuang, Xinwenxue 新闻 学 (Journalism) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1919).) Xu Baohuang had no close cooperation with the New Youth group even though he was hired by Cai Yuanpei for the Faculty of Humanities at Peking University and worked as a secretary in the president’s office there. However, the passage still helps understand the position of Hu Shi and the others. 27 A different critique of New Youth’s issues printed after the founding of the CCP is presented by the Editorial Office for the Works of Marx and Engels. They write that Volume 9 ‘had still not fully cleared itself of several of the United Front’s weaknesses.’ They suggested that the journal be turned into a quarterly, because only then would New Youth ‘become a journal devoted purely to the spreading of Marxist Leninist thought.’ See Introduction to the Journals of the May Fourth Period, vol. 1, 29.

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Looking at New Youth’s basic characteristics as a group journal, the 54 issues over 9 volumes can then be divided into three periods, marked by Chen Duxiu’s move to Beijing in the Spring of 1917 and 28 his return South in the Spring of 1920. Due to the lapse of time between the editorial work and the journal’s actual appearance in print, the changes in the journal appear somewhat delayed. Roughly speaking, the first two volumes edited in Shanghai engaged in social critique. The journal flourished and gained widespread recognition. The last two volumes were more or less devoted to promoting socialism and were more inclined towards political activities related to the founding of the CCP. The five middle volumes edited in Beijing were dedicated to intellectual reform and literary revolution. They best represent the interests and pursuits of the PKU faculty. Keeping the Focus on Philosophy and Literature In early 1920, Chen Duxiu was quite pleased with the success of the New Culture Movement, but he was unhappy about the number of competing journals that imitated his. So, in a discussion on the shortcomings of new publications, he wrote about his own experience running a journal: In order to merit publication, any journal, regardless of whether it is run by an individual or an organization, must show its standpoint. If there isn’t a certain person or group in charge, you just have people writing stuff all over the place and it becomes a shoddy patchwork. There simply is no justification for that kind of journal and it would be better to put those human and financial resources to use in publishing 29 something else.

The basic difference between a journal and a book is, of course, that the journal has a multitude of authors, diverse literary styles, and 28

Chen Wanxiong calls the first volume of the journal a ‘period in which it was run by people of the same mind.’ See the first section in Chapter 1 of Chen Wanxiong, The Origins of May Fourth New Culture. Li Xianyu sees New Youth in Volumes 4 though 6 as a ‘Peking University group journal.’ Cf. Chapter 3 in Li Xianyu, ‘New Youth Studies.’ I am more inclined to analyse New Youth as a ‘group journal’ during the entire period from Volumes 1 to 9. 29 Chen Duxiu, ‘Suiganlu qishiwu: xin chubanwu’ 随感录七十五·新出版物 (Suiganlu 75: New Publications), XQN 7, no. 2 (1920).

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different positions on various issues. So how come Chen Duxiu disliked journals with contributions ‘all over the place?’ In his opinion, the ideal journal must fulfil two requirements: first it ‘must show its standpoint’ and second, ‘a certain person or group’ should be in charge. The second requirement indicates that he is referring to group-type journals and the first appreciates the spirit of such journals. So the reason that New Youth could attract such a large readership was based on its having shown its ‘standpoint’ with clear and uncompromising clarity. But what was New Youth’s ‘standpoint’ in the first place? This relates to another quality of the journal: it advocated a general direction, but there were no concrete goals to be achieved. In fact, New Youth, the intellectual and cultural journal with the greatest influence in early Republican China, not to say in the 20th century, had no planned path of development. Rather it found its form gradually as it went along. There is no single document that reveals the journal’s theoretical position or the secrets of its existence. Rather it is more helpful to look at a few key passages. The opening statement (shegao 社告) in the first issue stated that the journal targeted ‘young readers’ and that ‘[t]he journal is devoted to teaching academic and intellectual trends of all countries so that 30 we might learn lessons from them.’ But, other than that, it mostly contained points on specific editorial techniques. Most similar to a statement of the journal’s ideals was Chen Duxiu’s piece called ‘Jinggao qingnian’ 敬 告 青 年 (Call to Youth). He made six exhortations for youth facing a new age: ‘[T]hey should take the lead instead of being slaves,’ ‘they should move forwards instead of being conservative,’ ‘they should forge ahead instead of withdrawing from life,’ ‘they should be worldly instead of insular,’ ‘they should engage in practicalities instead of empty letters,’ and ‘they should promote 31 science over fantasy.’ The first and last were the most innovative on this list. The first point promoted ‘talking about human rights and equality’ so that people could ‘cast off their shackles.’ The last point 30

‘Tonggao’ 通告 (Announcement), Qingnian zazhi 1, no. 1 (1915). Chen Duxiu, ‘Jinggao qingnian’ 敬告青年 (Call to Youth), Qingnian zazhi 1, no. 1 (1915). 31

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noted that ‘the beginning of everything, in every tiny detail, is governed by the laws of science.’ Put together, these formed the origin of the familiar duo ‘Mr Democracy’ and ‘Mr Science.’ The countrymen who want to move on from this primitive age and are ashamed of the shallowness of our people must redouble their efforts 32 and emphasize science and human rights.

The ‘Call to Youth’ essay is more noteworthy than the one written the year after when the journal changed its name to New Youth. Even though the latter is considered the standard inaugural text of the journal, it is in fact just a publicity essay with little actual content 33 despite the posturing and bravado. The former was more carefully thought out and it came to have greater importance. In January 1919, the New Culture Movement was spreading like wildfire. In order to counter the barbed attacks that were increasing daily, Chen Duxiu wrote ‘A Rebuttal of the Accusations against This Journal,’ in which he openly took responsibility for the journal ‘destroying Confucian ethics.’ The following explanation reveals the true ‘standpoint’ of the journal: At the root of the matter, the group around this journal is quite innocent. Their heinous crime has simply been to support Mr Democracy and Mr Science. In order to support Mr Democracy, it is necessary to reject Confucian filial piety, the laws of decorum, the old rules of propriety, ethics, and government. In order to support Mr Science, it is necessary to oppose classical Chinese culture and literature. Please calmly consider whether or not this journal has committed any wrong apart from supporting these two gentlemen. If no other crimes are found, please do not reproach this journal, but put your valiant efforts and courage into fighting against Mr Democracy and Mr Science. Then you will be an upright fellow getting to the 34 bottom of the matter.

Chen Duxiu’s belief that Mr Democracy and Mr Science could cure the ills of China’s government, its morals, its learning and thought was an echo of the journal’s pledge: ‘If the two gentlemen are

32

Ibid. Cf. Chen Duxiu, ‘New Youth.’ 34 Chen Duxiu, ‘Ben zhi zui’an zhi dabian shu’ 本志罪案之答辩书 (A Rebuttal of this Journal’s Crimes), XQN 6, no. 1 (1919). 33

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supported, all government oppression and vilification in society will 35 be chopped off at the head.’ These two incisive and vivid passages are often quoted by historians. But the fact is that, apart from ‘Mr Science and Mr Democracy,’ the group around New Youth found no other common cause. The articles in New Youth touched upon every trend of thought and social question with few commonalities. With regard to the special issues on ‘Henrik Ibsen,’ the ‘population problem,’ and ‘Marxist studies,’ it is difficult to find any inherent link, apart from their focus on new trends of thought. As a journal on culture and thought, New Youth covered a broad range of topics and interests with discussions covering issues such as the evaluation of Confucius, the situation in World War I, female chastity, Bertrand Russell’s philosophy, the evolution of the national language, scientific methods, iconoclasm, and new poetic techniques. Basically, the New Youth group attempted to provide explanations on all new knowledge and issues that contemporary Chinese people might be interested in. Due to their differences, it was only a political call for science and democracy, rather than a concrete academic standpoint, that could unite these deeply engaged reformist intellectuals. It was not until December 1919 that the New Youth group published its first ‘joint statement.’ It was printed as ‘Manifesto of the Journal’ in Volume 7, No. 1, and it was clearly the product of compromise between differing directions. The solemn phrasing of the opening paragraph could not but command the full attention of the readers: The concrete standpoint of this journal has heretofore never been published in full. When the members of our group have presented their arguments, they have often not been in complete agreement. Our esteemed readership may have wondered if this might not give rise to some misunderstandings in society. Henceforth, from Volume 7, the joint opinions of the whole group are openly announced. Members who join us in the future will also bear the responsibility of adhering to this manifesto.

This sort of open announcement and the requirement that later members of the group adhere to it does not quite seem like the modus 35

Ibid.

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operandi of a group journal. On the contrary, it seems more like some sort of blood pact. Luckily, the subsequent discussion touches upon an extremely wide array of issues, such as politics, morals, science, art, religion, education, literary reform, and innovation, as well as eradicating superstition and protecting women’s rights. This allowed each member to focus on their own areas of interest. In this manifesto there are only two genuinely interesting points: First, it expresses the ardent desire of the group to break with the old and establish the new. Second, it expresses the group’s rejection of party politics. The former was the consensus of the reformers so they had little trouble ‘testing our ideas and being stern with our opponents,’ as the manifesto claimed. But the latter was a highly contentious topic. The text was unclear about it from the start and later on, opinions varied even more. Therefore, it is worth analysing the manifesto’s affirmation of New Youth’s original aim: We advocate social reform through a popular movement and a complete break with all political parties and factions, both past and present. We do not blindly believe that politics can solve all problems, but we recognize that politics is an important form of common life … We also recognize that political parties utilize the proper methods of politics. But we will never join a political party that works only to benefit a small group or a single class without having the wellbeing of 36 the entire population at heart.

It is interesting that the publication of the group consensus that was supposed to bridge the differences between the members had no effect and, in fact, only brought their contradictions out into the open before long. Soon afterwards, the journal changed direction rendering this solemn pledge somewhat ridiculous. The one who objected directly to New Youth’s change in a political direction was the young Hu Shi. In January 1921, Hu Shi wrote a letter to the editorial board, expressing the hope that they would ‘stress academic thought’ and ‘stay clearly away from talking about politics.’ If this were not possible, it would be better to ‘start another journal dedicated exclusively to scholarship and literary arts.’ The expectations of Hu Shi, Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren, and Qian 36

‘Ben zhi xuanyan’ 本志宣言 (Manifesto of the Journal), XQN 7, no. 1 (1919).

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Xuantong, who had remained in Beijing, were markedly different from those of Chen Duxiu who had thrown himself into revolutionary work in Shanghai and Canton. Zhou Zuoren and Lu Xun argued that since ‘it is difficult to enforce harmonious unity,’ one ‘might as well 37 let it break up.’ It is natural for social gatherings to part ways eventually, and splits and reorganizations are the norm during periods of cultural transformation. There were always differences of opinion among the New Youth group, both regarding political ideals (such as how to see Soviet Russia), as well as with cultural strategy (such as whether or not to participate in politics). The surge in socialist thinking after the ‘May Fourth’ Movement, as well as the increasing radicalization in academic circles, made it difficult for New Youth to remain confined to university campuses. Hu Shi’s opinion in this fundamental disagreement is widely 38 known. It is the position of the others that is notable. Hu Shi wanted everyone to declare their opinions so Qian Xuantong wrote the following: ‘I believe that our friendship with Chen Duxiu remains steadfast, now as always. But the New Youth group is composed of individuals who have joined of their own accord and therefore they must part ways for a time if the differences of opinion indeed are 39 irreconcilable.’ Three days later, Qian Xuantong voiced his opinion more clearly in a private letter to Hu Shi. The reason that people joined together around New Youth was that our ideas were complementary, not a business union. Therefore when our ideas differ we must part ways since we cannot demand of others that they change in this regard. In other words, if New Youth becomes like a Chinese edition of Soviet Russia, or the private property of Chen Duxiu, Chen Wangdao, Li Hanjun 李 汉 俊 (1890–1927), Yuan Zhenying 袁振英 (1894–1979), and others, then it has simply become a journal on ‘workers and peasants’ that is called New Youth. We have no relation to it anymore and certainly cannot make demands that it 40 cease publication. 37

Cf. ‘A Few Letters about New Youth’s Problems’. It was Hu Shi who coordinated the opinions of the group and replied to Chen Duxiu. It was also Hu Shi who suggested that New Youth return to Beijing and that it ‘stay clearly away from talking about politics.’ 39 Cf. ‘A Few Letters about New Youth’s Problems.’ 40 Qian Xuantong, ‘Qian Xuantong zhi Hu Shi’ 钱玄同致胡适 (Letter from Qian Xuantong to Hu Shi), in Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 122. 38

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It is almost unthinkable that the group would be able to part ways without any hurt feelings, since they had put so much effort into the highly prestigious journal. But it was also not completely unreasonable of Qian Xuantong to ask people that they respect the will of the journal’s founder, Chen Duxiu, even though his pronouncement of it being ‘private property’ was somewhat harsh. Even though Hu Shi and others felt firmly that New Youth was a joint property, there was no way to wipe out the founder’s deep-felt personal views. It is interesting that Qian stressed that their original unity was based on their complementary ideas. This was the essential reason for the journal’s rapid rise in the beginning, as well as the need for the group to part ways today. It seems that Qian Xuantong here agrees with the position of Lu Xun and Zhou Zuoren: ‘It is better to break up than to accommodate and put up with cooperation.’ Lu Xun perspicaciously realized that Hu Shi’s suggestion that New Youth stay away from politics was simply naïve—prowling hacks would assail your position no matter how hard you tried to stay outside the fray. Consequently why not just come clean? ‘While partly grounded in not wanting to show weakness, the main reason is that the writings of the New Youth group will be subject to government interference, regardless of any manifesto.’ Continuing in his characteristic manner, Lu Xun expressed the following commanding opinion: Everything will be fine as long as we focus more on intellectual trends in literature and art—and the readers of New Youth that I know all 41 strongly hope for this.

Despite the polite phrasing, it is clear that Lu Xun, a former pupil of the master classicist Zhang Binglin 章炳麟 [i.e. Zhang Taiyan] and in the midst of writing his Zhongguo xiaoshuo shilüe 中国小说史略 (A Brief History of Chinese Fiction) at the time, did not hope for New Youth to become a purely political journal. Later on Lu Xun frequently expressed his disdain for the scholars and academics who attacked the patriotic fervour of the students from their lofty positions

41

Lu Xun, ‘Zhi Hu Shi’ 致胡适 (To Hu Shi), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 11, 371.

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in academia. But this passage at least reveals that Lu Xun had a deep42 felt respect for ‘intellectual trends in literature and art.’ In a letter to Hu Shi, Chen Duxiu states: ‘I also find it wrong that New Youth’s nature becomes too distinctive.’ He agreed that ‘the journal in the future still should focus on philosophy and literature’ 43 but he refused to return the journal to Beijing. As to whether or not the journal should engage in contemporary politics, Chen Duxiu had been inconclusive. In the early years, ‘it was not the purpose of the journal to criticize government’ and ‘while pursuing national movements, it must not be limited to the movements of political 44 parties and factions.’ This was not just tactics. Chen Duxiu could point to his credentials as a ‘staunch revolutionary’ in the literary and philosophical debates on Confucianism and the journal’s promotion of literary revolution. And it was the agreed political view of the New Youth group that the fate of the nation should be approached through cultural and intellectual reform. This was not quite Hu Shi’s wish for a ‘resolution not to discuss politics for twenty years,’ since Chen Duxiu, Li Dazhao, Gao Yihan and others were more interested in talking about contemporary politics than he was. But the dominant direction of the journal’s first seven volumes had indeed been to ‘to construct a new foundation for Chinese politics through philosophy 45 and literature.’ It was the divergence between Chen Duxiu’s nature as a ‘staunch revolutionary’ and Hu Shi’s tendency to solve problems in terms of thought and culture that was the origin of their eventual split. They both had a desire to save the world and rescue its people, but they disagreed on how to do so. To Chen Duxiu, who was participating in real political movements, the scholars cloistered in their campuses 42

Cf. ‘Zuowei wenxueshijia de Lu Xun’ 作为文学史家的鲁迅 (Lu Xun as Literary Historian), in my Wenxueshi de xingcheng yu jiangou (Nanning: Guangxi jiaoyu chubanshe, 1999), 14–55. 43 Cf. ‘A Few Letters about New Youth’s Problems,’ 7. 44 Cf. Wang Yonggong 王庸工 and Jizhe 记者 (Chen Duxiu), ‘Tongxin’ 通信 (Letters), Qingnian zazhi 1, no. 1 (1915) as well as Chen Duxiu ‘Yi jiu yi liu nian’ 一九一六年 (Nineteen Sixteen), Qingnian zazhi 1, no. 5 (1916). 45 See Hu Shi, ‘Wo de qilu’ 我的歧路 (I Took a Different Path), Nuli zhoubao 7 (1922); ‘Jinian ‘wu si’’ 纪念‘五四’ (Remembering ‘May Fourth’), Duli pinglun 149 (1935), and chapter 9 in Hu Shi, Hu Shi koushu zizhuan 胡适口述自传 (Hu Shi’s Oral Autobiography) (Beijing: Huawen chubanshe, 1992).

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were out of touch, even though their ideas might have merit. Chen explained his refusal to return New Youth to Beijing with the following: ‘If truth be told, it is because the air of the university has 46 gone bad of late.’ With this reply, he practically burned his bridges behind him. He also added another interpretation of the journal’s mission. Once it became an official CCP journal, it had to serve the public good and this was quite different from the original aim of having intellectuals discuss various political issues. It seems that the decision was no longer solely in the hands of Chen Duxiu. As long as the journal remained in Beijing, the professors at Peking University imposed their constraints and New Youth’s focus remained on scholastic matters. As soon as it moved to Shanghai, the situation changed and it departed from its primary concern of philosophy and literature. The dispute about whether the journal should be situated in Beijing or Shanghai was thus extremely relevant for its content. The choice between running it on an academic or socialist basis determined its publication policies and discursive strategy. It is with this in mind that I mark Chen Duxiu’s moves between North and South China as the two boundaries in New Youth’s three stages of development. In late 1918, the founding of Weekly Review initiated Peking University academics to discussing the political affairs of the day. The changes with Volumes 8 and 9 of New Youth were, in fact, not all that groundbreaking. But things had changed rapidly with a surge of intellectuals eagerly participating in politics since the ‘May Fourth’ Movement began. The fact that Chen Duxiu was a founder of the CCP was also a decisive factor in New Youth’s shift from intellectual discussion to political propaganda. Even though the group later parted ways, the basic direction of New Youth’s first nine volumes was still ‘the establishment of thought and culture with clear political intent.’ This was reflected in the roaring call for ‘Democracy’ and ‘Science,’ as well as in the actual achievements of ‘New Culture’ and the ‘Literary Revolution.’ Thus, I believe the significance of New Youth is in intellectual history, rather than, say, literary history or political history. In other words, the guiding

46

Cf. ‘A Few Letters about New Youth’s Problems,’ 13.

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principle of New Youth was to engage in literary revolution and political participation within the realm of intellectual history. Supporting the Literary Cause by Means of a ‘Campaign’ Given its agenda on intellectual and cultural innovation, New Youth managed its literary works with great care from the start. The creative writing in the first volume consisted of translations of Turgenev’s ‘Torrents of Spring’ and ‘First Love’ and Oscar Wilde’s romantic comedy ‘An Ideal Husband,’ as well as many old-style poems— basically nothing worth reporting about. The second volume carried Su Manshu’s fiction and the random jottings of Liu Bannong, but still no important changes. The third volume of New Youth finally saw notable achievements in creative writing. Hu Shi, Shen Yinmo, Liu Bannong, Zhou Zuoren, Yu Pingbo, Kang Baiqing 康白情 (1895– 1959), and others contributed experimental new poetry. Chen Hengzhe, Hu Shi, and Chen Mian 陈绵 (1901–1966) did exercises in modern drama. But the most astonishing thing was the appearance of Lu Xun on the scene. His writings, such as ‘Diary of a Madman,’ ‘Kong Yiji,’ ‘Medicine,’ ‘Storm in a Teacup,’ and ‘Hometown,’ remain classics of modern Chinese fiction. Compared with the initial but childish results of other authors writing new vernacular literature, Lu Xun’s first writings achieved splendid success. Another great achievement of New Youth was that it started the ‘age of the essay’ by changing its formal heading ‘Political Discussions’ (zhenglun 政 论)  into the more humble ‘Random Thoughts’ (suigan 随感). But there is a point that must not be forgotten: New Youth’s creative writings were written under the banner of ‘Literary Revolution.’ Even the short stories of the independent-minded Lu Xun bear some 47 element of being written to order. Chen Duxiu himself was no good at poetry and fiction, but as an editor he was highly interested in putting out literary products. From the first issue, New Youth had fiction, poetry, and drama in translation. The first two volumes were beset by problems, but he persisted. The next five volumes were supported by the students and 47

Cf. Lu Xun, ‘Nahan zixu’ 《呐喊》自序 (Author’s Preface to Call to Arms), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 1, 419.

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staff of Peking University, so the advocacy and execution of New Literature were stunning. Volumes 8 and 9 emphasized Soviet cultural propaganda, but they still contained the fiction and poetry of modern writers. So the New Youth group went to great lengths to support literature but, in many ways, it was indebted to the precedent established by the late Qing periodicals. The Shun Pao, founded in 1872, left some space for classical 48 poetry in addition to the news items and opinion pieces. Following this example, practically all periodicals—general newspapers, journals on current affairs, academic journals, and science periodicals—set off some space for literature. There were several reasons that everybody absolutely had to have some literature: first, it was a way to attract readers; second, it was an improved means of influencing people; third, it introduced new (Western) literary techniques; and fourth, it would effect a literary revolution, if possible. Liang Qichao’s advocacy of revolution in poetry, prose, and fiction is the clearest example of these four reasons. Other journals had to follow as best they could. In 1904, Chen Duxiu wrote an essay, ‘On Drama,’ in which he basically follows in Liang Qichao’s path, arguing that in order to avoid a crisis with foreign nations, it was necessary to expand people’s horizons. There were too few schools and students, and newspapers and literate countrymen were far between. Chen’s novel idea was to improve five aspects of traditional opera: ‘We must put on the plays with good morals more frequently,’ ‘we should use the Western method of including speech within plays so that people can learn from them,’ ‘we should not perform plays with spirits and monsters,’ ‘we should have no pornographic plays,’ and ‘we should 49 eradicate the habit of focusing on fame, wealth, and prestige.’ Ten years later, Chen Duxiu abandoned the attempt to improve traditional drama but he was revisiting an old theme when he advocated remoulding Chinese literature by setting European literature as an 48

Cf. ‘Shen bao guan tiaoli’ 申报馆条例 (Shen bao guan Regulations), Shen bao, April 30, 1872. 49 San’ai 三爱 (Chen Duxiu), ‘Lun xiqu’ 论戏曲 (On Drama), in Chen Duxiu wenzhang xuanbian (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1984), vol. 1, 57–60. This text was first published in Anhui suhua bao 11 and later published in classical Chinese in Xin xiaoshuo 新小说 (New Fiction) 2.

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example. His ‘Talks on the History of European Literature and Art’ listed the shifts in European thinking on art through ‘classicism,’ ‘idealism,’ ‘realism’ and, finally, ‘naturalism.’ This implied that the last trend, naturalism, would transform Chinese literature. His following listing of grades of literature still echoes his wish to ‘expand people’s horizons.’ In the literary circles in Europe, it is drama that is held in the highest esteem. Poetry and fiction are relegated to a secondary position. Since drama is performed on the stage, it has the greatest ability to touch people and affect their lives. As for essays, they are barely considered 50 literature at all.

The focus had shifted from the educational uses of literature to seeing European literature as an example for emulation—a shift that shows the change in thinking between the late Qing period and the early Republican era. Liang Qichao and others also looked towards Western literature as a model, but the point was still to talk about traditional education. Chen Duxiu and others similarly talked about how literature would benefit the national economy and people’s livelihoods, but they stressed studying and learning from European art. After having read Hu Shi’s moderate suggestions for the reform of literature, Chen Duxiu turned his persistent dismissal of tradition into unyielding defiance with his call for a literary ‘revolution.’ He attacked China’s aristocratic literature, its classical literature, and the literature of recluses from the perspective of ‘Europe’s grandeur today.’ The following enthusiastic ode to Western greatness dismisses some of the the recognized masters of Chinese traditional literature as ‘the eighteen monsters,’ placing them in the line of fire of the literary giants forged in the European tradition—the blasts of the 42 literary ‘great guns.’ I love the France of Rousseau and Pasteur. I also love the France of Hugo and Zola. I love the Germany of Kant and Hegel. I also love the Germany of Goethe and Hauptmann. I love the England of Bacon and Darwin. I also love the England of Dickens and Wilde. Do the greats of Chinese literature presume to be our Hugo, Zola, Goethe, 50

Chen Duxiu, ‘Xiandai Ouzhou wenyi shi tan’ 现代欧洲文艺史谭 (Talks on the History of European Literature and Art), Qingnian zazhi 1, no. 3 (1915).

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Hauptmann, Dickens, and Wilde? Does anyone dare declare war on our 18 masters in defiance of the censure or praise of pedants? I will 51 pull the 42 great guns and walk in front before them.

Chen Duxiu bases his argument on rhetorical form rather than careful reasoning which, as Hu Shi mentioned, demonstrated his temperament as a ‘staunch revolutionary.’ As a remedy to improve literature, Chen Duxiu’s ‘three doctrines’ also look far more like a call for 52 literary revolution than Hu Shi’s proposed ‘eight don’ts.’ Chen even seems to refute Hu Shi’s academic approach in wishing for ‘the Chinese people to calmly analyse the matter together with us.’ Chen maintained that, ‘we must give no room to those who dissent, we must stand undivided with those who agree with us, and we must not allow others to meddle.’ The reason was that, ‘the divide between right and wrong is clear-cut in the discussion on whether the adoption 53 of baihua would advance China’s literature.’ This uncompromising approach did not suit Hu Shi, trained as he was in systems of philosophy, but he also had to admit that New Literature had ‘acquired a staunch revolutionary to publicize and support’ its rapid 54 advancement and renewal. But it was also this very sort of overly direct, tactical, resultsoriented rhetoric with little regard for careful academic investigation that eventually became a hurdle in New Youth’s further development. For example, the countless discussions in New Youth on literary aesthetics and how literature might embody the ‘national spirit’ were inferior to the late Qing efforts of Huang Ren 黄人 (1866–1913), 55 Wang Guowei, and Zhou Zuoren. Chen Duxiu’s ‘Talks on the 51

Chen Duxiu, ‘Wenxue geming lun’ 文学革命论 (On Literary Revolution), XQN 2, no. 6 (1917). 52 Cf. Hu Shi, ‘Wenxue gailiang chuyi’ 文学改良刍议 (Modest Proposals for Literary Reform), XQN 2, no. 5 (1917) and Chen Duxiu, ‘On Literary Revolution.’ 53 Hu Shi and Chen Duxiu, ‘Tongxin’ 通信 (Letters), XQN 3, no. 3 (1917). 54 Cf. Hu Shi, ‘Bishang Liangshan’ 逼上梁山 (Driven to Revolt), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi: jianshe lilun ji (Shanghai: Liangyou tushu yinshua gongsi, 1935), 27. 55 Cf. Wang Guowei, ‘Wenxue xiaoyan’ 文学小言 (Notes on Literature), Jiaoyu shijie 139 (1906); Moxi 摩西 (Huang Ren), ‘Xiaoshuo lin fakanci’ 《小说林》发刊 词 (Opening Introduction to Forest of Fiction), Xiaoshuo lin 1 (1907); Du Ying 独应 (Zhou Zuoren), ‘Lun wenzhang zhi yiyi ji qi shiming yin ji Zhongguo jinshi lunwen zhi shi’ 论文章之意义暨其使命因及中国近时论文之失 (On the Significance and

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History of European Literature and Art’ from 1915 cannot compare with Lu Xun’s 1907 ‘On the Power of Mara Poetry’ in its depth of 56 understanding or lucidity when it comes to foreign literature. Both advocated ‘adopting foreign poetic styles.’ Hu Shi’s essay ‘On Short 57 Stories,’ which studies the innovation in fiction since the late Qing, 58 is not particularly good either. It was the shift of literary reform into the realm of language that truly galvanized the literary interests and theoretical achievements of the New Youth group. The charge that ignited the Literary Revolution was the notion that ‘it is an incontestable fact that baihua literature is China’s true Mission of Literature and the Shortcomings of Writings on Literature in China Today), Henan 4, no. 5 (1908). 56 ‘Moluo shili shuo’ 摩罗诗力说 (On the Power of Mara Poetry) was first published under the name Lingfei 令飞 in Henan 2, no. 3 (February–March 1908). According to Kitaoka Masako 北 冈 正 子 , Lu Xun learned many lessons while writing this text. See her ‘Moluo shili shuo’ caiyuan kao《摩罗诗力说》材源考 (Research on the Source Materials of ‘On the Power of Mara Poetry’), trans. He Naiying 何乃英  (Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue chubanshe, 1983). But we must not be overly critical with the late Qing introductions to Western literature. It is remarkable how clearly this essay commends the Mara poet who ‘resorts to action with the intent to revolt’ and calls out to ‘the soldiers of the mind’ (jingshen shang zhi zhanshi 精神界之战士). These two points became a persistent line through Lu Xun’s oeuvre. 57 See Hu Shi, ‘Lun duanpian xiaoshuo’ 论短篇小说 (On Short Stories), XQN 4, no. 5 (1918). 58 In the last few years there has been a good deal of research on the changes in late Qing fiction and concepts of fiction. See my Zhongguo xiaoshuo xushi moshi de zhuanbian 中国小说叙事模式的转变 (The Transformation of the Narrative Modes of Chinese Fiction) (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1988) and The History of Chinese Fiction in the 20th Century, vol. 1; Yuan Jin 袁进, Zhongguo xiaoshuo de jindai biange 中国小说的近代变革 (The Early Modern Transformation of Chinese Fiction) (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1992); Kang Laixin 康来新, Wan Qing xiaoshuo lilun yanjiu 晚清小说理论研究 (Studies into the Theories of Late Qing Fiction) (Taipei: Da’an chubanshe, 1986); Lai Fangling 赖芳伶, Qingmo xiaoshuo yu shehui zhengzhi bianqian 清末小说与社会政治变迁 (Late Qing Fiction and Socio-Political Transformation) (Taipei: Da’an chubanshe, 1994); Huang Jinzhu 黄锦珠, Wan Qing shiqi xiaoshuo guannian zhi zhuanbian 晚清时期小说观念之转 变 (Transformations in Late Qing Concepts of Fiction) (Taipei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1995); Tarumoto Teruo 樽本照雄, Shinmatsu shôsetsu ronshû 清末小说 论 集 (Essays on Late Qing Fiction) (Kyoto: Hôritsu bunkasha, 1992); Milena Doleželová-Velingerová, ed., The Chinese Novel at the Turn of the Century (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1980); David Der-wei Wang, Fin-de-siècle Splendor: Repressed Modernities of Late Qing Fiction, 1849-1911 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997).

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literature and the tool of its literary future.’ But in recalling the history of this splendid moment, Hu Shi only remembered his own actions, leaving out Chen Duxiu’s guiding contributions. Hu’s ‘Modest Proposals for Literary Reform’ were published in Volume 2, No. 5 of New Youth. But the theory was already revealed in the letters between Hu and Chen that can be found in Volume 2, No. 2. In his letter, Hu Shi already mentioned his plan to address eight issues in Chinese literature. These eight items were: avoid allusions, avoid set phrases, avoid antithesis in poetry, do not avoid vulgar language, pay attention to the structure of composition, avoid moaning and groaning unless sick, avoid imitating the language of the classics, and make sure the topic is worthwhile. Chen Duxiu was hesitant about items five and eight, but noted that, ‘I wholeheartedly support the other six items and consider them an enlightened guide to China’s literature today.’ The following quote, in which Chen urges Hu Shi to publish it quickly, demonstrates how clever and bold he was as an editor: It would be excellent if you could set out this argument with its merits 60 and faults in an essay for the world to read.

Hu Shi surpassed expectations and quickly submitted an edited and more complete set of ‘Modest Proposals.’ The eight items were rearranged. Notably the item ‘do not avoid vulgar language’ was 61 placed last. And the final conclusion, ‘baihua will be the standard of 62 Chinese literature,’ delighted Chen Duxiu. As an editor, Chen Duxiu was always on the lookout for new authors with great potential or any possible breakthroughs—this was due to his ideological outlook, as well as pressure from the publishing world. As soon as he found an issue, he lost no time in publicizing it and drumming up support for it. When he discovered something new in the letters to the editor, he promptly decided whether to pursue it, displaying both the 59

Hu Shi, ‘Modest Proposals for Literary Reform.’ Hu Shi and Chen Duxiu, ‘Tongxin’ 通信 (Letters), XQN 2, no. 2 (1916). 61 In ‘Driven to Revolt,’ Hu Shi tells how he reordered the eight items. The reason that ‘do not avoid vulgar language’ was placed last was that ‘it seriously put forth my position on baihua literature’ (25). 62 See Hu Shi, ‘Modest Proposals for Literary Reform.’ Chen Duxiu’s response is in the same issue. 60

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sensitivity of a master of public relations, as well as the boldness of a revolutionary. In later years, Chen Duxiu has been appreciated more for his temperament as a revolutionary than for his skill and vision as an editor. The New Youth editors did, in fact, emphasize searching for and creating new topics but, among their experiments, the most successful was the discussion on the adoption of baihua. It had both theoretical and practical implications and it was a unique opportunity to bring the ideal and the real together. The baihua problem was not simply one of ‘literary form’ or ‘the tools of expression,’ but rather it pertained to discussions on ideology and cultural tradition. This was the reason it produced so many discussions and debates. Compared to the regular platitude of ‘expressing complex matters with simple language,’ Hu Shi’s simple binary oppositions—classical vs. vernacular and dead vs. living literature—were concise and practical. If there was any unbridgeable gap in the ‘May Fourth’ discussion between new and old ideology and literature, it was undoubtedly in the support for or opposition against baihua 白 话 (vernacular writing): I shall search high and low for the darkest, vilest, most evil spell and first I shall use it to curse all those who oppose and harm baihua. If people truly have spirits after death and villains are to be cast into Hell, then I have63no regrets about cursing all those who oppose or harm the vernacular.

This passage by Lu Xun expresses the ‘consensus’ and ‘unity of the 64 New Youth spirit.’ In front of the enemy, there can be no careful deliberations. First, positions had to be stated clearly and minor theoretical differences set aside until the dust had settled and baihua had won. Only afterwards could careful distinctions or personal adjustments be made. 63

Lu Xun, ‘Ershisi xiao tu’ 二十四孝图 (Pictures in the 24 Stories of Filial Piety), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 2, 251. 64 Wang Hui 汪 晖 provides an excellent discussion of the ‘unification of attitudes’ of the ‘May Fourth’ movement. See Wang Hui, ‘Yuyan yu weiji: Zhongguo xiandai lishi zhong de ‘wu si’ qimeng yundong’ 预言与危机——中国现 代 历 史 中 的 ‘ 五 四 ’ 启 蒙 运 动 (Prophecy and Crisis: The ‘May Fourth’ Enlightenment Movement in Modern Chinese History), Wenxue pinglun, no. 3–4 (1989).

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Their united front was very useful in the promotion of the intellectual and literary campaign (yundong 运 动 ). Based on the baihua movement of the late Qing, Hu Shi and others made a call that rallied surprisingly great support and started an extraordinarily smooth ‘Literary Revolution.’ Hu Shi’s ‘Jianshe de wenxue geming lun’ 建 设 的 文 学 革 命 论 (A Constructive Literary Revolution) represented the joining of forces by the campaign for Literary 65 Revolution and the movement to promote the national language. Similarly the Ministry of Education’s establishment in 1919 of the ‘Committee for the Unification of the National Language’ represented the cooperation of governmental and civil forces. Later at a ‘Unification Meeting,’ the New Youth group, including Liu Fu 刘复 [i.e. Liu Bannong], Hu Shi, Zhou Zuoren, and Qian Xuantong, put forth the ‘Method to Carry Out the Unification of the National Language.’ The Ministry of Education decreed that from the Autumn of 1920 onwards, ‘all elementary schools should from the first and second grades onwards change to using the vernacular in Chinese language education, in order to promote the unification of the spoken 66 and written language.’ It all went quite easily. This was a story with a beginning and an end, but where the middle parts took a tortuous, twisted path between peaks and valleys from highs to lows and back again. Since this was a campaign rather than the idea of a single person, the cause attracted countless gifted people but it also had to rely on strategy, organization, and harmonization. For a group ‘with the journal as the central focus,’ this was a perfect topic. Compared to promoting literary creations based on the talents of individuals or pursuing some larger systemic change that requires all sorts of external factors to fall properly into place, it was far more suitable and practical for the journal to use baihua as the focal point for ‘Literary Revolution’ since it touched upon language, literature, thought, and culture, thus attracting the participation of a great 65

Cf. Chapter 4 of Wang Feng 王枫, ‘Xin wenxue de jianli yu xiandai shumianyu de chansheng’ 新 文 学 的 建 立 与 现 代 书 面 语 的 产 生 (The Founding of New Literature and the Making of the Modern Written Language) (PhD diss., Peking University, 2000). 66 Cf. Jiaoyu zazhi 教育杂志 (Journal of Education) 12, 2 (1920) and Li Jinxi 黎 锦 熙 , Guoyu yundong shigang 国 语 运 动 史 纲 (An Overview of the National Language Movement) (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1935).

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number of scholars. It is hardly surprising that, when people later brought up New Youth, it was the famous ‘Literary Revolution’ that was remembered most clearly. Ge Gongzhen’s 戈公振 (1890–1935) assertion that ‘New Youth supported Literary Revolution at first and later turned towards Communism’ is, of course, one-sided; however, this is not due to lack of source material but rather represents the 67 consensus of many people at the time. It is only as scholars with time have gained a deeper understanding of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture movement, that the importance of New Youth’s discussions on Confucianism, women, and labour has been uncovered. I have no wish to belittle the importance of Hu Shi’s contribution in advancing baihua. I only want to point out how far-sighted Chen Duxiu was as an editor and how skilled he was at finding and supporting the ‘best topics.’ In addition to writing ‘On Literary Revolution,’ Chen Duxiu incessantly tried to whip up people’s passion for the issue through letters, essays, and reader forums. As Qian Xuantong, Liu Bannong, and Fu Sinian joined the cause, the debate progressively improved. But the New Youth group still felt somewhat isolated so they put on a highly influential ‘two-man act.’ Under the pseudonym Wang Jingxuan 王 敬 轩 , Qian Xuantong gathered a lot of opinions against baihua in a single provocative 68 article which Liu Bannong then refuted one point at a time. This was a playful move in which little attention was paid to the seriousness of the matter. But it got the attention of many readers and, for those who were not in on the joke, Liu’s harsh tone was uncalled for. Putting aside the question of tone, the ‘two-man act’ was necessary in order to promote reflection on the cause. Individual ethical quibbles and literary sensibilities could be sacrificed in this tumultuous age—and it was this kind of ‘group consciousness’ that made the New Youth group spare no effort in forging ahead. The group fought its battles together, standing side by side, giving each other strength in successfully ‘fighting the enemy beyond the gate.’ The rhetoric of the New Culture intellectuals seems overly high-handed to outsiders, but conservative forces were still very 67

Ge Gongzhen, Zhongguo baoxue shi 中 国 报 学 史 (History of Chinese Newspaper Studies) (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1955), 192. 68 Cf. Wang Jingxuan and Liu Bannong, ‘Wenxue geming zhi fanxiang’ 文学革 命之反响 (Reverberations of the Literary Revolution), XQN 4, no. 3 (1918).

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strong in the 1910s so a weaker group advocating reform had to act assertively. Therefore they used both dictatorial and high-handed manners and mixed serious matters with entertainment. This caught the attention of Lin Shu and Mei Guangdi 梅光迪 (1890–1945), who opposed their views and raised the whole debate to the level of intellectual history. The entry point was literary form but the true target was a revolution in thought and culture. The topic moved from the domain of scholars into the public sphere and attracted wide interest, which in turn widened the scope of the debate. This editorial policy of ‘going straight into the issues’ effectively gathered competent people and cultural resources, turning a controversy on literature into an ideological revolution. More importantly, the two great issues of Confucianism and Literary Revolution began to be interlinked from the second volume onwards. Qian Xuantong argued the extreme idea that ‘if we want to get rid of Confucianism, we must first get rid of 69 the Chinese script.’ This was not approved by the New Youth group. But Liu Bannong’s comparison of ‘improving literature’ and ‘destroying Confucianism’ did give readers something to ponder: How to improve literature is an eternal question among academics. Destroying Confucianism needs only to be done once. Since literature advances with the age, one cannot say that if we improve it today, there will be no need to improve it tomorrow. But the issue of whether Confucianism can be destroyed or not ends on the day it is written into the Constitution. If we succeed, that is good, but if we do not, there is nothing that can be done about it. Consequently New Youth should be more involved in the improvement of literature than the destruction of Confucianism. If you support this, you cannot say something today and ignore it tomorrow, passing it by in silence.

Liu Bannong was a writer, so ideology and politics were outside his field. With this in mind, his argument cannot be reproached. The letter focuses on how to improve literature and contains several concrete proposals. That is why Chen Duxiu tolerated Liu’s disdain for the debate on Confucianism and stated: ‘We must exert ourselves

69

Qian Xuantong, ‘Zhongguo jinhou zhi wenzi wenti’ 中国今后之文字问题 (The Question of Chinese Characters Now and in the Future), XQN 4, no. 4 (1918).

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70

to realize every item mentioned here.’ Of course there were winners and losers in the ‘Literary Revolution,’ leaving many achievements for later historians to deal with, such as baihua truly becoming the vehicle of literature and the experiments in poetry, drama, and fiction by writers such as Hu Shi and Lu Xun, which laid the foundation of modern Chinese literature. Because of this, historians looking at the ‘Literary Revolution’ have quickly reached a basic agreement. But there is still no end in sight to the discussions on the New Youth group’s fierce criticism of Confucianism and other traditional moral principles. On the surface, ‘criticizing Confucianism’ and ‘literary revolution’ are two distinctly different topics. But at a deeper level they are not without connection—both are based on images of ‘traditional China.’ I shall use traditional opera as an example. The New Youth group made a great uproar about its proper form. Hu Shi and the others were all perfectly competent in discussing poetry and fiction. Only with regard to traditional opera did the New Culture intellectuals meet their Waterloo. In Volume 4, No. 6, there is a section in New Youth devoted to the discussion of old drama and opera. Faced with an aggressive challenge by Zhang Houzai 张厚载 (1895–1955), the replies by Hu Shi, Qian Xuantong, Liu Bannong, and Chen Duxiu all seem flat and weak. They decry the performances with painted faces, the ‘noisy banging of gongs and drums,’ and a ‘degeneration of crowd 71 mentality.’ But none of these arguments were strong enough to put old-style drama away for good. A month later, Qian Xuantong decided to go into battle once more. He starts by quoting a friend: ‘If we want China to have real drama, we must first close all the theatres and opera houses in the country.’ The reason for this was quite simple: If we want China to have real drama, this real drama is of course Western-style drama, certainly not the ‘painted faces’ style drama. If we don’t get rid of and completely topple all the people who are 70

Cf. Liu Bannong and Chen Duxiu, ‘Tongxin’ 通信 (Letters), XQN 3, no. 3 (1917). 71 Cf. Zhang Houzai, Hu Shi, Qian Xuantong, Liu Bannong, and Chen Duxiu, ‘Xin wenxue ji Zhongguo jiu xi’ 新文学及中国旧戏 (New Literature and China’s Old Drama), XQN 4, no. 6 (1918).

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dressed up in something that doesn’t look like human clothing and who speak in something that doesn’t resemble human talk, then how 72 can we practice real drama?

By taking Western-style realistic drama as the norm—oddly Western operas were never the object of the ‘May Fourth’ intellectuals’ attention—Chinese traditional drama with its flights of fantasy was naturally beyond redemption. The problem was that the New Culture intellectuals who pronounced the death sentence on classical drama never saw the need to have any understanding of it. Fu Sinian claimed, ‘when it comes to technique, classical drama simply has no aesthetic value whatsoever,’ and that, ‘considered as literature, old-style drama hardly qualifies for the name at all.’ In ‘A Comprehensive View on Improving Drama,’ he stated from the outset: First, I am a layman when it comes China’s drama, both new and old. Second, I am a layman when it comes to China’s music and song.

This was not simply feigned modesty, but rather stressing that insiders were too involved and thus unable to deal with improvement and creation. ‘Us outsiders are not involved,’ and are thus better qualified to talk about the fate of traditional drama and opera. Why should people with no understanding of opera be better qualified to judge it? This sort of conceit sprung from the passion of social reformers: ‘We must rely on the power of drama if we want to thoroughly awaken the Chinese people. Therefore old drama must be 73 overturned and new drama must be written.’ Is this not simply a return to Liang Qichao’s old saying that ‘in order to renew the people 74 of a nation, one must first renew the fiction of the nation?’ Hu Shi’s argument that there is no merit in preserving old drama, based on four different levels of understanding of the concept of literary evolution, may come across as very scholarly. Yet his two points of critique against old drama—that it lacks the notion of 72

Qian Xuantong, ‘Suiganlu shiba’ 随感录十八 (Suiganlu 18), XQN 5, no. 1 (1918). 73 Fu Sinian, ‘Xiju gailiang gemian guan’ 戏剧改良各面观 (Different Views on Drama Reform), XQN 5, no. 4 (1918). 74 Cf. Liang Qichao, ‘Lun xiaoshuo yu qunzhi zhi guanxi’ 论小说与群治之关系 (On the Relationship Between Fiction and the Government of the People), Xin xiaoshuo 1 (1902).

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tragedy and that it pays no attention to the economy of literature— both seem untenable. In the end, it all boils down to an attitude towards Western literature: Chinese literature is comatose and on the brink of death! It is nearly too late to administer the Western ‘soup of youth and invigoration.’ But unexpectedly the unworthy descendants of the ailing patient bar the doctor from entry, claiming: ‘Why should Chinese people take 75 Western medicine!’… Hmph!

Zhou Zuoren also considered himself an outsider to Chinese drama. His reasons for doing away with the genre were two-fold. First, ‘Chinese drama is simply barbarian seen in the context of global drama development.’ Second, it ‘harms public manners and morals.’ The following shows his opinion: As for establishing something new, I only consider European newstyle drama to be viable … If Asia had more sophisticated plays than Europe, there would be no need to seek improvements abroad. Unfortunately things are not as one might wish.

The section that I omitted from the quote above turns the argument about whether or not to accept European-style new drama into a debate between ‘Europeanization’ and ‘national essence’—a topic that Zhou Zuoren excelled in. It is hardly surprising that Qian Xuantong applauded it, calling it ‘an utterly true and insightful 76 essay.’ The ‘May Fourth’ intellectuals’ aim with the debate on old drama is quite obvious. They wanted the old operatic forms replaced with Western stage plays. Their reasons were more ideological than literary. The New Youth group’s contempt for traditional operatic drama was based on their ideological stance—embracing Western learning and reforming China. They had no interest in, nor understanding of traditional drama, yet they nevertheless felt that they could make bold, sweeping statements about it with an air of righteousness since their focus was on the intellectual history of drama reform. This unsuccessful debate shows the New Culture intellectuals’ blind spot. 75

Hu Shi, ‘Wenxue jinhua guannian yu xiju gailiang’ 文学进化观念与戏剧改良 (The Concept of Literary Evolution and the Reform of Drama), XQN 5, no. 4 (1918). 76 Zhou Zuoren and Qian Xuantong, ‘Lun Zhongguo jiu xi zhi ying fei’ 论中国旧 戏之应废 (On the Need to Abolish Chinese Old Drama), XQN 5, no. 5 (1918).

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Their extreme self-confidence and reliance on their group were based on their position in intellectual history. They lacked the necessary reflection on the Western models and measures they upheld. In his excellent article ‘A Journal and a “Society,”’ Wang Xiaoming 王晓明 criticizes the essays by Hu Shi and others on literary revolution. They read like ‘construction reports,’ he writes, and the authors, ‘did not fully realize the particular nature of literature itself’ and placed ‘theory above creative writing.’ Looking at the events, it is easy to find points of critique. But Wang is too anxious to get things in order so he lacks understanding and sympathy for the object of his study. Placing the blame for all the deficiencies of twentieth-century Chinese literature (e.g. neglecting literature’s own characteristics and values; the idea that literature must have a mainstream and a centre; the idea that the development of literature can be planned and produced) on New Youth seems 77 unfair. So is his understanding that the ‘group journal’ where ‘our ideas were complementary’ codified the cultural and literary guidelines for the current ruling party. In fact, the most unique aspect of the New Youth group’s way of thinking was not ‘utilitarianism,’ ‘absolutism’ or ‘posing as saviours.’ Rather, they tried to combine both literary and ideological revolutions and to promote literary revolution by initiating a campaign. Chen Duxiu and his fellows had hopes for both ideology and literature as shown in both the structure of the journal and the planning of its topics. The New Culture intellectuals’ intentions are shown most vividly in Zhou Zuoren’s two famous essays, ‘Human 78 Literature’ and ‘Intellectual Revolution.’ The ‘May Fourth’ revolution in literature did not happen by itself; it relied greatly on external forces advancing the cause. The call for participation in intellectual 77

Cf. Wang Xiaoming, ‘Yi fen zazhi he yi ge “shetuan”’ 一份杂志和一个‘社团’ (A Journal and a ‘Society’), in Cicong li de qiusuo (Shanghai: Yuandong chubanshe, 1995). [Translator’s note] For an English translation of this article, see Wang Xiaoming, ‘A Journal and a “Society”: On the “May Fourth” Literary Tradition,’ trans. Theodore Huters and Michel Hockx, Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 11, no. 2 (1999), 1–39. 78 Zhou Zuoren, ‘Ren de wenxue’ 人的文学 (Human Literature), XQN 5, no. 6 (1918). ‘Sixiang geming’ 思想革命 (Intellectual Revolution), Meizhou pinglun 11 (1919) was written under the pseudonym Zhongmi 仲密. It was reprinted in XQN 6, no. 4 (1919).

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history made many scholars who were no good at creative writing experiment with vernacular free verse. The awareness of a contradiction between their historical importance and their individual aesthetic preference posed a challenge for many reformers. I am inclined to have a degree of understanding and sympathy for the forerunners who broke through the darkness so that later people might stand in the light. As for whether or not this choice seriously hurt their literary accomplishments, we must look at the extent to which contemporaries were aware of the situation. Lu Xun once mentioned a response he gave to Qian Xuantong’s invitation to write for New Youth: ‘Sometimes I couldn’t help calling out (nahan 呐喊) a few times so as to console the brave warriors running in their loneliness, so that they would not be afraid of pressing onwards.’ The next passage is often quoted: Since it is a call, one must of course obey the order. So I often didn’t hesitate to add a few twists, such as when I freely added a wreath to Yu’er’s grave in ‘Medicine’ or didn’t tell how fourth sister Shan in ‘Tomorrow’ never really saw her son in her dreams. This was because 79 the people in charge at the time didn’t approve of negativity.

I do not think it fair to claim that Lu Xun’s works lack literary worth simply because the author was obeying an ‘order.’ Who gave the order anyway? Chen Duxiu? Hu Shi? The bourgeoisie? Marxism? I do not think any of those fit. He sensed the spirit of the times and he wanted to join the cause of the New Youth group where ‘our ideas were complementary’ by submitting some work. I do not think he can be faulted for making that choice. Lu Xun’s works retain a sort of necessary tension with contemporary trends, keeping them at a distance, engaging in soul-searching introspection while pursuing them. This is one of the secrets of the great success of Lu Xun’s fiction. The basic characteristic of the ‘Literary Revolution’ that New Youth stood for was never ‘art for art’s sake,’ but rather promoting the literary objective through the means of a campaign, to the extent that Hu Shi often sighed, ‘I have a mind to advocate, but not the power to create.’ The actual authors were too aware of their position 79

Cf. Lu Xun, ‘Author’s Preface to Call to Arms,’ 419.

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in intellectual history. This probably led to their putting the theme above all else in their works. But a journal planning a literary campaign as splendid as this one must in fact give priority to theory. That is also why we pay more attention to ‘historical importance’ than ‘literary worth’ in discussing the writings of New Youth (except Lu Xun’s short stories). Dialogue on Literary Form and Drafts of Ideology The rise of the periodical publication industry in the late 19th century was a critical factor in China’s Literary Revolution. The recognition of the differences in writing style between published writings, newspaper writing, and writing in ‘lower-class speech’ is intimately 80 linked with the nascent periodical publication industry. Newspapers had mass readership and stressed being easy to understand, so the articles could not be overly elegant or refined. It was this technique and understanding of changes in the readership that directly led to the transformation of tone in late Qing cultural circles. This point is universally recognized by scholars today. But another aspect of this issue has not attracted sufficient attention. That is that the allencompassing nature of the journals, writing about everything under the sun, resulted in a mixing of different forms. This led to stylistic variation and the birth of new literary forms. In June 1897, in an essay entitled ‘On the Literary Style of Newspapers,’ Tan Sitong directly explained the importance of newspapers writing about ‘everything under the sun.’ According to Tan, it was only newspaper writing that was unpretentious and unrestricted. He considered the scholars who criticized newspapers to be ‘overloaded and concerned 81 with trivial nonsense’ too narrow in their outlook. Tan’s foresight was fully confirmed in the actual practice of countless late Qing and early Republican journalists. Liang Qichao’s call for a ‘revolution in prose’ and a ‘revolution in fiction,’ as well as Chen Duxiu’s 80

See my Zhonghua wenhua tongzhi: sanwen xiaoshuo zhi 中华文化通志·散文 小 说 志 (Gazetteer of Chinese Culture: Fiction and Essay Journals) (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1998), 192–198. 81 Cf. Tan Sitong, ‘Baozhang wenti shuo’ 报章文体说 (On the Literary Style of Newspapers), Shiwu bao 29–30 (1897).

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advocacy of baihua and New Culture, all benefited from the rapid rise of the newspaper business in the late 19th century. Examining New Youth from the perspective of literary history, rather than as news or intellectual history, we must recognize that the most important is not its political stance or its outreach but rather its mode of expression. It existed for seven years, putting out nine volumes and 54 issues. If read and analysed as a complete and integrated text, then the first point to attract our attention is the juxtaposition between different literary styles and genres and the effects that such a juxtaposition can accomplish. Compared to the more regulated styles of specialized journals (such as literary magazines) and various newspaper supplements (such as literary supplements), the juxtaposition and mixing of genres in New Youth seems unusual. The following analysis is not intended to be the last word on the matter, but rather to serve as inspiration for others to pursue the topic. The perfect article by a gifted and successful journal writer should be on a grand topic rather than on some delimited issue, in line with what the Jin dynasty writer Wang Ruoxu 王 若 虚 (1174–1243) prescribed in his Wenbian 文辨 (On Prose Essays). That is because when readers and writers change, political situations and markets change too, and so must journal writing. But the guiding spirit of the journal must remain the same throughout, for otherwise everything starts to slip and the publication will lose its moorings. Chen Duxiu had a solid understanding of this matter. Hu Shi disapproved when Chen moved the journal’s editorial department to Shanghai and paid less attention to new literature while turning towards introducing the Soviet political revolution. That is because Hu Shi misunderstood Chen Duxiu’s aim all along. Literature was never his main interest. In his preface to the Compendium of China’s New Literature Cai Yuanpei wrote: ‘How come we always involve literature when it comes to reforming thinking? That is because literature is a tool for 82 transmitting thought.’ The New Youth group, including Chen Duxiu, all agreed with this. For the editors of the journal, getting into literary 82

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi zongxu’ 《中国新文学大系》总序 (General Introduction to Compendium of China’s New Literature), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi: jianshe lilun ji, 9.

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topics additionally had the business benefit of attracting more readers. In addition, the hard political articles and the gentle poetry helped balance each other and create a fresh environment for debate, as well as diversifying the content of the journal. But, in general, the political debates were given priority of place in New Youth and this was rather too rigid. Only the few volumes edited jointly by the Peking University academics achieved a proper balance in which both politics and literature shone brightly. But even in the brilliant Volumes 3 to 7, literature was simply an accompaniment to the other items. To give an example, out of the total 54 issues, it was only Volume 6, No. 2 from February 1919 that leads with a poem—Zhou Zuoren’s ‘Rivulet.’ In the table of editors for Volume 6, one can see that the editor of No. 2 was the always outspoken Qian Xuantong. ‘Rivulet’ is indeed an excellent baihua prose poem and later scholars have heaped much praise upon it but I suspect that Qian Xuantong’s editorial strategy was simply to fend off his critics with a surprise move, not overturning New Youth’s tradition of putting politics on centre stage. By means of page layout and language, Chen Duxiu and the New Youth group gave prominence to political affairs, academic issues, and opinion pieces while subordinating creative writing, such as poetry and fiction. This prioritization can be explained in various ways: First, the continuation of the traditional notion of ‘writing is for conveying the truth’ (wen yi zai dao 文 以 载 道 ). Second, ideological reform was the main issue for New Youth. Third, the essays on lofty topics were simply good articles. What looks like mere editorial skill on the surface, was in fact part and parcel of New Youth’s cultural and literary ideals. Looking at the later developments, New Youth’s contributions to the transformation of prose writing were remarkable. When Li Jinxi 黎锦熙 (1890–1978) wrote about Qian Xuantong in 1939, he stressed that the biggest challenge facing the adoption of baihua was academic writing, not creative writing. Hu Shi’s vernacular poems were ‘creative writing, belonging to the field of art.’ ‘Until we have standard, regular essays boldly using

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baihua,’ contemporary readers would feel ‘a bit awkward about it.’ This is why the papers and essays by ‘May Fourth’ writers discussing various political affairs and academic matters were in fact also studies in how such prose should be written. It is interesting that the reason that this ideological/cultural journal focusing on political discussions gained such wide social attention was its advocacy of literary revolution. Of course, it would be neglectful to read New Youth only from a literary perspective. Why did the New Culture intellectuals pick baihua as their cause to advance literary revolution? What was the intent of the special issue on Ibsen and why did the attempt to involve women in debating the 84 ‘woman question’ fail? Such questions can only be fully answered in the context of historical and ideological history. New Youth’s support of New Literature was a brilliant move, but the establishment of New Literature was not its main task. In the words of Hu Shi, New Youth’s ‘importance in literary history’ mainly reflects ‘its successful experiments from the start.’ ‘We only start the trend, we don’t dictate it.’ This approach determined how New Youth focused its efforts on advocacy rather than on practice. For the gentlemen at the rival journal Xueheng 学衡  (Critical Review), that was a weakness: It is important for the success of a campaign to get the word out and to have some outstanding works that represent it. This way young people 83

Li Jinxi, ‘Qian Xuantong xiansheng zhuan’ 钱玄同先生传 (A Biography of Qian Xuantong), in Qian Xuantong nianpu, ed. Cao Shujing (Jinan: Qilu shushe, 1986), 170–171. 84 In XQN 6, no. 4 (1919) there was a ‘notice to New Youth correspondents’ entitled ‘The Woman Question.’ It reads: ‘This journal has long intended to have a discussion on this topic. But the members of this group are all male so it would overstep their bounds and be wrong to impose their views. So we request that the women pick a topic to write about, such as ‘female education,’ ‘marriage,’ ‘divorce,’ ‘remarriage,’ ‘wives and mothers-in-law living together,’ ‘women living alone,’ ‘contraception,’ ‘women in politics,’ ‘women’s legal rights’ or any other such major topic of women’s lives. Each should present its views and will be published in the journal. This will show what women think and serve as a guide to young people. The journal will gather and publish all submissions without regard for length, quality, newness of ideas, or whether it is right or wrong. If your reporter has any modest opinions, these will be appended at the end.’ The invitation for women to discuss the woman question was never fully implemented. This was perhaps because women’s education was not quite fully developed and the ‘May Fourth’ movement was about to erupt.

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will be attracted to the cause and will rally under its banner … The campaign for a Literary Revolution with the national language was just a temporary thing and no outstanding works have ever been 85 produced.

We might sarcastically reply that the literary achievements of the Critical Review group were even less notable. Nevertheless, Hu Xiansu’s 胡先骕 (1894–1968) critique had to be recognized. In his introduction to the theory volume of the Compendium Hu Shi said: ‘The historical value of a literary movement must include the value of the works it produced.’ That was because: If the new literature produced by the Literary Revolution does not fulfil the hopes of those who support it, then that is similar to a political revolution not producing a more perfectly contented social order. Even though you have a solid revolutionary theory, it must still 86 be regarded as unconvertible currency.

As Hu Shi saw it, this problem had been solved long ago. In his 1922 article ‘Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years,’ Hu Shi already considered the still ongoing Literary Revolution to be literary history. Lu Xun was not quite so optimistic. He mentioned in the introduction to the second fiction volume of the Compendium that his short stories ‘Diary of a Madman,’ ‘Kong Yiji’ and ‘Medicine’ ‘might be 87 considered actual achievements of the ‘Literary Revolution.’’ He thus partly acknowledged that ‘there have been no other notable writers of fiction coming out of New Youth,’ but in part he also responded to constant criticism [that New Youth had fostered no good fiction at all]. As Lu Xun said, ‘Anyone who follows Chinese literature knows that New Youth supported “literary reform.” And later it called upon people to start a “Literary Revolution.” But ‘in fact, New Youth was a journal for opinions and discussions, so not a lot of emphasis was put on actual creative writing.’ In the journal, ‘it was baihua poetry that 85

Hu Xiansu, ‘Ping Hu Shi Wushi nian lai Zhongguo wenxue’ 评胡适《五十年 来中国之文学》 (A Critique of Hu Shi’s Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years), Xueheng 18 (1923). 86 Hu Shi, ‘Daoyan’ 导言 (Introduction), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi: jianshe lilun ji, 1–2. 87 Lu Xun, ‘Daoyan’ 导言 (Introduction), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi: xiaoshuo er ji, reprinted in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 6, 238–239.

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was written the most. With drama and fiction it was still mostly 88 translations.’ Lu Xun’s discussion here of the results of New Youth is clearly influenced by the ongoing division between ‘pure literature’ and ‘miscellaneous literature’ (za wenxue 杂 文 学 ). He categorized poetry, drama, and fiction as ‘pure literature’ or ‘literary writings’ while putting other types into the category of ‘miscel89 laneous literature’ or ‘practical writings.’ This view of literature set out by Chen Duxiu and Liu Bannong came to be very influential. According to this view, the political discussions, academic papers, and opinion essays prioritized by New Youth were prevented from becoming ‘achievements of the Literary Revolution.’ It is my belief that the literary accomplishments of New Youth are not only to be found in its successful experiments with baihua poetry or in Lu Xun’s excellent short stories. We must also appreciate that the New Youth group, facing the needs of literary revolution, managed to maintain a constructive balance navigating between the communal and the individual, between duty and interest and the political and the literary. This in turn led to two new literary forms: ‘letters to the editor’ (tongxin 通信) and ‘random thoughts’ (suigan). Hu Shi was right when he noted that of the writings concerning the Literary Revolution, ‘the majority of New Youth’s discussions were on poetry with drama coming in second place.’ The reason was quite simple: That was because New Poetry and New Drama both required fundamental revolutions in form and content. The innovation in verse of purely using baihua and dropping the rhymes, and in drama of leaving out songs and other stuff is much greater than with fiction and 90 essays. So they were the subject of many more discussions.

Of course the interesting thing is that when later historians were enumerating the achievements of New Youth’s Literary Revolution, it was exactly the fiction and the essays that were given the highest esteem, not the much touted poetry and plays. 88

Ibid., 238. See Chen Duxiu’s letter to Hu Shi in XQN 2, no. 2 (1916) as well as Liu Bannong’s ‘Wo zhi wenxue gailiang guan’ 我之文学改良观 (My Views on Literary Reform) and Chen Duxiu’s notes on this in XQN 3, no. 3 (1917). 90 Hu Shi, ‘Introduction,’ in Zhongguo wenxue daxi: jianshe lilun ji, 31. 89

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With regard to technique, Hu Shi’s playful comedy ‘An Important Event in Life’ was a poor effort, but with good will, it might at least be performed. Chen Hengzhe’s play ‘The Old Couple’ and Chen Mian’s ‘The Rickshaw Runner’ were little more than simple dialogues and there is no way they could be staged. Compared with this, the line-up of free-verse baihua poetry was much stronger, and the main New Youth writers practically all tried their hand at the form. Quite a few people eagerly joined the poetry scene, but those with true poetic talent who persevered in finding new ways to advance the form were in fact few and far between. Zhou Zuoren’s comments on the situation were astute: In those days, there were actually quite a few people writing New Poetry but, in my view, if I may be allowed to say this bluntly, there were only two people who possessed genuine poetic talent, one being 91 [Shen] Yinmo and the other being Bannong.

The later author Shen Congwen 沈 从 文 (1902–1988) did not subscribe to even this low evaluation. In ‘Reading Brandishing the Whip by Liu Bannong,’ Shen stated that the poets Zhou recognized as having ‘a natural talent for poetry’ included Yu Pingbo, Shen Yinmo and Liu Fu. (He remembered it incorrectly.) The vernacular poems of these three writers were indeed natural and simple. Particularly Liu Fu had a flair for presenting fresh ideas with plain language. ‘But if one reads them outside the context of their time, and compares them artistically with the Chinese poetry of the last ten years, they are just 92 childish songs.’ Shen’s analysis is quite correct. When Zhu Ziqing 朱 自 清 (1898–1948) later edited the poetry volume of the Compendium, he applauded Zhou Zuoren’s poem ‘Rivulet’ for ‘blending the scene with emotion and blending emotion with reason.’ He also showered much praise on the theoretical writings on vernacular poetry by Hu Shi, the principal advocate of the form. But

91

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Yangbian ji xu’ 《扬鞭集》序 (Preface to Brandishing the Whip), Yusi 82 (1926). 92 Shen Congwen, ‘Du Liu Bannong de Yangbian ji’ 读刘半农的《扬鞭集》 (Reading Liu Bannong’s Brandishing the Whip), Wenyi yuekan 2, no. 3 (1931).

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as for the other poets in New Youth, he could not find anything nice 93 to say about any of them. In 1926, Zhou Zuoren recalled how ‘Liu Bannong and I were old friends writing poetry for New Youth. We put out all sorts of silly theories and nonsense, but our interest in poetry was genuine. And New Youth had poetry pretty much all the time.’ He also said more modestly: ‘There was a time when I carried the banner and cried out in support of China’s New Poetry, but I never achieved much and I 94 gave up writing it a long time ago.’ It was fairly common among the New Youth group to champion the rising genre of vernacular poetry, only to drop it soon afterwards. In the foreword to Works Outside the Collections, Lu Xun makes a similar observation: Because it was quiet on the poetry scene in those days, I chimed in and stirred up some noise. As soon as people calling themselves poets 95 emerged, I washed my hands clean of it.

Even though later critics have appraised the vernacular poetry of Lu Xun and Zhou Zuoren very highly, they themselves did not consider their main literary achievements to be in the field of new poetry. The poetry scene around New Youth was very enthusiastic, but the actual results were not up to standard. As Hu Shi repeated several times: ‘I have a mind to advocate, but not the power to create.’ While he had no natural talent for poetry himself, he still experimented with writing vernacular poems. This creative attitude was the same as that displayed by the New Youth group when they launched into the discussion about whether or not to dump old-style drama despite having no knowledge of the genre. It was based on their sense of social responsibility rather than personal interest. The New Youth group that gathered under the banners of ‘revolution in thought’ and ‘Literary Revolution’ were people of a same mind working together. This spirit of mutual support among fellows sharing the same ideals led to quite a few incomplete undertakings, but it also gave birth to 93

Cf. Zhu Ziqing’s introduction and ‘Xuanshi zaji’ 选诗杂记 (Random Notes on Selecting Poetry), both in Zhongguo wenxue daxi: shiji, reprinted in Zhu Ziqing quanji (Nanjing: Jiangsu jiaoyu chubanshe, 1990), vol. 4, 366–385. 94 Zhou Zuoren 周作人, ‘Preface to Brandishing the Whip.’ 95 Lu Xun, ‘Jiwai ji xuyan’ 《集外集》序言 (Foreword to Works Outside the Collections), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 7, 4.

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several great projects. This was for example an important factor in getting Lu Xun’s active participation. In the preface to Calling to Arms Lu Xun mentions the New Youth editor Jin Xinyi 金心异 (i.e. Qian Xuantong) repeatedly asking him to contribute. I understood what he wanted. They were running New Youth. But at the time there was nobody in support of it and there wasn’t96anybody opposing it either. So I thought they must be feeling lonely…

So as to console the pioneers, that they might feel less lonely, he finally lived up to expectations and started his ‘calls from an iron house.’ This tale of Lu Xun’s beginning is famous, but Qian Xuantong’s side of the story is less well known and worthy of citation: I believed that Lu Xun and Zhou Zuoren were among the best thinkers in the country, so I did my utmost to get them to write for New Youth. In January 1918, there was an article by Qiming 启明 [i.e. Zhou Zuoren] in Volume 4, No. 1, of the journal. Qiming contributed articles again in Nos. 2, 3, and 4. But Yucai 豫才 [i.e. Lu Xun] had still not sent in anything so I went to the Shaoxing Hostel several times to spur him on. To my surprise, ‘Diary of a Madman’ was done so it was published in Volume 4, No. 5. After this, Yucai often sent in texts, including essays, notes, poems, and translations, all the way up until 97 the end of Volume 9 (second half of 1921).

It was due to this sort of mentality of joint participation grounded in moral support that the group of people behind New Youth displayed such a strong sense of unity. Looking at the special issues, the vernacular poems with identical titles, the repeated highlighting of social problems, the variation in styles of writing about the same concepts and issues, one can still sense, more than half a century later, 98 the passion and energy put into this journal. 96

Lu Xun, ‘Author’s Preface to Call to Arms,’ 419. Qian Xuantong, ‘Wo duiyu Zhou Yucai jun zhi zhuiyi yu lüeping’ 我对于周豫 才君之追忆与略评 (My Memories of Zhou Yucai and a Short Assessment), Shida yuekan 30 (1936). 98 In 1928, Lu Xun wrote ‘Benliu bianjiao houji (san)’《奔流》编校后记（三） (Torrent Editor’s Postscript [3]) and provided the following lengthy quote: ‘Sometime earlier I was leafing through Aoki Masaru’s 青木正儿 Shina bungei ronso 支那文艺论丛 (Essays on Chinese Literature and Art) and saw an essay called ‘Jiang Hu Shi xuan zai zhongxin de wenxue geming’ 将胡适漩在中心的文学革命 97

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They did not join this common project in order to curry the support of others but out of a sense of social responsibility and a belief that this was an undertaking that was worthy of their efforts. It was also this desire to participate that lay at the basis of New Youth’s ‘Letters to the Editor’ section and made it such a huge success. Starting a ‘Letters’  section was not an original initiative by Chen Duxiu, but that New Youth succeeded in this respect where countless similar projects before and after it all failed was mainly due to the New Youth group dedicating themselves to the journal and running it like a ‘brand.’ The most innovative part of the opening statement in the first issue was not the frequently quoted restriction of readership to young people or the exhortation that they ‘should take a broader view of the world.’ This approach was common among Western-oriented scholars since the late Qing. The innovation was in two innocuous sections relating to the journal’s editorial style. The first item was that ‘this journal will deal with serious thinking using a simple style of writing.’ This seems like a step back for Chen Duxiu who had previously edited the Anhui Vernacular News. It represented a major shift from his previous wish to enlighten the largely illiterate working masses towards writing for educated youth with new-style educations. The second item is even more interesting: The journal will have a section for letters so that ideas that might be difficult to put forth can be analysed. If our esteemed readers should have their reservations or explanations about the principles of any

(The Literary Revolution Revolving around Hu Shi). It says: “In June 1918, New Youth suddenly put out an issue on Ibsen. This was a whistling arrow of the revolutionary forces targeting the bastion of old drama. Their forces were marching out boldly with General Hu’s ‘Ibsenism’ as the vanguard. Tao Lügong’s translation of Enemy of the Republic and Wu Ruonan’s 吴弱男 translation of Little Eyolf (in both cases only the first act) were the middle forces, and Yuan Zhenying’s ‘Yipusheng zhuan’ 易卜生传 (A Biography of Ibsen) was the rearguard. Their attack on this bastion was always a part of the necessary battle plan. But there was another reason that they had to rush out and make this commando raid now. This was because Kunqu opera was suddenly on the rise in Beijing, so there was a need to call out in resistance. This was the truth of the matter and it was revealed by Qian Xuantong’s tone in ‘Suiganlu shiba’ 随感录十八 (Suiganlu 18) that was printed by the comrades sallying forth in the following month’s issue …”’ Lu Xun quanji, vol. 7, 162–163.

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matter, send us a letter about it. The journal will answer to the best of its abilities so that all may benefit and be enlightened.

At the start, readers only asked questions and the editors wrote answers. So the journal was almost a virtual classroom in which the editor (‘your correspondent’ [jizhe 记者]) was a teacher who passed on his learning to the students. But soon the role of the readers grew and they were no longer just modestly seeking knowledge. Volume 2, No. 1, (September 1916) carried the following notice: Starting from volume 2, issue 1, the journal will start a ‘Readers’ Forum’ (duzhe luntan 读者论坛) section so as to accept writings from outside the editorial office. We will pay no attention to whether the ‘position’ or ‘style’ is commensurate with the journal, and we will publish all the papers whose arguments have analytical value so that our esteemed readers are free to put forth their opinions.

This notice was published six times in succession and the sentence ‘so that our esteemed readers are free to put forth their opinions’ was highlighted. The aim was to let the readers write their opinions while still maintaining the original task of enlightening them. Chen Duxiu cleverly involved the editorial group so that all might participate in the discussions and write answers. In this manner, the ‘Letters’ section became a lively, colourful place from Volumes 3 through 6. The development had moved through several stages: from the basic late Qing newspaper technique of passing on information to the readers, to a group journal letting in heterogeneous elements, to its finally providing an arena in which enemies might engage or where people of the same mind might support one another. New Youth’s most innovative column was, bar none, the section for letters. Chen Duxiu’s individual persuasiveness was of course essential in setting this up, but the participation of Qian Xuantong, Hu Shi, Zhou Zuoren and Liu Bannong was critical as well. Compared with the simple answering of readers’ questions, the disputes between the journal’s members truly heightened the level of discussion. Even though they agreed on the general objective of ‘revolution in thought’ and ‘Literary Revolution,’ the group was quite divided on concrete approaches and plans to put their ideas into effect. Therefore there were often heated discussions in the letters section. Deliberations ranged from large issues, such as how to improve literature and whether or not Confucianism should be condemned, to smaller problems like how to assess [the Ming-

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dynasty erotic novel] Jin Ping Mei 金瓶梅 (The Plum in the Golden Vase), whether or not to use horizontal printing or punctuation, the advocacy of Esperanto, and how to translate the English pronoun ‘she.’ Practically every thorny issue faced by the New Culture Movement played out in the Letters section. When I say ‘played out’ here, I do not mean to belittle the grand topics discussed, but rather to characterize how writers deliberately set out to rouse the audience and the frequent playfulness in their writings. In the ripostes, swords were sometimes crossed, but mostly it was fellow thinkers lending their support. They printed Wang Jingxuan’s incendiary letter, but it was not real. Its purpose was simply to serve as a target to be lashed out against. So for all the furore in New Youth’s letters to the editor, the freedom of readers to put forth their opinions was controlled. Only a single battle carried any real weight. Zhang Houzai challenged the New Youth group’s opinions on traditional operatic drama. He was summarily dismissed by Hu Shi, Qian Xuantong, Liu Bannong, Chen Duxiu, Zhou Zuoren, 99 and Fu Sinian. A characteristic of the group journal is of course that it cannot easily publish or accept opinions directly opposed to those of the group. It was only due to the great success of New Youth’s Letters section that the outward appearance of dialogue and dispute between the new and the old was maintained. Since real opponents were missing, the discussions in New Youth were rather one-sided. There was no real way to carry out the planned ‘equal discussion.’ Various techniques were used to block any real opposition, such as controlling who wrote, who replied, how things were published and in which manner, whether writers were given the option to defend themselves or not, and whether submissions were taken as main items or appendices. For example, Hu Shi asked Zhang Houzai to write ‘ My Opinions on Chinese Old Drama,’ which was published in Volume 5, No. 4, but only as an 99

Cf. Zhang Houzai et al., ‘New Literature and China’s Old Drama’; Hu Shi, ‘Wenxue jinhua guannian yu xiju gailiang’ 文学进化观念与戏剧改良 (The Concept of Literary Evolution and the Reform of Drama), XQN 5, no. 4 (1918); Fu Sinian ‘Different Views on Drama Reform’; Fu Sinian, ‘Zai lun xiju gailiang’ 再论戏剧改 良 (Discussing the Drama Reform Again), XQN 5, no. 4 (1918); Zhang Houzai, ‘Wo de Zhongguo jiu xi guannian’ 我的中国旧戏观 (My Opinions on Chinese Old Drama), XQN 5, no. 4 (1918); Zhou Zuoren and Qian Xuantong, ‘On the Need to Abolish Chinese Old Drama.’

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appendix to Fu Sinian’s ‘Various Opinions on How to Improve Old Drama.’ Li Xianyu 李 宪 瑜 has noted that New Youth’s Letters section had turned ‘from a public forum into a private garden’ due to the ‘selection of overall topics, the preponderance of academia, and 100 the changes in editorial methods.’ I do not completely agree with this view. New Youth never had a public forum and the ‘dialogue’ in the Letters section was both false and clearly biased. One might say that this was simply another form of articles by the New Youth group. From a stylistic viewpoint, the origins of the letters in New Youth might of course be traced to traditional epistles. This is a reasonable attribution. The letters’ artificial confidentiality and dialogue, as well as their usage of conventional phrases from classical letters, constantly alert us to this. This way of imitating classical forms brought the readers closer to the journal but, more importantly, it gave the letters an air of independent thought and unfettered expression. In other words, the New Youth group saw the letters as a form of more spontaneous writing for drafting ideas. As a foreign student, Hu Shi often ‘took down notes to serve as 101 drafts for ideas.’ In the same vein, Chen Duxiu and Qian Xuantong used letters as drafts for ideas. Since they were only drafts and not the final versions of articles, they could say whatever they wanted with no restrictions. Some of the fiercest debates in New Youth took place in the Letters section, such as Qian Xuantong’s derisive condemnation of the Wenxuan 文 选 [‘parallel prose’] and Tongcheng 桐城 [‘ancient prose’] schools, the recommendation that New Youth change entirely to baihua, or the position that ‘if we want to get rid of Confucianism, we must first get rid of Chinese characters.’ See the letters Qian Xuantong wrote to Chen Duxiu and Hu Shi in Volumes 2 through 4 of New Youth for further examples. So the letters in the journal were not inconsequential fillers, but rather the most cutting-edge discussions and the most daring ideas. 100

See Li Xianyu, ‘“Gongzhong luntan” yu “ziji de yuandi”: Xin qingnian zazhi “tongxin” lan’ ‘公众论坛’与‘自己的园地’——《新青年》杂志‘通信’栏 (‘Public Forum’ and ‘Private Space’: The Letters Section in New Youth), Zhongguo xiandai wenxue yanjiu congkan, no. 3 (2002). 101 Hu Shi, ‘Hu Shi liuxue riji zixu’ 《胡适留学日记》自序 (Author’s Preface to Hu Shi’s Overseas Diary), in Hu Shi liuxue riji (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1947).

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Once the idea had been considered for a while, the letter might evolve into a proper article. For those readers who were not only interested in the ideas, but also wanted to get into how the proper articles evolved in nature and style through letters, the format was even more appealing. The Letters section in Volume 5, No. 5, carried Lu Xun’s letter ‘Crossing the River and Leading the Way,’ in which he suggested reducing the number of letters printed in the journal. At the same time, he acknowledged that ‘the letters in New Youth have 102 become quite sophisticated. And the readers enjoy them.’ In his later oral autobiography Hu Shi somewhat exaggerated the degree to which the ‘letters and works’ of Chen Duxiu and Qian Xuantong 103 were circulated at the time. Hu Shi distinguished their letters from their other works in order to stress their great significance. It was also mainly the letters that were criticized. This relates to the ‘problem of the revolutionaries’ attitude’ that will be discussed below. Since letters were simply a form of drafts, they could be used both to propose incomplete ideas, as well as to detonate potential bombs in advance. In addition, they could be used to tie things up by stringing together different columns, styles, and topics. To some extent it was not the opening article that set the tone in an issue of New Youth. Rather it was the Letters section in the back that set the overall direction. It is indeed quite a wonder that such seemingly inconsequential texts might have had such a huge effect. The letters also made great advances as a liberating format that did away with solemn conventions. In this, they somewhat resemble the zawen 杂文 essay form that so much fuss has been made over. The Letters section (from Volume 1) and the suigan (random thoughts) (from Volume 4) were closely interlinked with respect to authors, topics, and style. Among the countless suigan that were written, Lu Xun’s stand out most clearly. Lu Xun wrote sincerely about this literary development in his first collection of zawen essays, Hot

102

Tang Si 唐俟 (Lu Xun), ‘Duhe yu yinlu’ 渡河与引路 (Crossing the River and Leading the Way), XQN 5, no. 5 (1918). 103 Cf. Chapter 7 in Hu Shi’s Oral Autobiography, here cited from vol. 1 of Hu Shi wenji 胡适文集 (Hu Shi’s Writings) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998), 322.

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Winds: ‘I wrote a few commentaries in the suigan of New Youth.’ In the postscript to another collection, Second Collection of Essays from Qiejie Pavillion, Lu wrote with a little pride: ‘It has been 18 years since I started writing essays in New Youth. These essays alone 105 come to about 800,000 characters.’ The proper suigan section, ‘Records of Random Thoughts,’ was a later addition that started in April 1918 in Volume 4, No. 4 of New Youth. At first, each text only had a number, not a title. After ‘Lai le’ 来了 (Arrived) was printed as no. 56, each text got a title of its own. Lu Xun started writing suigan in the ‘Records of Random Thoughts, no. 25’ in Volume 5, No. 3. He wrote 27 in all, ending in ‘Suigan, no. 66: The Path of Life’ in Volume 6, No. 6. This number was still quite below that of Chen Duxiu, the champion of the genre, who wrote 58. But Lu Xun was still far ahead of Qian Xuantong who, in third place, only wrote 15. With a total of 133 writings between them, Chen, Lu and Qian were clearly the three main powers of New Youth’s suigan section. Compared with the early occasional contributions by Liu Bannong and Zhou Zuoren or the later forced efforts by Chen Wangdao and Zhou Fohai, these three heads of the genre came to define the nature of the suigan in New Youth. In his preface to Hot Winds, Lu Xun characterized his suigan in New Youth as follows: Apart from a few texts on general topics, there are texts about planchette writing (fuji 扶乩), sitting around, and shadow boxing. Some are about the so-called ‘national essence.’ Some are about the old bureaucrats priding themselves on their experience. Some are about the cartoons in the Eastern Times newspaper in Shanghai. Considering how many enemies beset New Youth from all sides back then, I only set out to counter a few of them. As for the other, bigger issues: the journal is still available, so I don’t need to say much about 106 them.

At first glance, this passage seems very low key, displaying the virtuous modesty of the writer. But a closer reading reveals a deeper layer. If we pass by the ‘texts on general topics’ and the ‘bigger 104

Cf. Lu Xun, ‘Refeng tiji’ 《热风》题记 (Inscription to Hot Winds), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 1, 291. 105 Lu Xun, ‘Qiejie ting zawen er ji houji’ 《且介亭杂文二集》后记 (Postscript to Second Collection of Essays from Qiejie Pavillion), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 6, 451. 106 Lu Xun, ‘Inscription to Hot Winds,’ 291.

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issues’ and focus, instead, on the smaller matters listed, then we see that the light tone, the flow of topics covering all sorts of things in fact reflect the characteristic style of suigan. This kind of writing is indeed a brief commentary that is concise, full of real-life references, and varied in tone. It was the ‘always straightforward’ Chen Duxiu and the ‘expansive and aboveboard’ Qian Xuantong who helped 107 found this type of writing. But it was the later efforts of Lu Xun and Zhou Zuoren in developing the zawen and xiaopin 小品 (vignette) essay forms that truly made an imprint on the history of Chinese 108 essay writing. The column ‘Records of Random Thoughts’ was soon copied by other publications. ‘Soon, Li Dazhao and Chen Duxiu’s Weekly Review, Li Xinbai’s 李 辛 白 (1875–1951) Xin shenghuo 新 生 活 (New Life), Qu Qiubai and Zheng Zhenduo’s Xin shehui 新社会 (New Society), and the supplement Juewu 觉悟 (Awakening) in Shao Lizi’s 邵 力 子 (1882–1967) Republican Daily News all started 109 columns for “random thoughts.”’ And there were countless variants that were written under another name. The initial work of New Youth led to innumerable followers advocating a specific style under the name of ‘random thoughts’ (suigan 随感), ‘informal jottings’ (suibi 随笔), ‘mixed thoughts’ (zagan 杂感) or zawen. They adopted the same general tone and set up dedicated sections, or even used these terms to name their journals. New Youth’s initial work calls up many related memories for the historian of Chinese literature. In the late Qing journals and newspapers, there was in fact a similar form of short, witty commentary on current events, for example Liang Qichao’s ‘Yinbing shi ziyou shu’ 饮冰室自由书 (Unfettered Letters from the Ice-Drinker’s Studio), but it never settled into a stable and popularly recognized form. Only with New Youth’s ‘random thoughts’ section did this sharp, engaging, literary form that talked as easily about politics as about literature finally mature. While the political articles started each issue quite formally, 107

Cf. Lu Xun’s letters to Zhou Zuoren and Xu Guangping 许广平 in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 11, 391, 47. 108 See my Gazetteer of Chinese Culture, 204–211. 109 Qian Liqun 钱理群 et al., Zhongguo xiandai wenxue sanshi nian 中国现代文 学三十年 (Thirty Years of Modern Chinese Literature) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998), 147–148.

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the suigan ended the issue in a more humorous tone. The two played off one another, creating a balance between the stern and the more light-hearted. At first it was just intended to provide a more varied style, perhaps even to serve as page filler, but the flexibility and forceful brevity of the suigan form was soon found to be well-suited for discussing fast-changing current events. With the writers’ skilful use of foreshadowing, metaphor, and parable, readers were struck with surprise. Apart from providing authors with a new and more flexible mode of expression, the unheralded success of suigan also presented the ‘May Fourth’ intellectuals with something they had been seeking all along—political expression in a literary form. Since the late Qing, social reformers had looked towards the magically transformative powers of literature. Since then, this attempt to use literature as a tool was criticized. But it must not be forgotten that this attempt to mix things up did force literary forms and genres to shift and adapt, promoting new aesthetic tastes and appreciations. Fiction became the ‘pinnacle of literature,’ theatres put on plays with opinionated discussions of various issues, and political discussion papers attempted to be literary as well. These were not all purely negative developments. In talking about the transformations in literature since the late Qing we must not forget the context of intellectual history. When it came to actual magazines, however, usually either literature or ideology would be dominant. A journal like New Youth that equally advanced ‘revolution in thought’ and ‘Literary Revolution,’ each supporting the other, was very rare. Moreover, the interconnection between thought and literature not only resulted in excellent fiction and poetry, it also enriched the forms with which to write about politics. The Letters section and the suigan are still worth reading today, more than 80 years after New Youth started the genres. Advancing Learning and Monopolizing Public Opinion As delineated above, New Youth advanced its literary project by means of a campaign. It strategically sought results rather than meticulously engaging in academic analysis. It started an innovative Letters section for drafting ideas and the playfully mocking articles known as suigan that gave the journal an air of unyielding haugh-

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tiness. The journal’s mode of thinking and its innovation in writing forms went well together and challenged the entrenched traditions in China. This attitude of radical rebellion, leaving aside the debates over Confucianism and the classical language, gave rise to many controversies. Lan Zhixian 蓝 志 先 (Gongwu 公 武 , 1887–1957) criticized the personal attacks printed in New Youth, referring to Chen Duxiu’s declaration that ‘we must give no room to those who dissent.’ Hu Shi thought much about this, basically from the angle of ‘campaign strategy.’ Here I will look at it from another angle. I will reread the debate in New Youth on ‘the attitude problem of reformers’ with reference to the critique from the Critical Review group. The confrontation between New Youth and Critical Review was mainly grounded in their different views of traditional China and western European civilization, but it can also be seen in how these intellectuals expressed themselves. Seeing how the New Culture Movement spread like wildfire, inspiring the hearts and minds of young people, the people behind Critical Review mounted a forceful protest, firstly targeting the campaign strategy employed. According to Wu Mi 吴宓 (1894–1978), those in favour of New Culture were 110 ‘acting as politicians, making proclamations everywhere.’ Hu Xiansu criticized the reformers for ‘exploiting young people’s love of the new. They avoid the difficult questions while going for the simple 111 stuff, seeking cheap thrills and spreading unfounded rumous.’ Hu felt that their writings were irresponsible and sensationalistic. Mei Guangdi’s critique was even more harsh, questioning the ulterior motives behind ‘the way in which people advance learning these days.’ In order to advance their own fame, these people have created a dream of a new civil service examination system, claiming that this false learning will lead to personal advancement. In the old days, the examination system was held by the emperor, but now it is held by the masses. So one used to try to please the emperor, but now one has to please the masses. So the object of pleasing has changed, but the aim remains the same. That is why they use the methods of a campaign to 110

Wu Mi, ‘Lun xin wenhua yundong’ 论新文化运动 (On the New Culture Movement), Xueheng 4 (1922). 111 Hu Xiansu, ‘Lun pipingjia zhi zeren’ 论批评家之责任 (On the Responsibility of Critics), Xueheng 3 (1922).

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advance their learning, monopolize public opinion, and appeal to supporters. There is nothing they will not stoop to and they are good at 112 relying on group organizations to increase their power.

The main aim of the New Youth group was to introduce new ideas to young people and therefore it was necessary for them to reach a wide audience. They were indeed using the ‘methods of a campaign.’ The key complaint was that they wanted to ‘advance their learning’ and ‘monopolize public opinion.’ All journals have a main goal and all movements have a principal idea so there was nothing in and of itself controversial about their wish to ‘advance their learning.’ Why should the Critical Review editors oppose it so? It seems that their main grievance was with the monopoly of public opinion. Public opinion is very difficult to ‘monopolize’—except with the use of military or political force. Armed only with pens and paper, not guns, how could New Youth possibly monopolize public opinion? In fact, Mei Guangdi was not referring to the actual result, but to the motivation. It was the New Youth group’s hope to monopolize public opinion by deriding their opponents. They do not accept outsiders so they are extremely conceited and arrogant in all respects. They do not argue their opinions with dispassionate reasoning. Instead they cut off their opponents, paying no attention to their argument, deriding them or shaming them … In its heyday, New Youth was infamous for abusing others … And worst of 113 all, they turned academic disagreements into personal attacks.

This seems to be the heart of the matter. The Critical Review writers did not feel that New Youth ideology was the problem, but rather their demagoguery. They did not take responsibility for their words, only seeking the thrill of the moment. Hu Xiansu’s ‘On the Responsibility of Critics’ admonished Qian Xuantong, Hu Shi and others. Mr Qian Xuantong is a classically trained scholar who wants to do away with the old and study the foreign. Although he has no understanding at all of Western scholarship, he believes that Chinese learning is of no value at all. He is about to throw all of China’s 112

Mei Guangdi, ‘Ping jinren tichang xueshu zhi fangfa’ 评今人提倡学术之方 法 (A Critique of the People Advocating Scientific Methods Today), Xueheng 2 (1922). 113 Ibid.

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written heritage onto the fire without regard. His ideas are outrageous! Mr Hu Shi also believes that Chinese thought is too outmoded and that this somehow justifies Mr Qian’s radical beliefs. If they took responsibility for their attacks and how they influence young people, 114 would they still make such preposterous remarks?

In a time of constant transformation, it is difficult to imagine anyone having much consideration for Hu Xiansu’s ideal of ‘calm discussions held in a fair manner.’ The articles in Critical Review on the New Culture movement were equally full of fury and resentment. But Hu Xiansu’s last rule, ‘Do not hurl derisory insults,’ did give many people pause for thought. Hu wrote: ‘It is a common practice among critics today to strive for the novel and outlandish when writing out their ideas, so they become ever more extreme, putting shock value over integrity and fierceness over courage. This benefits neither our 115 country’s society, nor the future of the New Culture Movement.’ With the passing of time, the historical texts in New Youth cannot but feel unfamiliar to modern readers. The radicalism of Chen Duxiu, Qian Xuantong, and others is clear. Scholars hope to approach such classics in the history of periodicals with sympathy and understanding. Lai Guanglin 赖光临 in Newspaper Men and Newspaper Industry in Early Modern China devotes four chapters (not counting the Foreword and Conclusion) to discussing New Youth’s achievements and faults. About its manner of expression, he writes: The mode of discussion of the New Youth group can be summarized in few words: indignant arousal and headstrong intractability.

Lai proposes three reasons for the extremist rhetoric of the New Youth group. ‘First, inspired by Nietzsche, they were unwilling to compromise with things they considered “irrational.”’ ‘Second, the main purpose of New Youth’s fierce rhetoric was do away with old forms.’ ‘Third, they were acutely aware of the dire state of the nation 116 so they did not mince their words.’

114

Hu Xiansu, ‘On the Responsibility of Critics.’ Ibid. 116 Cf. Lai Guanglin, Zhongguo jindai baoren yu baoye 中国近代报人与报业 (Newspaper Men and Newspaper Industry in Early Modern China) (Taipei: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1980), 532, 535. 115

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The headstrong attitude of New Youth referred to by both contemporaries and later scholars does not, in the main, refer to the correspondence of Hu Shi and Chen Duxiu in Volume 3, No. 3 (May 1917). On the question of whether or not to adopt baihua, it does not matter much whether they chose to ‘tolerate difference of opinion and freedom of discussion’ or ‘accept no correction from others.’ It was really Liu Bannong’s ‘Response to Wang Jingxuan’s Letter’ that aroused public fury. Under the title of ‘Reverberations of the Literary Revolution,’ Volume 4, No. 3 (March 1918) carried a ‘Letter by Wang Jingxuan’ penned by Qian Xuantong, as well as Liu Bannong’s response to it. Since Wang Jingxuan was entirely fictitious, Liu attacked him sarcastically as a symbol of the old. His tone was so venomous that some people felt the need to respond and started a discussion on ‘The Problem with the Reformers’ Attitude.’ In the Letters section of Volume 4, No. 6 (June 1918), an entry titled ‘The Right to Freely Discuss Academic Principles’ brought up the issue of whether it was reasonable to harangue people. The letter was signed by an ‘Adorer of Mr Wang Jingxuan,’ Its authenticity is difficult to establish, and it may have been another ruse: I have the greatest admiration for Mr Wang’s astute and magisterial essay. This journal’s rejoinder was wantonly abusive and insulting. Surely there should be the freedom to discuss such academic principles here?

Chen Duxiu’s response was quite programmatic and in the following debate it was quoted by Qian Xuantong, showing that it largely represented the common view of the New Youth group. Since this journal started, it has welcomed dissenting opinions. In terms of politeness or rudeness, responses are of three different kinds. First, if the opinion is incisive and sufficient to correct the shortcomings of the editors, then the response should be humble and seek further knowledge. Second, if the correctness of the opinion cannot be ascertained but sounds reasonable, then the respondent might beg to differ, but should still respect the writer’s freedom to discuss academic matters and should humbly try to learn more about the matter. What we will not discuss is common knowledge long established by scholars all over the world. With opinionated fools spewing utter drivel, the only method is flat insult. The right to free debate is sacred, but if that sacred freedom is wasted on ignorant morons, then they will muddle

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up what is right and wrong and they will obscure the truth. They say 117 that they ‘wish to study,’ but all they do is harm the truth.

Since it was a group journal, they could easily just refuse to publish ignorant opinions, as Lu Xun points out in ‘Crossing the River and 118 Leading the Way.’ So howcome the journal printed the writings of ‘opinionated fools spewing utter drivel’? And lacking proper drivel, they even fabricated the writings of a Wang Jingxuan, only to ridicule and insult them. It seems that this must be attributed to an editorial strategy to attract readers. Liu Bannong’s reply begins: Since various writers started advocating New Literature, they have regretted not being able to hear any voices of resistance. But now you, my good sir, have sprung into action. This is very welcome and we are 119 grateful for it.

These were not merely facetious rhetorical remarks. This was the real reason that the New Youth group had invented Wang Jingxuan’s writings. The Letters column of Volume 5, Number 1, printed an exchange between Wang Maozu 汪懋祖 (1891–1949) and Hu Shi under the title ‘Reading New Youth’ and an exchange between Dai Zhuyi 戴主 一 and Qian Xuantong under the title ‘A Reaction to Wang Jingxuan’s Letter.’ Wang Maozu’s letter criticizes how Chinese people tend to demonize their opponents during debates, displaying a venom that reveals their barbarity and narrow-mindedness. In the following, he turns to characterizing New Youth’s debates: That which is literature can be of unsurpassed beauty and your journal has made great efforts in advocating its reform. But since the first volume, it has been like squabbling village ladies, allowing no dissent. 117

Chongbai Wang Jingxuan xiansheng zhe 崇拜王敬轩先生者 (Adorer of Mr Wang Jingxuan) and Chen Duxiu, ‘Taolun xueli zhi ziyou quan’ 讨论学理之自由权 (The Right to Freely Discuss Academic Principles), XQN 4, no. 6 (1918). 118 In ‘Crossing the River and Leading the Way,’ Lu Xun suggests: ‘All we need to do is publish the sincere discussions on time. The other irresponsible and thoughtless critiques and ignorant quarrels we can respond to once, at most, and then let the matter lie, saving a waste of ink and paper. For example, seeing ghosts, seeking immortality, and applying drama make-up are clearly ignorant activities, but we keep discussing them in New Youth. Is it not a pathetic waste of time telling these people that 5 plus 5 equals 10?’ 119 Cf. Wang Jingxuan and Liu Bannong, ‘Reverberations of the Literary Revolution.’

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Why crush people’s views? Even though this is not literary writing, your journal has taken upon itself to promote New Literature. Therefore it should not expose young people to slurs like ‘monster’ (yaonie 妖孽) or ‘devil’ (emo 恶魔) that might appeal to barbarous instincts.

Hu Shi had much self-restraint and his reply to such sharp critique was very courteous, revealing his gentlemanly manner. But he did not waver in his stance. It was merely the methods of those shaping public opinion that needed to be improved. You care for this journal and have therefore put forward your advice. Back when I lived in America, I also wrote to Chen Duxiu voicing a similar sentiment. Chen replied at the time that the Literary Revolution was ‘sacrosanct’ and thus beyond reproach. I now feel that this was perhaps too dogmatic. I am in favour of allowing different opinions, but not because I disagree with the Literary Revolution being ‘sacrosanct.’ If I did not feel that it was right, I would not be advocating it. But people’s understanding comes at different times. We might fervently believe that it is ‘sacrosanct,’ while others beside us might not. We have things that are sacred for us, while they have things that are sacred for them. Those who shape public opinion must use straightforward writing that is rational and sincere, so that those who oppose us abandon what they considered sacrosanct before and come to revere what we consider correct instead. So the policy of this journal in the future is that debates must be calm and reasonable even though the positions advocated can be extreme. Rational opinions of disagreement will be welcomed and there will certainly be no ‘barring 120 people from the discussion.’

Dai Zhuyi’s letter specifically criticized Liu Bannong’s ‘Response to Wang Jingxuan’ and was sharply critical of the Letters column. The Letters column is made for academic debate and expressing opinions, and it is a rare initiative. Therefore I would like to make the following point: since the Letters column aims to promote debate, those writings that do not debate should be rejected. But you enjoy discussing people’s rights and wrongs, twisting true and false with utter nonsense that often needs reading between the lines, straying far from that original aim. You have done this time and again. Bannong’s repudiation of Wang Jingxuan’s words in Volume 4, No. 3 were

120

Wang Maozu and Hu Shi, ‘Du Xin qingnian’ 读新青年 (Reading New Youth), XQN 5, no. 1 (1918).

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nothing but arrogant … It shows the narrow-mindedness of the correspondent.

Qian Xuantong did not have the self-restraint of Hu Shi and seems to have flown into a range when he read the letter. He felt there was no need for proper argument and responded in the form of a zawen essay. He first asked Dai to read Chen Duxiu’s writings in Volume 4, No. 6, on the three kinds of response in terms of politeness and rudeness and that only ‘flat insult’ was appropriate to counter the ‘utter drivel’ of ‘opinionated fools.’ He continues sarcastically: ‘Your letter contains phrases such as “utter nonsense,” “arrogant,” “unscrupulous,” “raving,” and “brazen.” Are these not insults? I hope you might 121 instruct me on this!’ The matter did not end here. It seems that quite a few people were critical of New Youth’s inclination to verbal abuse, since Chen Duxiu felt the need to make things clear once again. In Volume 5, No. 6, the letters of Duxiu and Aizhen 爱真 were printed under the heading ‘Wu du’ 五毒 (The Five Evils). Aizhen mocked Qian Xuantong for contradicting himself by calling for the abolition of Chinese writing while simultaneously attempting to reform it. ‘In practically every issue of New Youth there seems to be the need to harangue somebody. I always feel very perplexed when reading it.’ Chen Duxiu’s reply is quite interesting. Apart from upholding the notion of the New Youth group that ‘evil must be eradicated’ during debates, it also contains a mockery of Hu Shi and his ‘gentlemanly manner’: We are grateful for your letter requesting that our journal no longer ‘insult people.’ Insults are an objectionable practice and if the editors of this journal do so, they should change their ways, and if they do not, they should strive to remain civil in their replies. But when it comes to discussing the truth, the editorial group is indeed inflexible and direct. Therefore, we cannot help sounding harsh and severe. We would rather be called thugs and hoodlums than pretend to adopt the gentleman’s approach. Hemming and hawing will only muddle up what is right and wrong. We all believe that evil must be swept away.

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Dai Zhuyi and Qian Xuantong, ‘Bo Wang Jingxuan jun xin zhi fandong’ 驳王 敬轩君信之反动 (Refuting Mr Wang Jingxuan’s Reactionary Letter), XQN 5, no. 1 (1918).

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It is said in the classics that ‘evil must be eradicated’ and then there is 122 no room for niceties.

Clearly in Chen Duxiu’s eyes, ‘sounding harsh and severe’ was not a problem to be rectified. In fact, it was merely being ‘forthright.’ Since the adversaries of the letters above were otherwise unknown individuals and were simply voicing their complaints rather than presenting a serious argument, the replies of the New Youth group were somewhat disrespectful. The debate between Lan Zhixian, Hu Shi, and Zhou Zuoren in Volume 6, No. 4, was not printed under the Letters column as usual but rather under a Discussion column, revealing that this debate was considered something special. This was partly due to Mr Lan’s academic standing, but also because the letters touched upon sensitive issues such as ‘female chastity,’ ‘the phonetic transcription system,’ and the ‘attitude of reformers.’ Another factor was that this issue was edited by Hu Shi. Mr Lan regretted that Chinese people were generally not good at debating and did not enjoy participating in them. In Europe and America, debate is the midwife of truth. The more you discuss, the closer you get to the truth. But in China, debate is simply disguised complaints. The more you discuss something, the more muddled it gets until the only outcome is hurling abuse at people.

His discussion of the ‘attitude of reformers’ contained a critique of the style of debating in New Youth. Speaking of New Youth’s shortcomings, many have complained that the journal too frequently insults people. I do not see it that way. How could you avoid insulting people when writing about reform in China’s turbulent society today. But it is necessary to differentiate. It has always been common to make some emotional statements when refuting the arguments of somebody else, but specifically attacking people with frivolous and mean words has long been a vice of Chinese writers. How come those who favour reform are themselves unable to change this bad practice? The letters in New Youth are often written in this way and it is distasteful. Originally the Letters column was for discussing various theories, not for two people to hurl abuse at one another. Even if they insult each other very cleverly, ripping each other to shreds, how does this benefit intellectual progress? They 122

Ai Zhen and Chen Duxiu, ‘Wu du’ 五毒 (The Five Evils), XQN 5, no. 6 (1918).

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hardly expect that a person, after being grossly insulted, would go and change his mind on the matter, do they? On the contrary, it is distasteful and makes readers less interested in the matter being debated. I would even say that if New Youth stopped having these essays abusing people and stopped trumpeting its own results, the journal would have twice as many readers as today. I am very fond of New Youth and I dearly hope that it will leave out this pointless practice in the future. I also hope Liu Bannong will stop promoting his 123 tedious notion of ‘bowing-out-ism’ (zuoyi zhuyi 作揖主义).

When Hu Shi responded to the problem of reformers’ attitude, he said: ‘Your discussion of this topic stems from your own experience and therefore it is very earnest. We are very grateful for your kind intentions.’ Afterwards Hu Shi quoted from his own words in Volume 5, No. 1, that, ‘debates must be calm and reasonable even though the positions advocated can be extreme.’ This indicates his agreement with Lan Zhixian’s critique and reveals the self-reflection 124 of the New Youth group. It is interesting to note, however, that Hu Shi was the only member of the New Youth group to openly disagree with the journal’s practice of hurling insults at people. And later on, even Hu Shi acknowledged that Chen Duxiu was correct in not letting others rectify the opinions of the group. In ‘Driven to Revolt,’ his account of the course of the Literary Revolution, he quoted from his correspondence with Chen Duxiu about whether or not to allow criticism, and added the following comment: This uncompromising position was truly in the manner of a staunch revolutionary. The result of more than a year’s debates on literature was that we gained a staunch revolutionary propagandist and promoter. 125 Before long it became a powerful mass movement.

Here Chen Duxiu is mentioned as a ‘propagandist’ and ‘promoter’ but what about his being a ‘thinker’ or ‘analyst’? Years later, Hu Shi 123

Lan Zhixian, ‘Lan Zhixian da Hu Shi shu’ 蓝志先答胡适书 (Lan Zhixian’s Response to Hu Shi), XQN 6, no. 4 (1919). [Translator’s note] For Liu Bannong’s essay on ‘bowing-out-ism,’ in which he ironically suggested that reformers should save their energy by politely ignoring all conservative criticism, see XQN 5, no. 5 (1918). 124 Hu Shi, ‘Hu Shi da Lan Zhixian shu’ 胡适答蓝志先书 (Hu Shi’s Response to Lan Zhixian), XQN 6, no. 4 (1919). 125 Hu Shi, ‘Driven to Revolt,’ here cited from Hu Shi wenji, vol. 1, 163.

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tended towards appreciation of the insults used. In his old age, he recounted that ‘Chen Duxiu did call several masters of classical literature “a bunch of demons.” Qian Xuantong also came up with the epithet “Neo-confucian scoundrels” that was popular for a while.’ There is no indication of critique here. Instead, he said, ‘these words were widely used for a while and they did hit the opponents of the 126 Literary Revolution.’ Even though Hu Shi supported accepting differing views at the time, his main focus was on how to improve the methods of those shaping public opinion. He was not in favour of a multitude of different cultural views in the manner of Zhang Taiyan or ‘letting 127 peaks and ridges alternate’ as the folk saying goes. In this regard, Hu Xiansu’s critique is justified: Other people’s opinions cannot be changed by force to agree completely with mine. And my standpoint is not necessarily totally correct. If somebody’s opinion is not correct, it can only be changed through reasoning. And if that person continues to disagree with me, that person is not necessarily completely untutored, ignorant and immoral. So if there are errors in that person’s logic, it is not proper to ridicule or harangue him … There are even people who claim that Wang Jingxuan never existed and that New Literature supporters produced a fake letter to serve as a target for attacking old literature. This goes against all proper principles of criticism. Such practices 128 contain no proper criticism, but merely insult and abuse.

Hu Shi indicated that he was willing to accept critique in a display of gentlemanly posture. But this was not shown by any of the others in the New Youth group. How come Chen Duxiu and the other reformers adopted such extreme modes of expression despite recognizing that this was an ‘objectionable practice?’ This was a fundamental decision based on how Chen Duxiu understood cultural tradition, mass psychology, and the cause of reform. It was not simply a matter of strategy. In ‘On Literary 126

Cf. Hu Shi, Hu Shi’s Oral Autobiography, in Hu Shi wenji, vol. 1, 322. See chapter 6 in my Zhongguo xiandai xueshu zhi jianli—yi Zhang Taiyan Hu Shizhi wei zhongxin 中 国 现 代 学 术 之 建 立 — 以 章 太 炎 胡 适 之 为 中 心 (The Establishment of Modern Chinese Scholarship, with Focus on Zhang Taiyan and Hu Shi) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998). 128 Hu Xiansu, ‘On the Responsibility of Critics.’ 127

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Revolution’ Chen Duxiu makes some bitter remarks that reveal the reformers’ state of mind at the time: Our snivelling, indifferent, and timid citizens are afraid of revolution, like snakes and bugs. That is why we are still enveloped in darkness despite the government having been subjected to three revolutions. A minor reason for this failure is that these three revolutions all started strong but ended weak without a full bloody expurgation of the corrupt. The main reason is that our people’s fundamental morals, literature, and art are all covered in layers of grime and filth so they have not 129 supported the revolutions.

Chen Duxiu and others had deep reservations about the political situation, the national character, and China’s cultural traditions; this made them rather pessimistic about the effectiveness of gentle, gradual, civilized reform. Consequently, they felt more inclined to adopt extremist methods to accomplish their goals in one go. This mode of thinking is also seen in Tan Sitong’s late Qing ‘martyrdom mentality’ or in Liu Shipei’s 刘师培 (1884–1919) extremism as well as in the ‘May Fourth’ intellectuals’ tacit acceptance of the necessity of overcorrection—taking reform a step too far. They all assume that there is a price to pay for achieving reform and that bad elements can only be cleansed away through ‘bloody expurgation.’ Considering the apathy of the masses and that every resource must be put to use in the resistance, the revolutionaries adopted striking language and painted issues in an extreme light. In arousing the masses, this also gave them space to return to a middle road. Lu Xun touched upon the revolutionaries’ way of thinking in ‘Voiceless China’: Chinese people are by nature inclined to reconcile and compromise. If you say that it is too dark in the room and you should make a window, then nobody will let you. But if you propose to take off the roof, then they will come up with a compromise and they will be willing to make a window. As long as there are no more radical proposals, they will be unwilling to carry out even the most moderate of reforms. The reason why the vernacular was accepted at the time is that there were

129

Chen Duxiu, ‘On Literary Revolution.’

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discussions about130abolishing the Chinese script and introducing the Roman alphabet.

The radical idea of dropping Chinese characters was, in fact, put forward by Qian Xuantong who tended towards uncompromising 131 positions and making every case 120 per cent. Going to extremes has its advantages as a strategy for a political or ideological movement. In his description of the course of the New Culture Movement, Zheng Zhenduo writes: Luckily Chen Duxiu and his fellows maintained an uncompromising stance from the start, refusing to concede. They stuck resolutely to their convictions. ‘We must give no room to those who dissent.’ So 132 they did not compromise.

On the other hand, the overemphasis on strategy and constantly seeking tangible results inevitably led to a neglect of integrating reflection and theory. Moreover, they unnecessarily aroused some fierce opponents. ‘To carry justice on shoulders of steel / To write texts with hands 133 of brilliance’ : the New Culture intellectuals’ views of their own influence made their writings brim with heaving emotion. This gave them a moral superiority that made it difficult for them to understand the reason of their opponents’ arguments. They also stressed courage over wisdom, so once they were set on a path, they did not deviate from it. When Tang Degang 唐 德 刚 edited Hu Shi’s Oral Autobiography, he added an interesting note in the chapter ‘Literary Revolution’: 130

Lu Xun, ‘Wusheng de Zhongguo’ 无声的中国 (Voiceless China), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 4, 13–14. 131 Zhou Zuoren wrote that ‘Qian Xuantong’s suggestions often involve two extremes,’ that this kind of thinking was ‘extreme’ and that ‘he himself admits to it.’ See Zhou Zuoren, ‘Qian Xuantong de fugu yu fan fugu’ 钱玄同的复古与反复古 (Qian Xuantong’s Restoration of the Past and His Anti-Restoration), in Wenshi ziliao xuanji, no. 94 (Beijing: Wenshi ziliao chubanshe, 1984). According to Li Jinxi’s reminiscence, ‘Lu Xun once criticized him, saying that half a word should be enough, but that Xuantong always wanted to say more than necessary.’ Li Jinxi, ‘A Biography of Qian Xuantong,’ 173. 132 Zheng Zhenduo, ‘Daoyan’ 导言 (Introduction), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi: wenxue lunzheng ji, 5. 133 [Translator’s note] A famous couplet coined by Li Dazhao, inspired by two lines from the Ming poet Yang Jisheng 杨继盛 (1516–1555).

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There are many commonalities between forging a revolution of literature and a revolution of politics. One important point that they have in common is that the revolutionaries must be young and brash. Once they’ve heard a slogan or two, their conviction must be unshakeable. After that they go stir up the masses, fearlessly willing to die for their cause. The main thing about those slogans is their ability to arouse passions. Whether or not they hold up under closer academic 134 scrutiny is another matter.

As Tang Degang also mentions, advocating science is much like forging a revolution since both need unwavering determination rather than constant self-reflection. After a long and painstaking search, the majority of ‘May Fourth’ intellectuals all had some deep-felt conviction—regardless of whether this conviction was in liberalism, anarchism, Marxism or, for those in literature, a belief in Tolstoy, Nietzsche, or Ibsen. Due to conviction and fervour, as well as their high levels of learning, the ‘May Fourth’ writers were particularly confident. The foundation of these different convictions was that they all represented a vision of modernity and, unlike today, these ideas were fresh and unchallenged, at the height of their power. Given this situation, it is hardly surprising that these reformers became somewhat arrogant and conceited in their self-prescribed role as visionaries. Fu Sinian followed the lead of New Youth and set up the journal Xinchao 新 潮 (The Renaissance). Recalling how the journal challenged the power of tradition, he made the following self-critical note: We were fierce and we were too impetuous. If we wanted to say something, we said it too quickly and therefore easily made mistakes. We could not be careful in observation and study and we could not make calm and rational judgments—I cannot hide these truths from 135 myself.

The Renaissance was not the only journal unable to make calm and rational judgments. New Youth and a host of other journals advocating reform since the late Qing had the same problem. The first 134

See note 6 in Chapter 7 of Hu Shi’s Oral Autobiography, in Hu Shi wenji, vol. 1, 324. 135 Fu Sinian, ‘Xinchao zhi huigu yu qianzhan’ 《新潮》之回顾与前瞻 (A Look into The Renaissance’s Past and a Look towards Its Future), Xinchao 2, no. 1 (1919).

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reason was the feeling that extreme haste was needed to avert imminent national disaster. The second reason was that nobody fully understood a characteristic of the mass media, i.e. that it is easy to speak too passionately. The Critical Review article that criticized New Youth for insulting people too much was hardly a model of calm and rational argument itself. Hu Xiansu’s sarcastic critique of Hu Shi was also quite harsh and turned many people off. He laboriously argued in over thirty thousand characters that Hu Shi’s volume of poetry Changshi ji 尝试集 (Experiments) was ‘absolutely worthless in form and spirit regardless of time, place, or country.’ Its only value 136 was to teach young people that this was ‘a dead end.’ In fact, there were very few actual ‘debates’ in the real sense of the word in the cultural intellectual milieu of the late Qing and ‘May Fourth’ periods. It was mostly name-calling polemics between recalcitrant opponents. This is related to the tendency of journal articles to simplify matters and rouse emotion. Proper debate needs calm objectivity and careful analysis. It also requires the participants and onlookers to be quite knowledgeable and intelligent. Another point is that proper debates lack drama so there is little spectacle. The mass media wanted as many readers as possible so they went for bombastic language, satirical essays, challenges of authority, and extreme emotions. Lan Zhixian displayed a lack of knowledge about mass psychology and the characteristics of modern media when he wrote: ‘I would even say that if New Youth stopped having these essays abusing people and stopped trumpeting its own results, the journal would have twice as many readers as today.’ And the New Youth group was clearly better than the gentlemen behind Critical Review at mastering the proper language of journal articles. This point is immediately obvious by a quick look at the quality and efficacy of Lu Xun’s ‘An Appraisal of Critical Review’ in 137 comparison with Hu Xiansu’s ‘A Review of Experiments.’ Looking at the ‘Literary Revolution’ from the perspective of intellectual history, the New Youth group easily seems very far136

Hu Xiansu, ‘Ping Changshi ji’ 评《尝试集》 (A Review of Experiments), serialized in Xueheng 1 and 2 (1922). 137 Lu Xun, ‘Gu Xueheng’ 估《学衡》(An Appraisal of Critical Review), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 1, 377–379.

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sighted. The Literary Revolution that they launched with their journal was morally superior, intellectually holistic, and had a constant tendency towards politicization.. It was necessarily led by theory and its influence was enormous. And it was really up to the strength of the journal’s opposition to determine whether or not its stand of ‘advocating science’ truly led to a ‘monopoly of public opinion.’ When the Creation Society was founded, it also hoisted the banner of ‘opposing a monopoly’. On September 29, 1921, the China Times printed ‘Announcing the Pure Literary Quarterly Creation,’ showing the ambition and sentiment of Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (18921978) and Yu Dafu: Since the New Culture Movement, the literary arts in our country have been monopolized by one or two idols, so new forms of art have completely died. The Creation Society will boldly rise to break social convention and advance the independence of art. We want to rise up together with unknown authors everywhere and create the national literature of China’s future.

The talk about a monopoly of the literary sphere referred to the recently established Chinese Literary Association (Wenxue yanjiuhui 文学研究会). The Creation Society challenged them over differences in literary ideals and creative methods, but another reason was simply personal animosity. Luckily the Creation Society had the strength to quickly carve out a space for itself. This was a momentous development that neither side could draw back from. In the introductions to the first and third fiction volumes of the Compendium, Mao Dun 茅盾 (1896–1981) and Zheng Boqi 郑 伯奇 (1895–1979) respectively wrote about the clash between the Literary Association and the Creation Society. Mao Dun wrote that, ‘nobody was “controlling” or “monopolizing” the literary field like some people imagined,’ indicating that the Creation Society was simply provoking trouble. Zheng responded that ‘it is undeniable that as time passed, the membership of the Literary Association gradually became fixed and the members came to share the same opinions and beliefs.’ This is a continuation of the argument that the Creation Society was opposing a monopoly. The rapid rise of New Youth undeniably put pressure on some people. Regardless of whether they intentionally excluded outsiders, the popularity of the journal broke the old balance. The journal took centre stage and indeed did move towards a ‘monopoly of public

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opinion.’ Therefore Critical Review’s fervent resistance makes sense. The learned editors of the journal were conservative and their position is worthy of understanding and sympathy. It is not necessarily a bad thing that the Creation Society was able to carve out its own space and create a bipolarity in Chinese cultural intellectual circles. It is a pity that Critical Review’s morals and cultural ideas were so out of touch with the trends of the age. Their mode of expression also had its faults. The articles by writers like Hu Xiansu were endlessly quoting various authorities, long-winded, and 138 pretentious in their displays of learning. In comparison, the writings of the New Youth group were clear in thought, succinct, and related to contemporary life. They were good at combining new poetry, fiction, letters, and informal notes. Critical Review’s desire to break their ‘monopoly’ had no real chance of success. Cultural Capital and Historical Memory On the 25th anniversary of the founding of Peking University, Hu Shi wrote an article entitled ‘Memories and Self-reflections,’ in which he described the institution as follows: ‘There is an open atmosphere, 139 but it does not produce enough academic learning.’ This statement might well be transferred to New Youth, particularly its advocacy of the Literary Revolution. It is also practically the common fate of all revolutionaries to realize that there is a gap between their historical responsibility and their personal interests and actual abilities. For this 138

The reasoning is fairly clear in Hu Xiansu’s, ‘On the Responsibility of Critics.’ But he also writes: ‘If you wish to reappraise our nation’s old learning from the perspective of Western culture and civilization—regardless of whether it be constructive or damning critique—it is necessary to have done proper research in foreign history, culture, society, customs, politics, and religion.’ He proceeds to itemize nearly 80 poetry collections by poets from Qu Yuan 屈原 (ca. 339–ca. 278 BCE) to Zhao Xi 赵熙 (1867–1948) and adds another 50 works of Greek, Roman, English, German, French, and Italian origin. He ends by saying that ‘these items mentioned above are the minimum, even insufficient, level required.’ What he meant was that unless you had read all these works, you had no right to participate in the discussion. Since this was not the doctoral examinations at Harvard University, this setting of a minimum bar was simply showing off his learning and it was unappealing to readers. 139 Hu Shi, ‘Huigu yu fanxing’ 回顾与反省 (Memories and Self-Reflections), Beijing daxue rikan, December 17, 1922.

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reason they are easily ridiculed for having greater ambitions than real achievements. But when talking about modern China’s ‘New Literature,’ New Youth cannot be overlooked. Even the most stubborn are forced to recognize New Youth’s contribution in advocating the Literary Revolution. New Youth achieved sudden fame once the New Culture Movement flourished. The leader of the Critical Review group, Wu Mi, found this unwarranted and angrily noted: We must wait for future historians to decide who is most important in the history of Chinese culture. We cannot let people within the field make the judgments. Who is able to determine a 140 person’s merits simply by whether or not they agree with some group?

But today, historians are still praising New Youth highly—even though Critical Review is more highly regarded as well. Wu Mi was set quite strongly against New Youth. Not only did he disagree with their ideas, he also felt that Chen Duxiu and Hu Shi’s sudden fame was largely due to their relationship with an august research institution—Peking University. This is what he meant when 141 he wrote that they ‘hold authority over education.’ Mei Guangdi similarly criticized the New Youth group for ‘relying on institutions to spread their influence.’ He stated: Their university is the highest seat of learning and they do their utmost to publicize this so as to display their prestige and importance. They even parade foreign scholars, acting as their puppets so as to borrow 142 their glory. This is an arrogant insult to the people of our nation.

In fact all the ‘May Fourth’ reformers had a tendency to ‘parade foreign scholars about.’ Even the pages of Critical Review were full of references to Irving Babbitt (1865–1933). The crucial point was that the authority of the ‘highest seat of learning’ indeed did attract many young people. Young scholars with a zeal for Western scholarship ‘mistakenly believe that the leaders of this group are the 143 only game in town’ due to their affiliation with Peking University. 140

Wu Mi, ‘On the New Culture Movement.’ Ibid. 142 Mei Guangdi, ‘A Critique of the People Advocating Scientific Methods Today.’ 143 Wu Mi, ‘On the New Culture Movement.’ 141

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This was a source of frustration for Wu Mi and the other people behind Critical Review. They had a point. Aizhen, the reader who wrote to Chen Duxiu with the hope that New Youth no longer harangue people in every issue, made the following earnest remark: For seven or eight years, I have embraced the notion that we must sweep away the evil. Unfortunately my broom is small and I have little strength so my results are insignificant. But you are all university professors with great learning. Your brooms are big and your strength is great so you can sweep with much144greater force than me. I am sure that your results will be extraordinary.

He was not writing in irony. The readers of New Youth had the greatest respect for the professors with ‘great learning’ at the only national university of its time. Even Hu Shi stressed the support of Chen Duxiu and Qian Xuantong for his ‘Modest Proposals for Literary Reform.’ Why? Because Chen was the Dean of the Faculty of Humanities at Peking University and Qian was a well-known professor there, a master of classical Chinese and a disciple of ‘Zhang Taiyan, the great master of classical scholarship.’ Hu Shi was still just a student studying abroad and at the beginning of his career. Of course, the support of these two giants for his ideas about literary 145 revolution gave a massive boost to his prestige. We might as well be honest and say that the success of New Youth indeed was partly due to its strong academic background. Of course, they did publish the notice that people should not ‘confuse New 146 Youth and Peking University.’ But just the fact that the journal’s editorial group was mostly composed of university professors was enough to lend it a lot of cultural capital. It also helped secure symbolic and financial capital. When Critical Review was established in 1922, Wu Mi and the group around him were at Southeast University (Dongnan daxue 东 南大学), which had only recently been established. It had earlier been Sanjiang Normal College and Nanjing Higher Normal School 144

Ai Zhen and Chen Duxiu, ‘The Five Evils.’ Chapter 7 in Hu Shi’s Oral Autobiography, vol. 1 of Hu Shi wenji, 318–322. 146 Cf. ‘Xin qingnian bianjibu qishi’ 《新青年》编辑部启事 (Announcement of the New Youth Editorial Department), XQN 6, no. 2 (1919). 145

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and eventually it would turn into the great National Central University; however, until late 1927, Southeast University could not compare with Peking University. After the success of the Northern Expedition, the national government set up in Nanjing and this led to a transformation of Southeast University. It became the ‘principal institution of higher learning’ in the capital and in the nation— National Central University (1928). The rapid rise of National Central University was a necessary outcome of its being the main university of Nanjing. Proximity to power was a boon for the university and support of these institutions of higher learning was necessary for the government’s control of ideology. This collaboration between authority and knowledge secured the university more power and resources to develop and for a while, it even eclipsed 147 Peking University. The editors of Critical Review were all academic scholars and their knowledge of Western civilization and traditional Chinese culture was likely equal to that of the New Youth group. But their prestige and their influence on social historical progress was much smaller. This was due to fundamentally different choices in manner of thought and discursive strategy. In addition, it should be recognized that the academic background at Peking University played an important role. However, the reason that New Youth’s advocacy of revolution in thinking and in literature gained a place in history was that it, in addition to cultural capital, also benefited from historical memory. New Youth’s ‘historical memory’ did not just come about by itself but was also helped along by the efforts of its group members. Hu Xiansu ironically wrote that Hu Shi was great at ‘applauding himself,’ referring to his praise of the baihua movement in Chinese 148 Literature of the Past Fifty Years. The critique is even more fitting when applied to Experiments, the poetry collection which Hu Shi .

147

See my ‘Shoudu de qianxi yu daxue de mingyun: Minguo nianjian de Beijing daxue yu Zhongyang daxue’ 首都的迁徙与大学的命运——民国年间的北京大学 与中央大学 (The Movement of the Capital and the Fate of Universities: Peking University and National Central University in the Republican Era), Wenshi zhishi, no. 5 (2002). 148 Cf. Hu Xiansu, ‘A Critique of Hu Shi’s Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years.’

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congratulated himself with on multiple occasions. He appraised individual poems, but also recounted ‘the unofficial history of an individual’s stand for the Literary Revolution’ and made expositions 149 on the ‘Hu Shi style.’ Of course, it is commendable that Hu Shi focused on experimental vernacular poetry and worked hard to perfect the genre. One can also understand the pride he felt in his workmanship. But the most surprising thing in this ‘canonization’ was that he invited five famous people, including Zhou Zuoren and Lu Xun, to edit his poems. This seems modest at first glance, but it also contains an element of ensuring the historical position of his volume of poetry. He was not merely content to start this literary 150 form, but also took great pains to secure its canonization. And his efforts were not in vain for any account of the history of the Literary Revolution is greatly influenced by Hu Shi’s ‘Driven to Revolt,’ his introduction to the ‘Foundational Theory’ volume of the Compendium and Hu Shi’s Oral Autobiography. This is, of course, the way of victors. They do not forget to honour their own contributions when recounting their history. This constant strengthening of ‘cultural remembrance’ could not but influence the accounts of later historians. If you were to become interested today in some other aspect of the New Culture Movement, such as the ideas of the Critical Review group, you would find that it is difficult to discuss Critical Review in the same way you might discuss New Youth. The characters are less distinct and the stories are lacking in detail. There is no way to bring the historical scene to life so it is impossible to paint a full picture. In contrast, the accounting of New Youth is so full and vivid that it feels like this period of history is practically alive before our very eyes. This is not simply due to ‘natural selection’ or ‘survival of the fittest.’ The hard work of the New Culture intellectuals has played an important part. Time is an important factor in determining whether individuals, texts, journals, or literary societies leave an indelible mark on history. If a work of literature is still being read after 20 years, that is a small 149

See Hu Shi’s prefaces to the first, second, and fourth editions of Experiments, as well as his ‘Tantan “Hu Shizhi ti” de shi’ 谈谈’胡适之体’的诗 (About the ‘Hu Shi Style’ of Poetry), Ziyou pinglun 12 (1936). 150 See Chapter 5.

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achievement. If it has not been forgotten after 50 years, that is pretty well done. If it is still remembered after a century, then it is truly a great work. It seems that by some fortunate coincidence 20 years after the founding of New Youth or more than 10 years after it stopped publication, the New Youth group—by then scattered all over—met once again to recall events. They recounted their friendship and retold past deeds, thereby fixing the account of New Youth for later ages. The fortunate coincidence I mention here is quite specific. It was the editing of the Compendium of China’s New Literature. In 1933, when Liu Bannong edited Manuscripts of Early Vernacular Poems, he quoted Chen Hengzhe’s sigh of regret: ‘We have all become ancients from many generations ago (women dou shi sandai yishang de guren le 我们都是三代以上的古人了).’ After that he added: Over the last 15 years, China’s literature and art has undergone remarkable change and made great progress. That has made those of us who were the first to struggle for cultural reform a bunch of ancients from many generations ago. Rather than feeling sorry for 151 ourselves, we should feel joyous and console ourselves with this.

This passage was mentioned several times by the compilers of the Compendium. Both A Ying 阿英 (1900–1977) and Mao Dun referred 152 to Liu Bannong’s sentiment. Zheng Zhenduo was even more straightforward: The brave men who fought for the baihua movement, such as Qian Xuantong, have all changed directions or fallen silent. Only Lu Xun and Zhou Zuoren have kept up the struggle and still 153 stand upright in New Culture circles.

151

Liu Bannong, ‘Chuqi baihua shigao xumu’ 《初期白话诗稿》序目 (Preface and Contents of Manuscripts of Early Vernacular Poems), in Chuqi baihua shigao (Beiping: Xingyun tang shudian, 1933). 152 Cf. A Ying, ‘Zhongguo xin wenxue yundong shi ziliao xuji’ 《中国新文学运 动 史 资 料 》 序 记 (Prefatory Note to Historical Materials of the Chinese New Literature Movement), in A Ying wenji (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1979), 137–138; Mao Dun, ‘Shi nian qian de jiaoxun’ 十年前的教训 (A Lesson from Ten Years Ago), Wenxue 4, no. 4 (1935). 153 Zheng Zhenduo, ‘Introduction,’ in Zhongguo wenxue daxi: wenxue lunzheng ji, 8.

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While recognizing the achievements of the two brothers, this passage also marks the end of the New Youth project. It is notable that people like Hu Shi, Zhou Zuoren, and Lu Xun, who were close to Liu Bannong and grouped with the ‘ancients’ by Zheng Zhenduo, all 154 refrained from voicing such sentimental regrets. The sentiment that they had all become outmoded ‘ancients’ was quite perceptive. It alludes to the clash between the ‘Literary Revolution’ of the ‘May Fourth’ intellectuals and the ‘revolutionary literature’ of the 1930s. There are always differences between generations, forerunners and latecomers, participants and onlookers, and between those who remember history and those who take part in the present. Consequently there were divergent views on how to write the history of ‘New Literature.’ But the editing of the Compendium affirmed the undertakings of the New Youth group in an unprecedented way. The various editors of the Compendium had different theoretical backgrounds and actual interests, but since the historical framework of 1917–1927 was to be covered, the pathbreaking contribution of New Youth simply had to be affirmed. In the general preface to the Compendium, Cai Yuanpei writes: The notion that baihua should replace wenyan 文言 [classical writing], thereby unfurling the banner of the Literary Revolution, was started in 155 the New Youth period.

In the various introductions to the many volumes of the compendium, New Youth is a topic that cannot be skirted. Especially Lu Xun, Mao Dun, Zheng Zhenduo, and Zhu Ziqing, in their introductions, unfailingly start their narrative from New Youth. There was a constant affirmation that the point of origin of ‘New Literature’ was with New Youth and not with, say, the 100 Days Reform, the 1911 Revolution, or the ‘May Fourth’ Movement, nor 154

See the section ‘Zai “fenqi” wenti shang de chongtu’ 在’分期’问题上的冲突 (The Dispute about the Issue of Periodization) in Yang Zhi 杨志, ‘“Shijia” yishi yu “xuanjia” yanguang de jiaorong: Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi (1917–1927) yanjiu’ ‘史 家’意识与’选家’眼光的交融 —《中国新文学大系》 (1917–1927）研究 (The Blend between the Consciousness of the ‘Historians’ and the Viewpoint of the ‘Selectors’: Studies into the Compendium of China’s New Literature, 1917–1927) (PhD diss., Peking University, 2002). 155 Cai Yuanpei, ‘General Introduction,’ in Zhongguo wenxue daxi: jianshe lilun ji, 10.

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with journals like [Liang Qichao’s] Xin xiaoshuo 新 小 说 (New Fiction), [Zhang Taiyan’s] The Minpao Magazine, or Nanshe congkan 南 社 丛 刊 (The Southern Society Collection). This has greatly influenced later historians. In this sense, the editorial work on the Compendium was more of a written history than a mere preservation of textual records. The New Youth group played an important role in this canonization of New Literature. In addition to having Cai Yuanpei write the general introduction, Hu Shi was in charge of the volume on foundational theory (jianshe lilun ji 建设理 论集), Lu Xun did the second volume on fiction (xiaoshuo er ji 小说 二集), and Zhou Zuoren edited the first volume on essays (sanwen yi ji 散文一集). In addition, Zheng Zhenduo, Mao Dun, and Zhu Ziqing from the Renaissance Society and the Literary Association all held views quite close to those of the New Youth group. The Compendium came to have an enormous influence on the academic field of modern Chinese literature and its account of the Literary Revolution greatly raised the reputation of the New Youth group. In the past few years there has been a good deal of research on how the ‘May Fourth’ generation made use of the Compendium to strengthen the memory of the Literary Revolution and establish the 156 authoritative account of how ‘New Literature’ was founded. There is no need to reiterate these findings. But there is also another factor that has influenced later historians. The New Youth group started looking back at past events with great emotion due to the publication of collected works by Chen Duxiu and Li Dazhao, as well as the sudden death of Liu Bannong.

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See Chapter 8, ‘The Making of the Compendium of Modern Chinese Literature,’ in Lydia H. Liu, Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity — China 1900–1937 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995); Wen Rumin 温儒敏, ‘Lun Zhongguo xin wenxue da xi de xueke shi jiazhi’ 论 《中国新文学大系》的学科史价值 (On the Scholastic Historical Value of the Compendium of China’s New Literature), Wenxue pinglun, no. 3 (2001); Luo Gang 罗岗, ‘Jieshi lishi de liliang: xiandai “wenxue” de queli yu Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi (1917–1927) de chuban’ 解释历史的力量 —— 现代’文学’的确立与《中国 新 文 学 大 系 》 （ 1917–1927 ） 的 出 版 (Explaning the Power of History: The Establishment of Modern ‘Literature’ and the Publication of the Compendium of China’s New Literature, 1917–1927), Kaifang shidai, no. 5 (2001).

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In the preface to My Selected Works Lu Xun noted his regrets at the parting of the New Youth group. This passage is quite famous and is frequently quoted by scholars in the field: Afterwards the team behind New Youth broke up. Some became more prominent, some retreated from public life, and some moved on. I once again experienced how comrades in battle can change like this. I received the title of ‘author’ and continued wandering around in the 157 desert … Are there any new comrades-in-arms anywhere?

In the part I omitted from the quote, Lu Xun talks of his essays, fiction and prose poetry. I wanted to highlight Lu Xun’s state of mind in his later years with his description of how contemporary intellectuals had ‘become solitary soldiers, unable to walk in formation.’ There can be no doubt that Lu Xun at this time longed for the period of camaraderie of the New Youth group. Over the next few years, Lu Xun wrote about his old friends a few times on special occasions. They all touch upon the work of New Youth in its early years. In March 1933 Lu Xun wrote ‘How I Began to Write Fiction,’ which revolved around why he wrote fiction and had come to believe in the enlightenment project at the time. He also wrote about the process of writing ‘Diary of a Madman’: The editors of New Youth kept urging me to write something, pressing me several times. So I wrote a piece. I should thank Chen158Duxiu. He was the one who urged me most insistently to write fiction.

At the time Chen Duxiu was in a Guomindang jail serving a sentence so there was a deeper sentiment to this passage. In May 1933, Lu Xun wrote a preface to the Collected Works of Li Dazhao in which he noted:

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Lu Xun, ‘Zixuan ji zixu’ 《自选集》自序 (Author’s Preface to My Selected Works), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 4, 456. 158 Lu Xun, ‘Wo zenyang zuoqi xiaoshuo lai’ 我怎样做起小说来 (How I Began to Write Fiction), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 4, 512. During the ‘May Fourth’ period, Chen Duxiu strongly urged Lu Xun to write fiction. For example, he wrote a letter to Zhou Zuoren on 11 March 1920: ‘We strongly hope that Yucai 豫才 [i.e. Lu Xun] will write fiction for New Youth. Please inform him.’ On August 22 of the same year: ‘I truly have the greatest admiration for Lu Xun’s fiction.’ Shui Ru 水如, ed., Chen Duxiu shuxin ji 陈独秀书信集 (Chen Duxiu’s Letters) (Beijing: Xinhua chubanshe, 1987), 251, 258.

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The first time I met and properly got to know Li Dazhao was when Chen Duxiu invited me to participate in a meeting on how to proceed with New Youth. I do not know if he was already a Communist at the time. But my impression of him was positive: honest, modest, quiet. Among the New Youth group there were those who enjoyed a good scuffle or159who manoeuvred for their own advantage, but he was never like that.

When Lu Xun wrote these words, Li Dazhao, a ‘companion who stood on the same frontline in battle’ during the New Youth period, had already died, leaving only his writing behind. Looking at these works as the ‘legacy of a pioneer and a monument to the history of the revolution,’ how could Lu Xun not think back to this comrade-in160 arms from bygone days? Liu Bannong, another fellow from New Youth, died the following year. By this time, Lu Xun had already grown apart from those of the group who stayed in Beijing, namely Liu Bannong, Qian Xuantong, Zhou Zuoren, and Hu Shi. But after he learned the news, he quickly wrote the poignant ‘In Remembrance of Liu Bannong,’ in which he mentioned that Liu during the New Culture movement ‘fought in several great battles.’ I have already forgotten how I met him the first time or how he arrived in Beijing. He probably submitted some manuscripts to New Youth and was then invited by Cai Yuanpei or Chen Duxiu. After his arrival, he became one of the fellow soldiers on New Youth. He was lively, brave and fought in several great battles. For example, he wrote the reply letter in the hoax exchange with Wang Jingxuan, and he created new characters for ‘she’ and ‘it.’ Such matters might seem trifling today, but more than a decade ago matters of punctuation made a great many people absolutely livid and bent on your destruction. So these were indeed ‘great battles.’ Among the 20-year olds of today, it seems that few are aware that only 30 years ago one might be jailed or beheaded 161 for simply cutting off one’s queue. But that is the way things were.

In addition, Lu Xun also set out to defend Liu Bannong from the attacks of some critics that he was ‘shallow.’ ‘Indeed,’ he wrote, 159

Lu Xun, ‘Shouchang quanji tiji’ 《守常全集》题记 (Inscription to The Collected Works of Li Dazhao), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 4, 523. 160 Ibid., 524–525. 161 Lu Xun, ‘Yi Liu Bannong jun’ 忆 刘 半 农 君 (In Remembrance of Liu Bannong), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 6, 71.

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‘Bannong was shallow. But his shallowness was like that of a fine brook in which one could clearly see the bottom. There might be bits of mud and dead grass floating about, but these did not obscure the overall clarity of it.’ Starting with Liu Bannong, Lu Xun proceeded to write about the other comrades-in-arms from New Youth with great affection: After every issue of New Youth we had an editorial meeting to discuss the manuscripts for the following volume. Chen Duxiu and Hu Shi always got my notice. If we compare our strategy to guarding a weapons depot, Chen Duxiu would set a large banner outside proclaiming that ‘We have weapons so outsiders beware!’ But he left the depot door wide open, so it would be immediately clear that there were just a few rifles and knives. Nothing worth guarding. Hu Shi would close the door tightly and put a notice outside it saying: ‘No weapons here. Please don’t suspect us.’ This might be true, but a few people—including myself—could not help but tilt our heads and think about this. Liu Bannong, however, was someone who would never give you the feeling that he had an armoury at all. So I had the greatest admiration162 for Hu Shi and Chen Duxiu, but I felt closest to Bannong.

The descriptions of Chen, Hu, and Liu are quite fitting and they are also friendly. There is no sarcasm here. It seems that even for the staunch Lu Xun, the fond remembrance of the past overcame the political disputes of the present. On Liu Bannong’s sudden death, Qian Xuantong wrote ‘My Deceased Friend Liu Bannong’ in which he praised his courage and ‘frequent composition of vernacular poetry.’ Later he wrote a long obituary scroll that mentioned his contribution in fighting for the Literary Revolution. His writings for New Youth were full of emotion throughout our battle. He overturned stale writings and muddled thinking. Using the style of the four-line folk songs from Jiangyin 江阴, he wrote the fresh and lively collections Brandishing the Whip and The Earthen Pot. I think back on his outstanding contribution to the Literary Revolution and his work for the morals of the time. He detested formulaic writing and 163 hated the ‘painted faces.’ 162

Ibid., 71–72. Cf. Qian Xuantong, ‘Wangyou Liu Bannong xiansheng’ 亡友刘半农先生 (My Deceased Friend Liu Bannong), Shijie ribao, July 21, 1934, Gouyu zhoukan 163

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Zhou Zuoren, another friend of Liu Bannong’s, writing for Renjianshi 人间世 (The Human World), praised Liu for being ‘true’ and having ‘unorthodox learning.’ But the real account was about New Youth. I came to Beijing in 1917 and read Bannong’s works for the first time in New Youth. He was still living in the South back then and his writings left a deep impression on me. Some episodes of his ‘Notes from the House of Spiritual Glow’ had a fresh vitality that other 164 writers lacked.

In his obituary for Liu Bannong, Cai Yuanpei mentions that ‘he advocated vernacular poetry in New Youth.’ He also stresses than Liu had the ‘self-control’ of a scientist as well as the ‘looseness’ of a 165 creative writer. Lu Xun passed away two years later, prompting Cai Yuanpei, Zhou Zuoren, and Qian Xuantong to write obituaries in quick succession and they all happened to write about their close contact during the New Youth period. So within the span of a few years there were quite a few texts that mourned the deceased or remembered the past with New Youth as the setting. And both those doing the remembering, as well as those being remembered, were highly famous intellectuals at the time. It is not difficult to imagine how the persistent thread through all of this, New Youth, would attract people’s curiosity and interest. It was in this context, in 1936, that the Shanghai East Asia Library and Qiuyi Press announced a joint venture to reprint New Youth. At about the same time, the jailed ‘commander-in-chief of the “May Fourth” New Culture Movement’ Chen Duxiu, attracted public notice. The Shanghai East Asia Library wasted no time in putting out a volume of his texts from New Youth, published in 1933 under the title Collected Writings of Duxiu. The august Cai Yuanpei was asked to write the Foreword. Cai writes that Chen was Dean of the Humanities Faculty at Peking University and cooperated with Shen section; and ‘Liu Bannong xiansheng wanci’ 刘半农先生挽词 (An Elegy for Liu Bannong), Shijie ribao, October 13, 1934, Guoyu zhoukan section. 164 Zhitang 知堂 (Zhou Zuoren), ‘Bannong jinian’ 半农纪念 (In Memory of Bannong), Renjian shi 18 (1934). 165 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Ai Liu Bannong xiansheng’ 哀刘半农先生 (Mourning the Loss of Liu Bannong), Renjian shi 10 (1934).

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Yinmo, Qian Xuantong, Liu Bannong, Zhou Zuoren, and Hu Shi in launching the New Culture Movement with New Youth. He proceeds to appraise Chen’s writings: The texts in this volume were all written by Chen in New Youth. In general, they seek to overturn old customs and bring about a new attitude on life. His style is honest and bold in dealing with indolence, foolishness and other ills. Even today it still stands 166 as a model for youth. So I have written a few words to introduce him.

Wanting to protect Chen Duxiu’s safety, as well as stay true to the historical record, Cai Yuanpei continued to stress Chen’s enormous contribution to the New Culture movement several times in his 167 writings of the same period. In late August 1937, Chen Duxiu was released from jail due to the outbreak of the War of Resistance against Japan. Three months later, he wrote ‘What I Know about Lu Xun’ in memory of him. Once again, it started with New Youth. Both Lu Xun and his younger brother Zhou Zuoren wrote for New Youth. Even though they were not the principal writers, their output was significant, particularly that of Zhou Zuoren. Both of them were independent thinkers so they didn’t join New Youth because they agreed with any particular writer. And therefore their writings in New 168 Youth, in my personal view, were particularly valuable.

His words are worth noting not just because they praise Lu Xun’s thinking and his humorous essays. More importantly, they outline and provide a satisfactory conclusion to the get-together of the New Youth group in the years 1933–1937. Of course, Zhou Zuoren and Hu Shi continued to produce accounts of New Youth, but it was the accounts written during the 1930s that cemented New Youth’s reputation. In The Chinese Enlightenment, Vera Schwarcz talks about shifts in remembrance of 166

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Duxiu wencun xu’ 《独秀文存》序 (Preface to Collected Writings of Duxiu), in Cai Yuanpei quanji (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1988), vol. 6. 167 In addition to Cai Yuanpei’s general introduction to the Compendium of China’s New Literature, see also his ‘Wo zai Beijing daxue de jingli’ 我在北京大学 的经历 (My Experiences at Peking University) and ‘Wo zai jiaoyujie de jingyan’ 我 在教育界的经验 (My Experiences in the World of Education). 168 Chen Duxiu, ‘Wo duiyu Lu Xun zhi renshi’ 我对于鲁迅之认识 (What I Know about Lu Xun), in Chen Duxiu wenzhang xuanbian, vol. 3, 564.

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the ‘May Fourth’ movement. She notes that the participants, observers and critics of the ‘May Fourth’ movement used their memory selectively: They remembered more political details whenever the pressure for jiuguo 救国 (national mobilization) increased, and they recalled details of the cultural battle for qimeng 启蒙 (enlightenment) whenever the climate169became more favorable to the goals of intellectual emancipation.

Frequently people look back to the past in order to look into the future. The ‘May Fourth’ movement had simply become too famous so all sorts of people used it to their own ends. As the movement was turned into allegory, myth, and symbol, that period of history also turned into an instrument to be used in various ways. As you look more carefully, an interesting phenomenon is discovered: in all the various accounts of the New Culture movement, the differences between them are the smallest when it comes to New Youth. For example, we could compare the American scholar Chow Tsê-tsung’s The May Fourth Movement, published in 1960 by Harvard University Press, with the Chinese scholar Peng Ming’s 彭 明 Wu si yundong 五四运动 (The May Fourth Movement) first published in 1983 with a revised edition in 1998. Their political views and historical training are worlds apart, but Chapter 3 of the former work and Chapter 5 of the latter are very close in their descriptions of how New Youth was started and its historical contribution. The reason for this is quite simple. The narratives provided by the members of the New Youth group themselves are fairly complete so there is little room for turning things around. An evaluation of New Youth’s historical contribution will vary depending on whether you look at it from literary, intellectual or political history. This essay has considered the narratives of the New Youth group, the ongoing research of later historians, and my own personal understanding of the ‘May Fourth myth,’ in an attempt to combine intellectual history and literary history. My main aim was to restore New Youth’s reputation as ‘the most famous journal of its generation.’ On this basis, I have explored the unseen historical value 169

Schwarcz, The Chinese Enlightenment, 242.

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and practical significance of ‘literature seen from the perspective of intellectual history.’ May 2001 to October 2002 Beijing and Taipei

CHAPTER THREE

ENQUIRING INTO THE MEANING OF THE UNIVERSITY— CAI YUANPEI AS AN EDUCATIONIST The life of Cai Yuanpei unfolded on a magnificent scale. His greatest accomplishment was not in politics, nor was it in the arts; his greatest achievement was in education. His ten years at Peking University saw the bringing into full play of his audacity and knowledge, especially with respect to the concept of a university. Indeed, his conceptualization of the university has continued to be accorded great importance by his many successors up to the present. In my view, the most original aspects of Cai Yuanpei’s ideals and practice concerning the university are the following three points: firstly, his concepts of ‘inclusiveness’ (jianrong bingbao 兼 容 并 包 ) and ‘freedom of thought;’ secondly, his insistence on universities’ intellectual independence from external forces and the internal promotion of scholarly depth; and thirdly, the use of ‘aesthetic education’ in order to cultivate the individual. This chapter concerns itself with these three main points as a means to expound upon how ‘Cai Yuanpei the educationist’ made ‘enquiries into the meaning of the university.’ The Ideal of the ‘Inclusive’ University As he was the ‘eternal chancellor’ of PKU, the value of reflecting upon Cai Yuanpei’s accomplishments has never ceased, and lies primarily in his establishment of the basic character of the university. Over the last hundred years in China, an innumerable number of persons of great achievement have appeared; but when speaking of those having a lasting impact on PKU, up till today, no one stands shoulder to shoulder with Cai. Moreover, his assumption of the chancellorship at PKU has by now practically become a myth—the fact that one person’s erudition and talent so unexpectedly matched the needs of the time is surely hard to come by and not easily repeated. Cai’s greatest contribution to modern China was unquestionably in the field of university education. His ideas about the university were

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systematically presented in the article ‘University Education,’ which he wrote for the 1930 Great Education Dictionary; as for the level of implementation, there is no harm in referring to his self-compiled ‘Biographical Sketch, Part 1’ (1919) for further information. What is interesting is that both articles centre their discussion around the notions of ‘freedom of thought’ and ‘inclusiveness.’ In ‘University Education,’ Cai Yuanpei emphasized the autonomy of the students, which the university should have no qualms about indulging, and which is the basic difference between it and secondary school. The two parts of this judgment are mutually reliant: since students have the ability to determine right and wrong, the university cannot monopolize their thinking; rather, the university must encourage them to think independently, and this in turn will result in the students being able to judge independently: The modern principle of freedom of thought has already been publicly accepted, but the ability to make this happen rests solely with the university. The expression of thought by university teachers is not only free of restriction by religion or political parties, but also of constraints imposed by renowned scholars. If one has a view and expounds it in a reasonable manner, then even within the same school, opposing theories can be allowed to co-exist, providing the students the opportunity to compare and choose. This is what makes a true institution of higher education.1

This is perhaps a straightforward proposition, but the actual implementation of it can prove quite difficult. This is so because it involves the objectives of modern education, the power of the nationstate, as well as ideological control. It is definitely not a randomly appearing ripple on the surface of a campus lake. As Cai Yuanpei stated, the reasons for permitting ‘opposing theories’ to co-exist included not only the belief in the ability of students to think independently, but also an understanding of normal academic competition as opposed to intellectual agitation. ‘In general, I believe that the division of academia into different schools of thought is relative, not absolute.’2 This juxtaposition of multiple theories would allow students to ‘compare and select,’ and this was to be at the heart 1

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Daxue jiaoyu’ 大学教育 (University Education), in Cai Yuanpei quanji (hereafter CYPQJ), vol. 5 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1988), 507508. 2 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Wo zai Beijing daxue de jingli’ 我在北京大学的经历 (My Experiences at Peking University), CYPQJ, vol. 6, 351.

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of the education revolution. These ideas were viewed as the remedy for the central flaw perceived to exist in traditional Chinese thought. In the ‘Biographical Sketch, Part 1,’ written in August 1919, Cai rapidly theorizes his experiences of administering PKU. As he unfolds his ideas concerning institutes of higher education, Cai expresses a grand ideal: to transform the style of thinking typical of the traditional Chinese intellectual habit of ‘deference to a single authority’ (dingyuyizun 定于一尊): I believe that the university must embrace all thinkers and their writings. Regardless of one’s school of thought, if one adheres to it for good reason and expresses it reasonably, it should be tolerated and included, and allowed to develop freely. This was the meaning I expressed in detail in my inaugural introduction to the Peking University Monthly. However, China has never had a tradition of free thought. There is always a preference to use one’s personal faction to oppress another, to discriminate against and ridicule them. This is why I made a reasoned response to the queries in the letter from Lin Qinnan 林琴南 [i.e. Lin Shu].3

While these two works emphasized the ‘inclusive theory of education,’ the abovementioned inaugural introduction to the Peking University Monthly and the later work, ‘Letter to Public Voice and Response to Lin Qinnan,’ are slightly different in their exposition of this idea.4 The former spoke of inclusiveness towards different academic factions, for example idealism and materialism in philosophy, realism and idealism in literature, motivism and utilitarianism in ethics, and optimism and pessimism in cosmology. The latter highlighted the tolerance of different political positions, stating that academic achievement is the core occupation of university teachers, and that their off-campus activities should not be restricted. Yet, ‘my country carries thousands of years of aged, autocratic academic habits, and there has always been a preference to cling to narrow views, based solely on one’s own experience.’5 As far as dissenters are concerned, light offenders would see their teaching positions taken away from them, whereas serious offenders would pay with 3

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Zhuanlüe (shang)’ 传略（上）(Biographical Sketch, Part 1), CYPQJ, vol. 3 (1984), 332. 4 Cf. CYPQJ , vol. 3, 210212, 267272. 5 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Beijing daxue yuekan fakanci’ 北京大学月刊发刊词 (Inaugural Introduction to the Peking University Monthly), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 211.

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their lives. By importing the Western academic system, Cai Yuanpei hoped that it would create an ‘island of refuge’ for the freedom of thought. Borrowing from Isaiah Berlin’s ‘Four Essays on Liberty’ (1969), the theory of ‘inclusive education’ can be seen as a type of ‘negative liberty.’ Its special quality lies in the protection given to different schools of thought to be freely expressed. In the special context of China, an institutionalized ‘ideology of inclusiveness’ (jianrong bingbao zhuyi 兼容并包主义) was probably more difficult to realize than an individualized ‘freedom of thought.’ This can help in understanding why, when Cai Yuanpei argued for ‘following the general rule of all universities in the world, adhering to the principle of “freedom of thought” and implementing “inclusiveness,”’ he often emphasized the latter. 6 In November 1945, the chancellor of Tsinghua University, Mei Yiqi 梅贻琦 (18891962), wrote in his journal the following, which can be contrasted with the above quotation from Cai Yuanpei: With respect to school authorities, I hold that we should follow Cai Yuanpei’s inclusive approach so as to be able to realize the mission of academic freedom. The so-called ‘new and old’ of the past and the ‘left and right’ of nowadays should all be given the opportunity to be explored at university, under equal conditions. These is what defined PKU in the past, and if we want this to define Tsinghua in the future, we should give it our full attention.7

As the chancellors of their respective universities, Cai and Mei both fully realized that, for a university, ‘inclusiveness’ was a matter of life and death. The attracting of renowned scholars, the specialized focus on academic work, and the promotion of independent thought would be impossible to implement without institutionalized ‘inclusiveness’ to prop it up. Why does the university require ‘inclusiveness?’ To encourage academic creativity, to give the students the advantages of selection, 6

Cai Yuanpei. ‘Zhi Gongyan bao han bing da Lin Qinnan han’ 致《公言报》函 并答林琴南函 (Letter to Public Voice and Response to Lin Qinnan), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 271. 7 Cf. Huang Yanfu 黄延复 and Ma Xiangwu 马相武, eds., Mei Yiqi yu Qinghua daxue 梅贻琦与清华大学 (Mei Yiqi and Tsinghua University) (Taiyuan: Shanxi jiaoyu chubanshe, 1995), 331. This entry appeared in a diary entitled ‘Manuscripts and Selected Jottings of Mei Yiqi,’ under the heading ‘Ideals for the Post-War Development of Tsinghua.’

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to accept the relativity of truth, and so on, could no doubt be the answer. However, in Cai Yuanpei’s mind, the most important thing was still how to resist pressure from political or religious organizations, in order to maintain the relative independence of educational institutions. This way of thinking is most intimately connected to his time spent studying in Germany. When mentioning the relative independence of universities, the German situation was often used by Cai as evidence. At the eruption of the ‘May Fourth’ Movement, Cai resigned his post in opposition to the government suppression of the activities of patriotic students. In his ‘Declaration of My Refusal to Continue as PKU Chancellor,’ he stated: ‘I absolutely cannot continue to hold the chancellor’s position at an un-free university; free thought is a universal law of all institutions of higher education in the world. Imperial Germany was an example of an enlightened autocracy where its universities had great freedom. Needless to say, this was even more the case in countries like the USA and France.’8 Three months later, however, at the insistence of the entire university faculty and student body, Cai returned to his prior position as chancellor. In his ‘Speech at the Welcome Meeting by All Students upon Resuming the Position of PKU Chancellor,’ Cai stated the following: ‘As you all know, prerevolution Germany was an autocracy, but its universities were incredibly democratic. The chancellors and department heads changed yearly through free elections by professorial staff meetings … What a wonderful spirit this was!’ 9 Referring to the German educational system, Cai emphasized that even if the nation’s government was autocratic, universities still had comparative independence and freedom. His organizing of professorial appraisal councils, his active encouragement given to student societies, and his opposition to direct political or governmental control of university campuses, were all his means to actively ensure institutionalized democracy and ‘inclusiveness’ at the university. 8

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Bu ken zai ren Beida xiaozhang de xuanyan’ 不肯再任北大校长 的宣言 (Declaration of My Refusal to Continue as PKU Chancellor), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 298. 9 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Huiren Beida xiaozhang zai quanti xuesheng huanying hui shang de yanshuo ci’ 回任北大校长在全体学生欢迎会上的演说词 (Speech at the Welcome Meeting by All Students upon Resuming the Position of PKU Chancellor), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 341.

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During the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture Movement, Cai was not the only educationist to pursue German-style independence and freedom for universities. Besides the on-the-spot observations of overseas Chinese students, the popularity of translations was another important route towards understanding the spirit of German institutions of higher education. The 1916 Commercial Press publication of The Spirit of German Education, by Yoshida Kumaji 吉田熊次 (18741964), played a significant role in the dissemination of German ideas on the university. This book introduced the usual carefree manner of German college students, as well as their patriotic fervour at critical moments, quite similar to the later behaviour of PKU students—despite the fact that no direct transmission took place. The text discussed German universities as ‘magical places of genuine freedom’: The education principle of German universities can be summed up in two words: free research. Education at German secondary schools is on the whole quite serious, but in contrast the university is completely different: there are no limitations and there is freedom in learning. Professors can speak of what they wish, students can study what they desire, and concentrate on the research questions that interest them. This has become the publically recognized system for higher education.10

This absolute freedom for professors to teach—and for students to listen to—the types of courses they wished, implies latent understanding of the boundlessness of learning, respect for individual choice, as well as high regard for independence of thought. In the process in which Cai Yuanpei established the PKU tradition, it was the German university model that provided the theoretical background, and thus the importance of this model was quite exceptional. Systems are man-made. Similarly drawing upon the experiences of the German educational system, the Qing authorities had put emphasis on ‘protecting the unity of the empire’ (bao diguo zhi tongyi 保 帝 国 之 统 一 ). 11 In contrast, Cai Yuanpei savoured the 10

Yoshida Kumaji, Deguo jiaoyu zhi jingshen 德国教育之精神 (The Spirit of German Education), trans. Hua Wenqi 华 文 祺 et al. (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1916), 19. 11 See Shu Xincheng 舒新城, ed., Zhongguo jindai jiaoyu shi ziliao 中国近代教 育史资料 (Materials on the History of Early Modern Chinese Education) (Beijing: Renmin jiaoyu chubanshe, 1961), vol. 1, 221.

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protection of professors’ and students’ ‘free research.’ Nearly all of Cai Yuanpei’s explanations of educational thought discussed the doctrine of ‘inclusiveness.’ What I propose to investigate in the following is what, aside from the German model, were the other factors that contributed to the establishment of this proud tradition at old PKU. No doubt personal charm cannot be neglected. As a member of the old revolutionary party, Cai Yuanpei had played a decisive role in early Republican politics, acting as the first Minister of Education. In comparison, the vast majority of campus-based educators could not boast such qualifications and experience. Cai was a Hanlin scholar during the Qing and a Minister of the Republic, who had studied in Germany and France, and was treated with respect by both new and old factions. Cai Yuanpei’s erudition, his ability to manage affairs, his high social position that was tempered with modesty, all meant that he nearly constantly received recognition from individuals with all manner of political ideals. That this happened in a period of ‘intense fluctuation in [political] banners,’ was indeed a miracle. As an educational ideal, the theory of ‘inclusive education’ was certainly not only Cai Yuanpei’s ‘exclusive way of thinking.’ It was, however, only Cai who seemed able to emulate it the most closely and use it the most efficaciously. Some credit for this must lie only with his personal temperament. Many have noted his magnanimous personality, mildness, indifference to fame, and unhurried nature; how he held strong views, but was never overbearing. Undoubtedly, all of these characteristics were advantages in presiding over the ‘inclusive’ governance of the school. Among all the numerous commentaries on Cai, Liang Shuming’s 梁漱溟 (18931988) is most splendid. In his ‘Remembering Cai Yuanpei,’ Liang states the following: Many commentators have discussed the quality of Cai’s ‘inclusive education,’ but I would like to add the following explanation: except for his awareness of the need to administer a university in this fashion, what is of greater importance is that his inborn nature possessed a love for and interest in extremely diverse fields of academic enquiry. If one were to introduce inclusiveness because one were aware that it was necessary, it would be artificial (i.e. false); if one is innately disposed towards it, then it is natural (i.e. real). Inclusiveness can be consciously studied, but if it comes from inborn ability, it cannot be acquired through studying. Intentional inclusiveness may indeed not

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be inclusive at all. Only if it stems from a genuine interest, will others be happy to be included, and will it hold together even when it becomes more complex. Only this is true intellectual ability and true magnanimity.12

Feng Youlan’s 冯友兰 (18951990) recollections of Cai Yuanpei were slightly different, but the meaning was the same, as he too focused on Cai’s ‘most lofty and even-tempered’ disposition. ‘Cai Yuanpei’s educational thought had two main ends, one was the long term influence of a solid education, and the other was inclusiveness. According to my experience, inclusiveness cannot be considered to be too difficult, but the long term influence of a solid education is.’ ‘The long-term influence of a solid education emanates from the mental state of the educationist himself,’ and therefore it is difficult to imitate, it is also impossible to practise by fraudulent means. 13 Firstly, there was his personal charm, and only then his erudition, talent, and position, otherwise it is impossible to understand why so many of the ‘inordinately proud’ scholars from PKU would only listen and give respect to Cai Yuanpei. In Cai Yuanpei’s understanding of the modern university, first came encompassing all schools of thought. Secondly, there was expert learning. These related to issues of both thought and education. Over the course of the past century in China, Cai Yuanpei may not have been the only person holding the ideal of the independent university and being able to truly implement it, but without a doubt he was the most remarkable. This was because of the fact that those who held similar positions would not necessarily have possessed his learning; and those with comparable learning would not necessarily have been in the same position; likewise, a person holding that position and having his knowledge may not have lived in the right time. Only the combination of the right time, the right place, and the right person allowed Cai Yuanpei to take up the chancellorship of PKU with such natural flair. Kang Youwei’s attempt to get things done quickly can thus be seen as the typical route for a politician; 12

Liang Shuming, ‘Jinian Cai Yuanpei xiansheng’ 纪 念 蔡 元 培 先 生 (Remembering Cai Yuanpei), in Yiwang tanjiu lu (Beijing: Zhongguo wenshi chubanshe, 1987), 89. 13 Feng Youlan, ‘Wo suo renshi de Cai Jiemin xiansheng’ 我所认识的蔡孑民先 生 (Cai Jiemin as I Knew Him), in Zhuiyi Cai Yuanpei, ed. Chen Pingyuan and Zheng Yong (Beijing: Zhongguo guangbo dianshi chubanshe, 1997), 168.

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Zhang Taiyan’s erudition towered over the rest, and could be said to be the objective of all learned men; Jiang Menglin’s 蒋 梦 麟 (18861964) strict adherence to the rules could have been the best way to run any school—but only Cai Yuanpei had the type of knowledge, breadth of mind, character, and talent that was up to the great task of establishing the ‘PKU tradition.’14 For a university chancellor, it was not easy to ‘follow the principle of free thought and adopt the ideology of inclusiveness.’ It was necessary both to resist society’s pressures and to establish an internal order. To allow for ‘heteroglossia’ to be expressed in an ‘orderly’ manner: this is the university’s ideal state of affairs. It was not only about creating an organizational structure that merged East and West, combining the new and the old, gathering the young and the elderly, but even more importantly about rallying, to the greatest possible extent, everybody’s enthusiasm, in order to achieve the objective of freedom of thought and research specialization. Here the erudition and the interest of the university chancellor were of great significance. To manage dissenting voices is without a doubt a virtue, but as university chancellor, this was far from sufficient. If there is no way to judge which type of doctrine sounds ‘reasonable,’ and everything is simply ‘tolerated,’ then the university will become a general store that has all sorts of fantastic oddities of every description, but which, basically, has no way to undertake the responsibility to cultivate talented persons and improve academia. As university chancellor, Cai Yuanpei was praiseworthy for accurately judging the value of different schools of thought and determining strategies for their development, either letting them run their natural cause, providing them with appropriate support, or expending great energy to advocate them. Considering his governance of the university as simply ‘holding a bowl of water steady,’ is rather to underestimate his promotion of the New Culture Movement.

14

[Translator’s note] Kang Youwei masterminded the unsuccessful Hundred Days Reform of 1898. Zhang Taiyan was widely respected for his scholarship but his attempts to be involved in educational reform were largely unsuccessful. Jiang Menlin served as Minister of Education in the Guomindang government and later succeeded Cai Yuanpei as PKU President, but never achieved the kind of reputation that Cai continues to enjoy.

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After Cai Yuanpei assumed the chancellor’s position at PKU, he used the humanities as his entry point for carrying out reforms. Historians have commonly explained this by saying that ‘within the humanities teaching faculty, the stubborn protectors of the old were numerous, and they were the greatest impediment to the development of PKU.’15 In fact, before Cai became chancellor, there had already been many humanities faculty members advocating reform, so the humanities were definitely not the main ‘impediment to the development of PKU.’16 Chancellor Cai’s act of farsightedness, at the very least, can be explained as follows: Firstly, the humanities and sciences faculties constituted the core of PKU. While the sciences had only recently begun, the humanities on the other hand were strong and solid. Secondly, choosing to focus on building up the sciences would require much more funding than the transformation of the humanities, much more than the university’s finances, in dire straits at the time, would be able to afford. Thirdly, in terms of influencing the prevailing thoughts and social customs of the era, the humanities undoubtedly offered a more direct and more effective approach. If Cai Yuanpei had first managed the sciences, PKU would not have been able to change beyond recognition within two to three years, nor would it have become a leader of the trends of the age. Lastly, perhaps most importantly, the transformation of the humanities was within the scope of Cai’s own interests and abilities. Thinking of the deployment of troops at this time, especially selecting Chen Duxiu, Hu Shi, Zhou Zuoren, Liu Bannong, and other humanities faculty members, as well as managing magazines, organizing groups, changing course curricula, and promoting aesthetic education, all manner of decisions influencing the overall features of PKU involved Cai Yuanpei and his personal determinations. Cai Yuanpei was not really familiar with the sciences. As for engineering and business faculties, he advocated their transferral away from PKU. It is undeniable that in his administration of PKU, Cai concentrated most of his energy on the humanities. What is worth paying attention to is that he gave more or less equal consideration to all the individual departments in the humanities, holding clear views on how 15

Cf. Xiao Chaoran, Peking University and the May Fourth Movement, 73. See my Lao Beida de gushi 老北大的故事 (Stories of Old PKU) (Nanjing: Jiangsu wenyi chubanshe, 1998), 1214. 16

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to reform them. Considering someone else from either engineering or the sciences, or an eminent humanities scholar specialized in one particular discipline, it would have been very difficult for them to emulate Cai’s manner of grasping the occasion, striking on all fronts and, at one fell swoop, establishing what was to be the basic setup of PKU for many decades to come. Later generations of researchers who have closely examined Cai Yuanpei’s handling of the reforms at PKU, have all been surprised at the extensive breadth of his action, as well as the speed of the advancements, and how all ‘reached their goal in one step,’ without any procrastination on Cai’s part. The ten-plus years of teaching experience and administrative practice, as well as his careful reflections during his time spent studying overseas, allowed Cai—after he became chancellor—to devise battle strategies and direct with ease and competence. Besides this, I would also like to re-emphasize his extremely broad academic interests. During his three years at the University of Leipzig, Cai attended ‘all classes in philosophy, literature, history of civilization, and anthropology, as long as they did not clash with each other, paying special attention to experimental psychology and aesthetics.’17 When he was near seventy years of age, Cai wrote ‘If I Were Twenty Again,’ his own account of his studies and his regrets: If I could be twenty years old again, I would certainly study more foreign languages, starting with English, Italian, then moving on to Greek and Sanskrit. I would want to take extra lessons in the natural sciences, and then indulge in my love for aesthetics and world art history.18

In modern China, it is possible to find a few other famous officials who possessed the same type of adoration for intellectual pursuits and the same voracious appetite in reading. However, apart from Cai, there have been none who showed an interest in such a multitude of disciplines and maintained such deep interest over the years. To have too broad a range of academic interests is not necessarily a good thing for a specialized academic, as it can transform into unrestrained activity without results. However, for a university 17

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Biographical Sketch, Part 1,’ 327. Cai Yuanpei, ‘Jiaru wo de nianji huidao ershi sui’ 假如我的年纪回到二十岁 (If I Were Twenty Again), CYPQJ, vol. 6, 522. 18

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chancellor, it is a huge asset. Without it, how can one judge the value of different schools of thought? Many articles reminiscing upon Cai Yuanpei express their admiration of his erudition through lavish complements. Li Ji 李济 (18961979), for instance, wrote: In the late Qing, Cai Yuanpei was an official at the Hanlin Academy, so his foundation in National Learning was good, this hardly needs mentioning. Moreover, after studying in Germany and France, he also knew Western science and academia like the back of his hand. His achievements in both Chinese and Western scholarship enabled his learning to become both great and profound.19

Cai Yuanpei’s learning was indeed extensive, but it may not have been necessarily profound. Wang Yunwu 王 云 五 (18881979) similarly praised the breadth of Cai’s erudition, noting its encompassing of the new and old, Chinese and Western schools of thought, the humanities and the social sciences. He also recounted how, on the occasion of Cai’s sixty-fifth birthday, his colleagues at the Academia Sinica offered the following congratulatory couplet: He holds in his person the very essence of domestic Chinese learning He spreads far and wide the full breadth of Western thought20

Concurrent interest in ‘Chinese learning’ and ‘Western thought’ was truly Cai’s special quality. However, what should be praised most was his vast field of vision, not his outstanding achievements. In the scholarly world of twentieth-century China, Cai Yuanpei has no prominent position in literature, historiography, philosophy, or ethics, and his published works are far from indispensible. But this has little influence on his remarkable standing in the history of modern Chinese thought. The development of modern academia has tended towards professionalization and, because of this, it has become easier to find specialists and more difficult to find a multi-talented person. As it turns out, however, the work of overseeing a university administration requires multi-talented people and not specialists. Just look at Cai Yuanpei’s exuberant discussions on literature, historiography, philosophy, aesthetics, musicology, politics, ethics, and education; he 19

Li Ji, ‘Ronghui Zhong Xi xueshu de dashi’ 融会中西学术的大师 (Great Master of Integrating Chinese and Western Scholarship), in Zhuiyi Cai Yuanpei, 405. 20 Wang Yunwu, ‘Cai Jiemin xiansheng de gongxian’ 蔡孑民先生的贡献 (Cai Jiemin’s Contributions), Dongfang zazhi 37, no. 8 (1940).

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possessed a ‘high level of general knowledge,’ which you cannot but admire. A university chancellor like this has the right to talk about ‘inclusive education.’ Only by possessing widespread scholarly knowledge can one have academic perspicacity and the power to judge. So-called ‘learnedness’ (shijian 识鉴) and so-called ‘bearing’ (qidu 气度) all derive from this. Discussing Cai Yuanpei’s successes, actually, one point still has to be made which must not be neglected, and that is the aspect of the needs of the time. Cai’s ten years at the helm of PKU, as it turned out, was the period after the overthrow of the Qing government, when the foundations for the new Republic had not yet settled. It was a period of chaos, with the leadership of the government continuously in flux. The warlord fighting and the lack of funding for education would certainly cause headaches for any university chancellor. But such a situation has another side to it: at such a time of transformation from the old to the new, there were no boundaries that could not be overstepped, nor any authorities that could not be challenged, and so this was an optimal moment to attempt to institute new ways of doing things. Cai Yuanpei’s advocacy of ‘inclusive education’ was connected to his ideal of educational independence. In his point of view, ‘the task of educating should be completely given to the educators to ensure its independent status and the complete rejection of political and religious influence.’21 The reason for this was that education sought a long-term objective, whereas the policies of political parties sought short-term results; the two cannot easily be in step. This was Cai Yuanpei’s ‘card in hand’ to defend resolutely the university’s right to intellectual independence; and it was also on this point that Cai’s diligent work reached its limit. During the Northern Warlord period, Cai was able to use his fame, the pressure of society’s public opinion, as well as the power of the southern political authorities and their military to, at least to some degree, maintain the independence of PKU. At the most serious moments, he even made the following public statements: ‘We are severing all direct links with the government in Beijing, and appointing a new governing body;’ ‘The hiring of professors will be 21

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Jiaoyu duli yi’ 教 育 独 立 议 (A Discussion of Educational Independence), CYPQJ, vol. 4 (1984), 177.

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done by this university, without any direct association with the Beijing government. As long as there is sufficient funding, we shall act as independently as possible;’ ‘Political bureaucrats have ruined the educational plan and yet their power is still increasing;’ and ‘Without anxiously planning other means for the independence of higher education, [we] will inevitably perish together.’22 The above intense statements—despite being only temporary imaginings—may serve to highlight the Northern government’s lack of authority. The success of the Northern Expedition and the unification of China under the Guomindang (GMD) started the ‘partification (danghua 党 化 ) of education,’ wherein the educational situation witnessed a fundamental transformation. Not only was the slogan ‘independent education’ prohibited, but university curricula even required investigation and censure; the efficacy of university professors to govern their own schools suffered rigorous challenges, and the cultural space to express political opinions freely became increasingly perilous. Showing no understanding of the times, Hu Shi continued to ‘speak rashly about human rights’ and ‘criticize the party-state,’ and thus he was given serious warning from the new government and very nearly ‘paid with his life.’ Cai Yuanpei’s fame was even greater and his position even higher, but even he was unable to stem the tide. It is fortunate that from July 1927 onwards, Cai Yuanpei ceased to be PKU chancellor. So at least the beginning and end of ‘Cai Yuanpei’s PKU’ were more or less consistent. Between 1917 and 1927, in that transitional moment of moving from the power of the old to that of the new, Cai Yuanpei, as chancellor of PKU, was able to unfurl his grand design. This not only helped begin the great tide of the ‘May Fourth,’ but brought to China the university ideal of ‘inclusiveness.’

22

Cf. Cai’s letters to Peking University teaching and administrative staff, to Peking University students, and to the Council of Teaching and Administrative Staff of State Schools in Beijing, CYPQJ, vol. 4, 326329.

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A Different Interpretation of the PKU Tradition The highest possible praise for Cai Yuanpei’s contributions to modern Chinese political and intellectual culture has come from Liang Shuming: The origins of today’s New China must be traced to the new democratic revolution, and this new democratic revolution first began with the May Fourth Movement. However, if it were not for the Peking University of those days, the May Fourth Movement would not have materialized; moreover, if Cai Yuanpei were not chancellor, then the Peking University of those days would not have existed.23

The first half of the above quotation is based on Mao Zedong’s ‘On New Democracy’ (1940); the latter half in contrast comes from the general consensus of those who admired Cai Yuanpei. However, the combination of these two independent and ‘reasonable’ statements causes a not entirely desirable result: Cai Yuanpei for all intents and purposes becomes the founder of ‘New China.’ When investigations into origins make too much of an effort, they risk falling into the following trap: what they exaggerate is distorted, and what fades from their memory is hidden from view. The former refers to the seemingly ‘logical’ deduction above, which runs counter to historical fact; the latter refers to the disregard for Cai Yuanpei as an educator. Since Cai Yuanpei’s assumption of the chancellor’s role at PKU is classified as a major event in the history of modern China, why am I still muttering about it? The reason is simple: the institution of higher education that Cai administered over was at that time China’s only national university. If all it did was initiate a political movement (even though later the significance of this movement turned out to be extremely deep and profound), then from an educational perspective this cannot possibly be considered a great achievement. Discussing Cai Yuanpei’s many contributions in the frame of the ‘May Fourth’ Movement—a powerful mainstream discourse—inevitably obliterates PKU from the history of scholarship and Cai Yuanpei from the history of modern education. 23

Liang Shuming, ‘Wu si yundong qianhou de Beijing daxue’ 五四运动前后的 北京大学 (Peking University around the Time of the May Fourth Movement), in Yiwang tanjiu lu, 84.

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In my view, Cai Yuanpei was first and foremost an educationist and only after that a politician. This is like saying that PKU is first and foremost China’s top university, and only after that the centre of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture Movement. There is nothing remarkable about saying it. The statement only gathers significance in relation to the fashionable efforts to extol Cai Yuanpei. The misreading of Cai Yuanpei and the distorted opinions about the PKU tradition both stem from the same source, namely, the refusal to acknowledge that the main function of a university is the dissemination of knowledge and the development of scholarship. This chapter hopes to assist in decoding Cai Yuanpei’s field of vision and to reveal a long-hidden side of the PKU tradition. By September 1919, the high tide of the ‘May Fourth’ Movement had just passed, but the deep and profound historical influence of the event had yet to reveal itself. The political enthusiasm of PKU’s students had shocked the nation. In response to the public’s reservations concerning the student’s activities, Cai Yuanpei released his ‘Speech at the Opening of the Twenty-Second Academic Year of PKU,’ in which he stated: Since the wave of student demonstrations, quite a few outside PKU have said that its students are only involved in political activity, that they can only act and not be calm. These people do not know that the students’ participation in this protest tide was a special activity, spurred on by their ardent patriotic fervour. As soon as they have the opportunity to research and study, they are still as calm and composed as before.24

Emphasizing that the university was ‘an institution of research and study’ was Cai Yuanpei’s constant position, and this was not an expedient plan to deal with the pressure of public opinion. One year prior, in 1918, Cai stated in his lecture at the opening of the academic year that ‘the university is an institution for pure research and learning’ and that ‘those who study must have interest in research and learning, and they must cultivate the personality of a scholar.’ What made Cai especially proud was that ‘in the past year, this university established a graduate school and increased its holdings of reference works, all in order to raise the interest in research and 24

Cai Yuanpei. ‘Beida di-ershier nian kaixue yanshuoci’ 北大第二十二年开学 演说词 (Speech at the Opening of the Twenty-Second Academic Year of PKU), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 343344.

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scholarship.’25 Two years later, PKU published the ‘General Regulations of the Research School,’ which in the beginning stated: ‘The Research School will follow the German and American seminar models, devoting itself to the pursuit of specialized knowledge.’26 In the history of education in modern China, the earliest ‘new education’ systems, established in 1902 and in 1903, both made mechanical and hypothetical mention of an ‘Institute of Scholars’ (tongruyuan 通儒院) (or a ‘University College’ [daxueyuan 大学院]) devoted to ‘research into the hidden depths and meanings of every branch of science.’ In October 1912, at the time that Cai Yuanpei was in charge of the Ministry of Education, a ‘University Decree’ was promulgated. In it, ‘using loyalty and filial piety as the basis,’ was no longer mentioned. Rather, emphasis was given to the fact that ‘the university’s aim is to teach profound scholarship, cultivate great talent, and serve the nation’s needs.’ For this, a university college was considered even more indispensible. 27 These ‘unrestricted’ graduate colleges were required to ‘yield the discovery of new scholarly principles or the publication of important writings,’ and they could award academic degrees only after confirmation from the university’s advisory council. For the level of this period’s new schools, these aims were too high, highlighting that the plans were more like ambitious ideals. As expected, after Cai Yuanpei assumed administrative control over PKU, the university entered a period of determined effort which, five years later, led to the establishment of China’s first specialized institute for ‘profound scholarly’ teaching and research—the National Learning Department of the Peking University Research School (Beijing daxue yanjiusuo guoxuemen 北 京大学研究所国学门). However, the two explanations above seem to have a mutual contradiction. Since 1918, there was already the directive concerning the ‘establishment of a research school.’ Why then two years later did 25

Cf. Cai Yuanpei, ‘Beida yi jiu yi ba nian kaixueshi yanshuoci’ 北大一九一八 年开学式演说词 (Speech at the 1918 Opening of the Academic Year at PKU), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 191. 26 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Gongbu Beida “Yanjiusuo jianzhang” bugao’ 公布北大《研究 所简章》布告 (Announcement of the ‘General Regulations of the Research School’ at PKU), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 439. 27 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Daxue ling’ 大学令 (University Decree), CYPQJ, vol. 2 (1984), 283285.

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they need to plan and promulgate the ‘general regulations?’ The many published university histories all dutifully copy these two sources, yet they fail to make any distinction, leaving the reader in the dark. Actually, the situation was not complicated and Cai Yuanpei had a reasonable explanation for this problem. In October 1926, he composed the article ‘Improvements in the Chinese Education System over the Last Fifteen Years,’ wherein he highlighted the difficulties in establishing research institutes: In the first year of the Republic [1912], the regulations for universities decided upon by the Ministry of Education originally contained a provision for research schools, but none of the universities had implemented it. In 1918, National Peking University drew up plans to establish research schools for all the departments, but since we had no way of raising the funds, it was never done. In 1921 it was decided to merge the disciplines into four departments: natural sciences, social sciences, National Learning, and foreign literature. The National Learning Department was set up in 1922. Over the last five years, its editorial office, its archaeological research office, the Ming-Qing historical records collating society, the folk customs survey society, the folk song research office, and the dialect survey association have all had quite a few accomplishments. Thirty-two research students have been registered, twelve of whom have contributed knowledgeable works. The achievements in teaching and research of the departments of geology, physics, and so on—despite the fact that research schools have not yet been established for these disciplines—have been widely acknowledged. In the past two years, Tsinghua University has established a research college and Xiamen University has set up a National Learning research school. This is clear evidence of the improvements made in university education.28

The PKU research schools ‘planned’ in 1918 did in fact not run into difficulties due to lack of funding, as Cai is trying to suggest here. In 1923, in celebration of PKU’s twenty-fifth anniversary, the university authorities compiled and published the General Outline of National Peking University, wherein it was stated: ‘In 1918, research schools in all disciplines were founded, and the monthly increases in funding were 4,500 yuan.’29 The problem, however, was that, after the initial 28

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Shiwu nian lai woguo daxue jiaoyu zhi jinbu’ 十五年来我国大 学教育之进步 (Improvements in the Chinese University Education System over the Last Fifteen Years), CYPQJ, vol. 5, 90. 29 Cf. Guoli Beijing daxue gailüe 国 立 北 京 大 学 概 略 (General Outline of National Peking University) (Peking University woodblock edition, 1923).

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funding, it was hard to keep things going. Students that were recruited quickly dispersed. That is why Cai cautiously spoke of ‘plans.’ Reading the Album to Commemorate the Twentieth Anniversary of National Peking University, it is not difficult to discover that the section on ‘developments over time’ and the section on ‘rules and regulations’ were both equally concerned with the introduction of research schools. And in the list of ‘students on campus’ we find the names, styles, regional origins, secondary education details, research subjects, and contact information for research students in humanities, natural sciences, and law. 30 A black-on-white printed document should be accurate and free of errors, should it not? This was not the case, however. At the time, school authorities believed it was easy to run research schools, and requested that the ‘various departments in the various faculties and the various academic areas in each department, without exception, should set up research institutes.’ In the Humanities Faculty only, in the first year, the Philosophy Department had 21 research students, the National Language Department had 44, and the English Department had 10 (with some overlap between them). On such a large scale, bearing in mind PKU’s actual economic and academic capacity, it looked more like a ‘paper exercise’ (zhishang wenzhang 纸上文章). Looking only at the name register, research schools had indeed already been established, but the chancellor knew what was transpiring, and would not dare rely on these mere paper records. On the occasion of the thirty-fifth anniversary of the school, PKU published An Outline History of National Peking University, which referred to the matter and stated: ‘Financial resources and talented persons were both felt to be insufficient, and although there was a plan, it remained quite sketchy;’ and in An Overview of Fifty Years of National Peking University (1948), the ‘summary of humanities research institutes’ also only starts in January 1922.31

30

Cf. Guoli Beijing daxue nian zhounian jiniance 国立北京大学廿周年纪念册 (Album to Commemorate the Twentieth Anniversary of National Peking University) (Peking University woodblock edition, 1918). 31 Cf. Guoli Beijing daxue xiao shilüe 国立北京大学校史略 (An Outline History of National Peking University) (Peking University woodblock edition, 1933) and Guoli Beijing daxue wushi nian jinian yilan 国立北京大学五十年纪念一览 (An

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On November 28, 1921, Cai Yuanpei’s ‘Summary Proposal for Organizing a PKU Research School’ was brought before the university’s advisory council and was duly adopted. In January of the next year, the Research School National Learning Department was formally established. With Cai as its Chair, the departmental steering committee also included Gu Mengyu, Shen Jianshi 沈 兼 士 (18871947), Li Dazhao, Ma Yuzao 马裕藻 (18781945), Zhu Xizu 朱希祖 (18791944), Hu Shi, Qian Xuantong, and Zhou Zuoren. Moreover, they also appointed Wang Guowei, Chen Tan 陈 坦 (18801971), Alexander von Stael-Holstein (18771937), Aleksei Ivanov (18771937), Chen Yinke, and Ke Shaomin 柯 劭 忞 (18481933) as research supervisors. The research concentration was directed towards fecund new branches of learning such as archaeology, folk songs, investigations into folk customs and dialects, and the (re)arrangement of the Ming-Qing archives. The accomplishments of the professors are well-known by many today, but the situation for the students needs some explanation. According to the Outline of National Peking University, published in 1923, there were at that time only sixteen ‘research students assessed and considered qualified by the departmental steering committee.’ Five of them had already produced a total of six publications: Yin Wenzi jiaoshi 尹文 子校释 (Yin Wenzi Collated and Annotated) by Luo Yong 罗庸 (19001950), Gongsun Longzi zhu 公孙龙子注 (Commentary to Gongsun Longzi) by Zhang Xu 张煦 (18931983), Laozi jiaozhu 老 子 校 注 (Laozi Collated with Commentary) by Zhang Xu 张 煦 , Huanghe bianqian kao 黄河变迁考 (Investigation into Yellow River Course Changes) by Duan Yi 段 颐 , Jin wen bian 金 文 编 (Compilation of Jin Dynasty Texts) by Rong Geng 容 庚 (18941983), and Yinxu wenzi leibian 殷墟文字类编 (Categorized Compilation of Yinxu Writings) by Shang Chengzuo 商 承 祚 (19021991). After this, the education of PKU research students was finally on the right track. And for Cai Yuanpei, who had emphasized that the university is not only for the cultivation of talent, but equally a collaborative research environment for teachers and students, requiring constant new inventions and discoveries, this symbolized the coming of age of Chinese university education. Overview of Fifty Years of National Peking University) (Peking University woodblock edition, 1948).

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As university chancellor, why did Cai Yuanpei place so much importance on the establishment of research schools? Five years before his passing, when he was already President of Academia Sinica, he wrote in his ‘Why Universities Should Establish Research Schools in All Fields’ that ever since the late Qing government had drawn up plans for a new educational system, the establishment of research schools for professors and students to engage in research had been discussed under three different names—university colleges, institutes of scholars, and research colleges (yanjiuyuan 研究院)— but the purpose of all three had been ‘profound academic research.’ The success or failure of university education was closely related to the presence or absence of research schools; the reasons were: ‘First, if a university does not have a research college, then the teachers will easily fall into the bad habit of recycling their teaching materials, rather than seeking to improve.’ ‘Second, university graduates will lack the opportunities for advanced study, unless they go abroad.’ ‘Third, advanced senior students will have no opportunity to freely do research.’ 32 This last point could do with some elaboration: the fostering of an atmosphere of ‘free research’ in research schools would be for the benefit of the entire university and not just for the ‘advanced senior students.’ The establishment of research schools enabled the implementation of the ideas of leading intellectuals of the time about harmonizing Eastern and Western educational strategies. On the surface, PKU’s drafting of the General Regulations of the Research School only mentioned German and American seminar-style classes, with not a single word touching upon traditional Chinese academy (shuyuan 书 院) education, unlike Hu Shi’s design for the Tsinghua University research college, which emphasized being ‘modelled to some extent on the old academies and on the British university system.’33 Yet this 32

Cai Yuanpei. ‘Lun daxue ying she ge ke yanjiusuo zhi liyou’ 论大学应设各科 研究所之理由 (Why Universities Should Establish Research Schools in All Fields), CYPQJ, vol. 6, 475-477. 33 Lan Wenzheng 蓝文徵 has stated that Tsinghua chancellor Cao Yunxiang 曹云 祥 invited Hu Shi to help him establish the research college, and that ‘Hu Shi drew up a blueprint for the research college, which was partly an imitation of the traditional academies and the British university system.’ (‘Qinghua daxue guoxue yanjiuyuan shimo’ 清华大学国学研究院始末 (The Complete Story of the Tsinghua University Research College for National Learning), Qinghua xiaoyou tongxun, new series, 32 (1970); quoted from Yu Dawei 俞大维, ed., Tan Chen Yinke 谈陈寅恪

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did not to the slightest degree influence PKU’s continuation and development of the spirit of traditional education. The reason was that PKU, having transformed from the Imperial University of Peking (jingshi da xuetang 京师大学堂), already carried with it comparatively obvious remnants of the academy style of education, making it completely different from the Tsinghua School, which was founded as a prep school for US colleges. Besides the lectures in the classroom, independent thought was emphasized and importance was given to spiritual communication between teachers and students; for every person at PKU this unique method of teaching was something they were proud of and inklings of it had emerged well before Cai Yuanpei became chancellor. As Cai stated, PKU before the Republic ‘made use of the old academy methods of Chinese learning, selecting well-qualified students and letting them specialize in a single subject, under the supervision of teachers. This has something of the nature of a research college.’34 Luo Jialun, in ‘The Spirit of National Peking University,’ also mentioned that PKU’s cultivation of a free research atmosphere by no means happened overnight: ‘The atmosphere of students and their teachers sitting down together, raising difficulties and expressing opinions, was partly a legacy of the Imperial University. However, around 1918 or 1919 it became even (About Chen Yinke) (Taipei: Zhuanji wenxue chubanshe, 1978). This could be an exaggeration of Hu Shi’s role. At the time three other ‘consultants’ were involved in the preparations for the establishment of Tsinghua University, namely Fan Jingsheng 范静生, Zhang Boling 张伯苓, and Ding Zaijun 丁在军. This preparatory committee adopted the ‘Outline of Tsinghua University’s Work and Organization,’ which proposed to establish a research college. At this time, Hu Shi and Cao Yunxiang had numerous meetings, with many opinions exchanged. This is mentioned both in Qinghua daxue xiaoshi bianxie zu 清华大学校史编写组, Qinghua daxue xiao shilüe 清华大学校史略 (An Outline History of Tsinghua University) (Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 1981), 50, and in Su Yunfeng 苏云峰, Cong Qinghua xuetang dao Qinghua daxue 从清华学堂到清华大学 (From the Tsinghua School to Tsinghua University) (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan jindaishi yanjiusuo, 1996), 320. Note also that shortly prior to this, Hu Shi gave a lecture at Southeast University entitled ‘An Investigation into the History of the Old Academies,’ in which he examined the history of the shuyuan and praised their spirit, uttering the following deeply felt lament: ‘Regrettably the 1898 reforms overthrew the millennium-old shuyuan system, causing the spirit of research, advanced by scholars themselves for a thousand years, to be lost until the present day.’ See Dongfang zazhi 21, no. 3 (1924). 34 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Beida chengli ershiwu zhounian jinianhui kaimuci’ 北大成立二 十五周年纪念会开幕辞 (Opening Address for the Meeting Commemorating the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of the Founding of PKU), CYPQJ, vol. 4, 296.

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stronger.’35 Beginning in the 1920s, the phrase ‘PKU is old’36 became a much discussed topic, but it must be pointed out this was not a reference to the actual age of PKU, but to its temperament and spirit, as it contrasted with the phrase ‘Tsinghua is foreign.’ Establishing a research school with an ‘atmosphere of students and their teachers sitting down together, raising difficulties and expressing opinions,’ and using it to foster communication between Eastern and Western fields of learning, was one way of giving the ‘old’ in ‘PKU is old’ a positive interpretation. What is interesting is that when PKU launched its research school in 1922, it initially planned for four departments: natural sciences, social sciences, National Learning, and foreign literature. In reality, however, only the National Learning Department lived up to its name. Three years later, when the Tsinghua School founded its research college, it also started with a Department of National Learning. Why is it that both schools gave National Learning such a prime position? Cai Yuanpei’s explanation was that ‘[i]n the PKU departments of literature, philosophy, and other such fields, there were a basic number of teachers, while after Hu Shi joined the faculty, like attracted like, and many of his comrades joined as well, so there was a lot of interest in these topics.’37 Tsinghua University’s ‘Research College General Guidelines’ gave as reason that China’s rich array of canonical texts and recently discovered classical sources urgently required sorting out, as well as that changes in language, the evolution of folk customs, and the rise and fall of academic schools needed categorized research. 38 Furthermore, besides solid, strong teaching qualifications and bright prospects for the future of the discipline, there was one other pragmatic factor: neither PKU nor Tsinghua in those days would have been able to bear the huge cost of founding a natural sciences research school.

35

Luo Jialun, ‘Guoli Beijing daxue de jingshen’ 国立北京大学的精神 (The Spirit of National Peking University), in Xuefu jiwen: guoli Beijing daxue, ed. Mao Zishui, et al. (Taipei: Nanjing chuban gongsi, 1981). 36 See my Zhongguo daxue shi jiang 中国大学十讲 (Ten Talks on Chinese Universities) (Shanghai: Fudan daxue chubanshe, 2002), 190196. 37 Cai Yuanpei, ‘My Experiences at Peking University,’ 354. 38 ‘Yanjiuyuan jianzhang’ 研究院简章 (Research College General Guidelines), Qinghua zhoukan 360 (1925).

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While both saw National Learning as their primary goal, the development strategies at PKU and Tsinghua were quite different. Tsinghua was late in starting but, because of the support from the Boxer Indemnity, their funding was comparatively abundant, and their ‘hiring of famous teachers, and building of grand lecture halls’ was therefore quite effective. Tsinghua, moreover, went down the ‘road of celebrity.’ The research college’s ‘top four supervisors’ (Liang Qichao, Wang Guowei, Chen Yinke, and Zhao Yuanren 赵元 任 [18921982]) had their fame spread far and wide. Their seventyodd disciples, divided over four cohorts, went on to great achievements. Therefore contemporary perception is that they ‘outshone the competition.’ But by arranging its courses to suit its teachers, however, it came close to the single-master style education of the ancient academies. The result of paying little attention to setting up a modern academic system was that after Wang Guowei and Liang Qichao passed away, the ‘famous masters’ were difficult to replace, and the research college unfortunately died a premature death. (Of course the school’s shifting priorities were also an important reason). PKU’s research supervisors, perhaps not as famous as Liang, Wang, Chen, and Zhao, instead paid attention to the establishment of research centres and the expansion of new fields of learning. Over the course of several decades, there were no major rises and falls. In 1932, the research school’s National Learning Department changed its name to the Literature and History Section of the Research College, and in 1934 it changed its name again into the Humanities Research Institute. Even with the move South and then finally the return North during and after the War of Resistance (19371945), it maintained its strong reputation as PKU’s ‘golden badge of honour.’ In 1948, in celebration of the fiftieth year of PKU, several special exhibitions were held, the most famous being that of the Humanities Research Institute. In his inaugural introduction to the Peking University Monthly, Cai Yuanpei wrote these famous words: ‘What we call a university is not just a place where lectures are arranged punctually for large numbers of students, resulting in the production of qualified graduates. In reality it is an institution for collaborative academic research.’ 39 This type of ‘collaborative research’ requires both 39

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Inaugural Introduction to the Peking University Monthly,’ 210.

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students and teachers to have great interest and active participation in learning, and also depends on the school following the ‘principle of free thought’ and the theory of ‘inclusiveness.’ In addition, the publication of journals, the hiring of well-known scholars, the holding of public lectures, the organizing of academic societies, as well as the systematic founding of research institutes, all point towards free thought as well as scholarly depth. Besides this, the research school’s advocacy of ‘collaborative research’ still has another meaning, that is, it also means the surpassing of man-made barriers between disciplines. In February 1922, at the first meeting of the steering committee of the National Learning Department, Shen Jianshi, Hu Shi, and others emphasized that the research school setting up of a ‘National Learning Department,’ rather than a discipline-based unit, was aimed at ‘breaking through the concept of single disciplines departments,’ and ‘not to limit its scope to a single academic discipline.’40 Unfortunately the real significance of this idea has not been very well comprehended by later generations. Nowadays, many years later, the barriers between literature, history, philosophy, politics, law, and other departments at PKU are still increasing, rather than being torn down. At the time of Cai Yuanpei’s death in 1940, of the many eulogies written, only Gu Jiegang’s 顾 颉 刚 (18931980) ‘Mourning Cai Yuanpei’ and Wang Yunwu’s ‘Cai Jiemin’s Contributions’ spoke of his part in the establishment of PKU’s research schools.41 Most later works discussing Cai Yuanpei focus on more supposedly sophisticated arguments concerning political history and the history of thought, while very few deal with these ‘trifling matters.’ My compatriots’ predilection for grand narratives and lack of appreciation for the creation of concrete systems was most likely already quite common in the 1930s. If this were not the case, then Zhou Zuoren’s following lines of praise for the establishment of research schools at PKU would have been entirely superfluous: 40

Cf. ‘Yanjiusuo guoxuemen weiyuanhui di-yi ci huiyi jishi’ 研究所国学门委员 会 第 一 次 会 议 纪 事 (Minutes of the First Meeting of the National Learning Department of the Research School), Beijing daxue rikan 968, February 27, 1922. 41 Cf. Yu Yi 余毅 (Gu Jiegang), ‘Dao Cai Yuanpei xiansheng’ 悼蔡元培先生 (Mourning Cai Yuanpei) and Wang Yunwu, ‘Cai Jiemin’s Contributions,’ in Cai Yuanpei xiansheng jinianji, ed. Cai Jianguo (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), 4448 and 107112.

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Many things looked at after the fact do not seem so rare and strange, but the opening of [research schools] at that time was certainly not easy. It required quite some sagacity and courage.42

PKU’s establishment of research schools, as well as ‘its communication between arts and sciences, its attention to scientific principle, and its efforts to build scholarship,’ in Zhou Zuoren’s point of view, were worthy of being writ large. He Bingsong 何炳松 (18901946), also an educationist, who taught at PKU around the time of ‘May Fourth’ and later served as chancellor of Jinan 暨南 University for a long time, strongly reverberated these sentiments. In his essay ‘Thirty-Five Years of China’s University Education,’ written in 1931 to commemorate the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of the Commercial Press, He praised Cai Yuanpei’s appointment at PKU as ‘the beginning of an era,’ mentioning that ‘in 1918 there was the additional establishment of research schools in order to elevate the academic level,’ which allowed PKU to become the nation’s highest ranked institute of higher education and the leader of the New Culture Movement.43 Interpretations of the PKU tradition all hinge upon the narrator’s educational ideal. The transition from emphasizing academics to giving prominence to politics was completed in 1949. When contrasting A Chronology of Major Events at the Fiftieth Anniversary of National Peking University with either the detailed or the sketchy histories of PKU published afterwards, it is easy to see the massive difference. In the discursive framework of ‘the new democratic revolution,’ the Communist Party leadership of the student movement becomes the main thread in PKU’s history. The countless first-rate scholars of their time, recruited by Cai Yuanpei and others, their ‘enlightening teachings,’ and their contributions to research in the humanities, the social sciences, and natural sciences were shifted to a ‘secondary role’ in the history of the school. Half a century of rewriting history has caused the great name of the ‘research school for National Learning’ to cease to be intimately familiar to the current PKU community. 42

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Beida de zhilu’ 北大的支路 (PKU’s Side Roads), in Kuzhu zaji (Shanghai: Liangyou tushu gongsi, 1936). 43 Cf. He Bingsong, ‘Sanshiwu nian lai Zhongguo zhi daxue jiaoyu’ 三十五年来 中 国 之 大 学 教 育 (Thirty-Five Years of China’s University Education), in He Bingsong wenji (Beijing: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1990), 419.

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The academic world in China in the 1990s witnessed two noteworthy happenings: one was Tsinghua’s extensive discussion of its former research college and its four great supervisors; the other was PKU’s founding of the Research Centre for Traditional Chinese Culture and the publication of National Learning Research. These two affairs have a strong affinity with Cai Yuanpei’s erstwhile establishment of the research school for National Learning, even though this link was not even mentioned in the propaganda material issued by the PKU authorities. What was even more inexplicable was that, although the mission was clearly to promote ‘research on traditional Chinese culture,’ not only was the obvious link with the aptly named ‘research school for National Learning’ not made, but instead the propaganda referred back to New Youth, a journal known for its spreading of Western learning! Coming from people who are not experts in the history of the university, errors such as these are not surprising. What they show is that the once widely known research school for National Learning has already been incorporated into the narrative focused on political movements, and is gradually fading from memory. Cai Yuanpei used the founding of the research institutes as an opportunity to fight for intellectual freedom outside the university, while promoting scholarly depth inside it. These educational ideals, carrying the distinct imprint of the ideals of the German academy, had a long-lasting impact on PKU’s later development. People from PKU have always believed that what is comprised in the venerable chancellor’s theory of ‘inclusiveness’ is the new and the old, the East and the West, the arts and the sciences, the Han and the Song, and, all-importantly, politics and academia. Most people pay attention mainly to the determination and courage shown by PKU in the struggle for democracy. Of course there is nothing wrong with that. However, Cai’s famous statement ‘Study but do not forget to save the nation, save the nation but do not forget to study’ is the true portrayal of the spiritual life of PKU’s students and teachers. The founding of the research school highlights one other side of PKU’s tradition, namely, ‘its spirit of seeking to explain the rationale without reaping the reward,’ as well as its ‘at times somewhat abstruse […] PKU school tradition.’44 44

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Peking University’s Side Roads.’

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Art Education at the Old PKU In the history of twentieth-century Chinese educational thought, if you were to ask which topic had the most enduring attraction, then the answer would quite possibly be ‘Cai Yuanpei and old PKU.’ The chance encounter between an educationist gifted with the greatest sense of foresight and sagacity and a famous and highly influential institute of learning, during the period from 1917 to 1927, not only directly fostered the birth of the New Culture Movement, but left behind countless topics worthy of consideration and reflection— including the one to be discussed here, namely the issue of ‘art education.’ ‘Cai Yuanpei and art education at the old PKU’ is certainly not a new issue, and others have already discussed it long ago. However, when previous commentators compared the many discussions about art education from the time when Cai was chancellor of PKU, they often ignored the possibility of there being a huge rift between words and actions. What could be considered was not necessarily what could be carried out. Moreover, some people might have been ‘talking nonsense’ and others might have ‘implied something different to what they said.’45 Here I hope to bring in the dimensions of ‘PKU history’ and ‘a century of Chinese university history’ as a means to understanding PKU’s chancellor, Cai Yuanpei, and his care in engaging in ‘art education,’ hoping perhaps to expand the field of enquiry and get closer to the crux of the matter. Aesthetic Education, Not Fine Arts As Cai Yuanpei himself put it: ‘The expression aesthetic education (meiyu 美 育 ) is how I translated, in 1912, the German term ästhetische Erziehung. Prior to this the expression did not exist.’46 In 1912, upon becoming the Minister of Education in the Republic of China’s provisional government, Cai released his ‘Opinions on the 45

Cf. Liang Zhu 梁柱, ‘Cai Yuanpei de meiyu sixiang jiqi zai Beijing daxue de jianxing’ 蔡元培的美育思想及其在北京大学的践行 (Cai Yuanpei’s Aesthetic Education and Its Implementation at Peking University) and Ye Lang 叶朗, ‘Beijing daxue yishu jiaoyu de chuantong’ 北京大学艺术教育的传统 (The Tradition of Teaching Art at Peking University), both in Beijing daxue xuebao, no. 6 (2003). 46 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Ershiwu nian lai Zhongguo zhi meiyu’ 二十五年来中国之美育 (Aesthetic Education over the Last Twenty-Five Years in China), CYPQJ, vol. 6, 54.

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New Education,’ in which he proposed five concepts that should ‘all receive equal attention in today’s education’: national militarism (junguominzhuyi 军国民主义), pragmatism (shilizhuyi 实力主义), moral educationalism (deyuzhuyi 德 育 主 义 ), Weltanschauung (shijieguan 世界观), and aesthetic educationalism (meiyuzhuyi 美育 主义).47 In September of the same year, the Ministry of Education promulgated its educational aims, including: ‘Focus on moral education, supported by pragmatic education and national military education, and completing moral education by means of education in aesthetic sensibility.’ 48 This was most likely the prototype for the later determination of educational objectives in terms of ‘four equal elements’ (si yu bing ju 四育并举): moral education (deyu 德育), knowledge education (zhiyu 智育), physical education (tiyu 体育), and aesthetic education. What really made ‘aesthetic education’ a household name and attracted widespread attention from the intellectual and cultural world was another slogan from Cai: ‘Replacing religion with aesthetic education.’ It was first introduced in a lecture at the Shenzhou Scholarly Society in Beijing and later gave the title to an article. The article emphasized that religion is quite efficacious in affecting people’s emotions but it is too easily carried to extremes. ‘Any religion, without exception, wishes to expand its own doctrine and combat the teaching of others.’ Instead, the gentleness and fairness of aesthetic education would provide hundreds of advantages and not a single harm: If, having scrutinized the harm of exciting the emotions, we instead advocate the art of cultivating the emotions, then we will not reject religion but will transform it into pure aesthetic education. What cultivates our emotions in pure aesthetic education is that it produces pure and lofty habits and gradually eliminates selfishness and the concept of benefiting ourselves through harming others. If beauty is

47

Cf. Cai Yuanpei, ‘Duiyu xin jiaoyu zhi yijian’ 对于新教育之意见 (Opinions on the New Education), CYPQJ, vol. 2, 130137. 48 ‘Jiaoyubu gongbu jiaoyu zongzhi’ 教 育 部 公 布 教 育 宗 旨 (The Aims of Education as Promulgated by the Ministry of Education), in Materials on the History of Early Modern Chinese Education, ed. Shu Xincheng, 226.

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universal, there cannot exist within it the consciousness of ourselves as differentiated from other people. 49

Afterwards, Cai Yuanpei in his many speeches and essays never ceased to promote ‘aesthetic education,’ creating a major impact on education circles. Around the same time, ‘complete personality education’ (wanquan renge jiaoyu 完全人格教育)’ was also promoted, and the two set each other off nicely, even though they also had their differences. The greatest difference was that the former was not only one type of ‘education aim.’ Its grand desire to act as a replacement for religion made it become an ‘intellectual proposition.’ Because of this, its achievements and failures are more suitably examined in the context of intellectual history, rather than only the history of education. In 1930, Cai Yuanpei used an even simpler means of expression to explain the reason for his ‘not supporting the protection of religion and wanting to replace it with aesthetic education’: Since the development of the sciences, not only was it possible to use inductive methods to seek out the truth about natural history and social circumstances, but even things such as the unconscious mind, or ghost and monsters, could be researched by scientific methods. In modern society, explanations offered by religion appeared pale and powerless, therefore knowledge education bore no relationship to religion. This was the first aspect. Furthermore, a modern person’s morality must be in keeping with modern society and there is no way its rules could have been predicted by sages hundreds or thousands of years ago. Therefore, moral education is also not connected to religion. This is the second aspect. Then, what about the third? With knowledge education and moral education no longer connected to religion, could it be that religion would really have no value? No, this was not the case, it did have value. What value then? It had the following: Great stately architecture, exquisite sculptures and paintings, profound music, literature of heroic depth or gracefulness, no matter which religion they belong to, those who believe in other religions or those 49

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Yi meiyu dai zongjiao shuo’ 以 美 育 代 宗 教 说 (Replacing Religion with Aesthetic Education), originally published in XQN 3, no. 6 (1917), reprinted in CYPQJ, vol. 3, 3233. [Translator’s note] English translation by Julia F. Andrews, cited from Kirk A. Denton, ed., Modern Chinese Literary Thought: Writings on Literature, 1893-1945 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 186.

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opposing all religions cannot obliterate the value of their beauty. Beauty is the only everlasting quality of religion.50

So this being the case, should it not suffice to preserve religion and deploy its function in aesthetic education? Cai Yuanpei believed that this was still not acceptable. He gave three reasons: firstly, ‘aesthetic education is free, religion is coercive;’ secondly, ‘aesthetic education is progressive, religion is conservative;’ and thirdly, ‘aesthetic education is universal, religion is restricted.’51 As circumstances changed with the times and those enamoured with the ‘May Fourth’ period faith in ‘evolutionism’ and ‘scientism’ either moved beyond these ideas, or were in the process of doing so, it was quite easy to see that Cai Yuanpei’s discourse was overly simplistic. The interconnecttedness of emotion, will, spirit, and faith brought about by religion may well be vastly superior to that of morality, knowledge, physique, and beauty in educational theory. Even if it were true that we can use ‘scientific methods’ to explain social structures as well as monsters and demons, there is still no way to negate religion’s role when it comes to easing people’s minds and lifting their spirits. It is worth noticing that the general dislike of religion among ‘May Fourth’ New Culture advocates such as Cai Yuanpei cannot completely be blamed on scientism. Rather, they were highly vigilant of the huge role played by religion (especially Christianity) as a political power in real life. This point can be understood clearly if we look at how Cai and other New Culture advocates participated in the founding of the ‘Great Anti-Religion Alliance’ (fei zongjiao da tongmeng 非宗教大同盟) in 1922.52 I do not intend to discuss here 50

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Yi meiyu dai zongjiao’ 以美育代宗教 (Replacing Religion with Aesthetic Education), originally in Xiandai xuesheng 1, no. 3 (1930); see CYPQJ, vol. 5, 501. 51 Ibid., 500502. 52 In April 1922, the World Student Christian Federation (WSCF) planned to hold its eleventh General Committee Meeting in Beijing. [Translator’s note: According to the WSCF website, it was in fact the twelfth meeting.] Topics for the meeting included: ‘Christianity and the reform of society and the business world,’ ‘How to promote Christianity among modern students,’ ‘Making student life more Christian,’ and ‘Students’ responsibilities towards the Church.’ Due to the recent raging of the New Culture Movement, as well as the lingering echoes of the ‘May Fourth’ antiimperialist slogans, some atheist students who caught wind of the meeting were gravely concerned and, in a show of public indignation, launched a movement against religion, which was really a movement against Christianity. Peking University’s leading figures, such as Cai Yuanpei, Chen Duxiu, and Li Dazhao also

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the ups and downs, nor the merits and demerits, of Christianity in twentieth-century China. All I want to point out is: those arguing to ‘replace religion with aesthetic education’ were not only concerned with education. Behind the scenes there was also a deep sense of social and political anxiety. ‘Replacing religion with aesthetic education’ is, in my view, hard to turn into a philosophical topic. Advocating aesthetic education, however, and considering it as an important educational aim is something that has had a positive impact not only in the past but also nowadays. The discussion of ‘aesthetic education’ with emphasis on education and not philosophy cannot be viewed separately from Cai Yuanpei’s understanding and explanation of the concept. In his view, ‘aesthetic education means using aesthetic theory in teaching, with the aim of cultivating the emotions.’ If the ‘aim’ is to ‘cultivate the emotions,’ then this is a concept of education that could find a actively participated in the activities of the Great Anti-Religion Alliance. Cai’s point of emphasis was somewhat special in that he was not concerned with discussing ‘missionary work,’ nor ‘anti-imperialism,’ but focused on the independence of education. Religion should be independent from the church, and from politics, this had always been his key argument. Cai Yuanpei’s address at the Great Anti-Religion Alliance’s first assembly therefore pointed out the following: ‘(1) The university does not need to set up a religious studies department, but rather the history of religion and comparative religious studies should be taught in the philosophy department; (2) schools most not have courses aimed at spreading religion, nor must they hold prayer rituals; (3) those who work for their religions, should not partake in education.’ (‘Fei zongjiao yundong’ 非宗教运动 (The Movement against Religion), CYPQJ, vol. 4, 179180). Zhou Zuoren’s attitude at the time of this movement is worth noting. In the March 31, 1922 issue of the Morning News, Zhou, along with Qian Xuantong, Shen Jianshi, Ma Yuzao, and others, published a ‘Manifesto from the Supporters of the Freedom of Religion,’ which stated: ‘We do not support any religion, nor do we approve of provocative opposition to religion. We hold that all people should enjoy absolute freedom of religion, without external intervention of any kind, except for legal sanctions. Freedom of religion is recorded in the provisional constitution. The intellectual class should be the first to respect it, or at least they should not be the first to violate it. That is why we express our opposition to the present movement against religion.’ Later Zhou also published ‘Suspected of Endorsing Religion’ (Chen bao, May 5, 1922), and ‘Zhou Zuoren’s Letter in Response to Chen Zhongfu [i.e. Chen Duxiu]’ (Minguo ribao, April 20, 1922), wherein he reiterated his position ‘in favour of the provisional constitution’s protection of religious freedom.’ His motive for publishing the manifesto had been his concern that ‘this denouncement of religion might be the first step towards prohibiting ideas outside the realm of religion.’ And he added: ‘The oppression of freedom of thought does not necessarily require the power of government. Common people might use their strength in numbers to oppress a dissenting minority.’

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sympathetic audience in all ages and all places. ‘In the West, say in classical Greek education, music and gymnastics were considered equally important, as were literature and art;’ in China, the idea had always existed, and had a very long history: My country’s classical education used the Six Arts of rites, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and maths. Music was pure aesthetic education; calligraphy was used for recording, but it is also artistic; archery and charioteering required skilful technique, but also a refined attitude; the original meaning of the rites was the observance of rules, but its function was to keep vulgarity at bay; apart from maths, they all contained elements of aesthetic education.53

Western music, literature, and art, as well as China’s Six Confucian Arts and rites, are indeed all beneficial to ‘cultivating the emotions.’ If that is ‘aesthetic education,’ then those who interpret Cai Yuanpei’s train of thought from the angle of ‘art education’ cannot be faulted. However, even if the unrealistic aspirations of using aesthetic education as a substitute for religion are temporarily put aside, Cai Yuanpei’s design for ‘aesthetic education’ was still more than just an art curriculum for schools. In a 1930 essay also entitled ‘Replacing Religion with Aesthetic Education,’ Cai Yuanpei stated repeatedly that what he advocated was ‘aesthetic education’ and not ‘fine arts’ (meishu 美术): I have always proposed to replace religion with aesthetic education. If the ‘aesthetic education’ is changed to ‘fine arts’ when people quote me, then that is a mistake. The reasons why I used ‘aesthetic education’ and not ‘fine arts’ are as follows: Firstly, the scope is different. In European art academies, subjects usually only include things like architecture, sculpting, painting, and so on; music and literature are not included. But what is called aesthetic education includes not only the five subjects just mentioned, but also the installation of museums, the management of theatres and cinemas, the decoration of gardens, the operation of public cemeteries, the arrangement of towns and villages, an individual’s speech and bearing, the organization and evolution of society, and anything else that has been made beautiful to some extent, with the beauty of nature being the most useful . The word ‘fine arts’ cannot possibly encompass all these things. Secondly, the function is

53

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Meiyu’ 美育 (Aesthetic Education), CYPQJ, vol. 5, 508509.

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different. Differences in age, in habits, or in level of education, all lead to differences in aesthetic concepts.54

In other words, Cai Yuanpei envisaged ‘aesthetic education’ as training in aesthetics for all of society—schools would be at the centre, but all levels of the population would be reached; art education would be one method, but it would be extended to speech and behaviour in everyday life. This type of ‘aesthetic education’ is truly very similar to how traditional Confucians envisaged the ‘rites.’ That unique genius of modern times, Gu Hongming 辜鸿铭 (18571928), once advocated that the translation of li 礼 should be ‘art’ and not ‘rite.’ Zhou Zuoren was also very much in favour of this and extended it by saying: li is the ‘art of living.’55 As a type of ‘cultural movement,’ if one hoped to cultivate this type of aesthetic attitude in the life of the common people, the implementation of ‘aesthetic education’ would have to follow two paths: one would be school education, the other would be cultural popularization. In his 1919 article titled ‘The Culture Movement Must Not Forget Aesthetic Education,’ Cai Yuanpei complained that in China at the time ‘education in the arts’ was held in much lower regard than ‘education in the sciences.’ The ideal he pursued was that of ‘culturally advanced citizens,’ adding that ‘since we have introduced education in the sciences, we must also promote education in the arts.’ This included ‘specialist training, having art schools, conservatories of music, arts and crafts schools, and drama schools, while universities would establish lectures and research institutes for literature, aesthetics, art history, and music theory.’ As for popularization in society, by means of things such as public art 54

Ibid., 500. In ‘Yutian de shu: shenghuo zhi yishu’ 雨天的书·生活之艺术 (Books for a Rainy Day: The Art of Living), Yusi 1 (1924), Zhou Zuoren stated: ‘The term “the art of living” can be translated with the age-old Chinese word li 礼. Dr Steele puts it as follows in the introduction to his English translation of the Yili 仪礼: “Li, or Ceremonial, as used in this and other works of the period, was far from being a series of observances empty and unprofitable, such as it denigrated into in later days. It was meant to inculcate that habit of self-control and ordered action which were the expression of a mind fully instructed in the inner meaning of things…” I once heard that Gu Hongming criticized the English translation of the title of the Liji 礼记, arguing that li should not be “rite” but “art.” At the time, I thought this was a tad peculiar, however, in fact, he was correct.’ [Translator’s note] English passage cited from John Steele, The I-li or Book of Etiquette and Ceremonial (London: Probsthain, 1917), vol. 1, xiii. 55

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galleries, museums, concerts, theatres, and even such concrete measures as creating parks and squares, erecting statues, and lining the streets with trees, the objective was that ‘any kind of person, at all times, should have the opportunity to come into contact with art.’56 The idea that ‘any kind of person, at all times, should have the opportunity to come into contact with art’ is undoubtedly a noble ambition. But at a time of ceaseless wars, when most people were in a bitter struggle to avoid starvation, this ambition was bound to come to naught. Fortunately, there were still the schools at all levels, where ‘aesthetic education’ gained a genuine foothold. Amidst the powerful appeals from Cai Yuanpei and other visionaries, Chinese education eventually gained the new trend of tempering scientific minds, nurturing labour skills, and promoting aesthetic interests.57 Needless to say, Cai’s stewardship of PKU and his strong advocacy of arts education on campus played a model role in all this. No wonder then that Cai Yuanpei in his many essays on aesthetic education would always raise his ‘PKU experiences’ as examples. For instance, in his 1934 article ‘My Experiences at Peking University,’ he wrote the following: I had always paid much attention to aesthetic education, and at that time PKU had courses in aesthetics and in art history, but except for Ye Haowu 叶 浩 吾 (Han 瀚 , 1861–1933) teaching the history of Chinese art, no one was willing to lecture on aesthetics. In 1921, I gave a dozen or so lectures on the topic, until I had to go to hospital because of problems with my feet. As for the facilities for aesthetic education, we founded a research society for calligraphy and invited Shen Yinmo and Ma Shuping 马叔平 (Heng 衡, 18811955) to take charge of it. A painting techniques research society was also established and He Lüzhi 贺履之 (Liangpu 良朴, 18611937) and Tang Dingzhi 汤 定 之 (18781948) were asked to teach Chinese painting, while the Belgian Kats 58 taught oil painting. A music

56

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Wenhua yundong bu yao wangle meiyu’ 文化运动不要忘了美 育 (The Culture Movement Must Not Forget Aesthetic Education), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 361362. 57 Cf. Cai Yuanpei, ‘Zhongguo jiaoyu zhi xin qushi’ 中国教育之新趋势 (New Trends in Chinese Education), CYPQJ, vol. 5, 170173. 58 [Translator’s note] A. Kats, referred to by Cai as Kaici 楷次 and by later scholars as Gaidashi 盖大士 or Kousi 寇司, was a painter from Belgium (or, according to some sources, from Spain), who lived in Beijing in the late 1910s, then moved to Shanghai in the early 1920s, where he taught at the Shanghai Art School.

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research society was set up and Xiao Youmei 萧友梅 (18841940) was invited to take charge of it. Students were given the freedom to choose what they wanted to study.59

The research societies for calligraphy, painting, and music mentioned here, as well as those not mentioned, such as the music seminar (yinyue chuanxisuo 音乐传习所), the drama research society, and the drama practice club, were all important components of the New Culture Movement. This point is thoroughly covered in Beijing daxue rikan 北 京 大 学 日 刊 (The University Daily) and other similar publications. Below I shall limit myself to the perspective of ‘aesthetic education’ and provide a brief outline of these activities, in order to discuss the gap between the learned tradition (boya chuantong 博雅传统) and modern academic institutions. Societies, Not Faculties In the first month of 1917, Cai Yuanpei assumed stewardship of the only national university at that time, Peking University. In his first speech as chancellor, besides warning the students that academic research was their duty and that they should not use the university as a means to make money or climb the social ladder, he also emphasized that they should hold fast to their aims, temper their moral conduct, and respect and love their teachers and friends: ‘For the benefit of you gentlemen, it would be better to engage in legitimate entertainment instead of illegitimate entertainment, so that you live up to moral standards and benefit your body.’60 Cai had a specific target in mind when he said this. At the time, PKU did not have a strong academic atmosphere and the students lacked heart towards studying, often succumbing to the lures of the red-light districts. In Tao Xisheng’s 陶希圣 (18991988) ‘Cai Yuanpei’s Appointment as PKU Chancellor and its Enormous Influence on Modern China,’ there is one section entitled ‘The Two Houses and the One School

He was later active in Hong Kong. See Jane Zheng Jie, ‘The Shanghai Art College, 19131937’ (MPhil diss., University of Hong Kong, 2005), 4546. 59 Cai Yuanpei, ‘My Experiences at Peking University,’ 355356. 60 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Jiuren Beijing daxue xiaozhang zhi yanshuo’ 就任北京大学校 长 之 演 说 (Speech Delivered upon Assuming Office as Chancellor of Peking University), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 6.

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Were Good Customers of the Eight Great Lanes.’ 61 describing the buffoonery associated with the two houses of the early Republican parliament and the Imperial University. 62 Zhang Shenfu’s 张申府 (18931986) ‘Remembering Those Years at PKU’ also raised the fact that, prior to Cai Yuanpei’s appointment, PKU was ‘an educational institute enmeshed within feudal thinking and bureaucratism, with not a few students entering university simply as a means to be promoted to a higher position on the social ladder, with no interest in research. They would attend classes but never study, instead their main interest seemed to lie in ways to augment their credentials and to find a patron (kaoshan 靠山); there were also those who spent most of their time playing mah-jong and roaming around in the Eight Great Lanes. The students living in my dormitory rarely studied. Instead they got together to play mah-jong.’63 It can be seen then that Cai Yuanpei’s encouraging of the students and teachers to form societies had the positive purpose of fostering a favourable academic environment, as well as the negative aim to put an end to undesirable bad habits. In only one year’s time, Cai’s reorganization of PKU seemed to be showing results. In the opening ceremony for the academic year of 1918, he stated the following: The university is an institute for the pursuit of pure learning. It cannot be seen as a place for the cultivation of credentials and it cannot be seen as a place to peddle knowledge. Students need an interest in pursuing learning and especially in the cultivation of the personal qualities of a scholar. In the past year, this university established a graduate school and increased its holdings of reference works, all in order to raise the interest in research and scholarship. Moreover, we established a Society for Advancing Morality (jin de hui 进德会) as well as research societies for calligraphy, painting, and music; we started evening classes for campus workers and provided support for a

61

[Translator’s note] The ‘Eight Great Lanes’ (ba da hutong 八大胡同) was the brothel district. 62 Tao Xisheng, ‘Cai xiansheng ren Beida xiaozhang dui jindai Zhongguo fasheng de juda yingxiang’ 蔡先生任北大校长对近代中国发生的巨大影响 (Cai Yuanpei’s Appointment as PKU Chancellor and Its Enormous Influence on Modern China), Zhuanji wenxue 31, no. 2 (1977). 63 Zhang Shenfu, ‘Huixiang Beida dangnian’ 回 想 北 大 当 年 (Remembering Those Years at PKU), in Beida jiu shi, ed. Chen Pingyuan and Xia Xiaohong (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1998), 182.

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student bank and a consumer cooperative (xiaofei gongshe 消费公社), all in order to cultivate the students’ personal qualities.64

The aims did not change and the emphasis was still that ‘students need an interest in pursuing learning and especially in the cultivation of the personal qualities of a scholar.’ With respect to how to cultivate these qualities, however, there was already a concrete plan for implementation. That was the rapid emergence on campus of numerous kinds of student societies supervised, or joined, by teachers. Reading through The University Daily of that period, you can discover that all those mushrooming student societies, either directly or indirectly, received strong support from the university chancellor himself—quite a few of the societies had Cai Yuanpei as president or honorary president. A chancellor spending so much effort and time on caring about and supporting student societies, may have seemed to be ‘in dereliction of his proper duties.’ Actually, this was truly the brilliance of Cai Yuanpei—by hiring a certain number of specialized professors (including the Dean of the Humanities Faculty, Chen Duxiu) and by fostering a campus atmosphere of scholarly pursuit and self-restraint, the university was well on its way to success. In his essay ‘University Education,’ Cai emphasized that students are largely able to govern themselves, with very little interference from the school, and that this was the fundamental difference between university and secondary school.65 This basic judgement extended to two larger issues: one was inclusiveness inside the university, not relying on a single authority; the other was the students’ self-development, cultivating their personal qualities through student society activities. All these things expressed faith in the university as a collaborative knowledge system, possessing the ability to design, adjust, and develop itself. Seen in this light, the activities of student societies were not wholly a means to pass the time outside of the classroom, more so it was to build up the ambience, to transform the prevailing mood, to train abilities, and to cultivate personal qualities. This was the key for changing PKU’s old façade into a new countenance. Because of this, every time he talked about his personal work at PKU, Cai would sum up all the various student-led societies. This was certainly not 64 65

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Speech at the 1918 Opening of the Academic Year at PKU,’ 191. Cai Yuanpei, ‘University Education,’ 507508.

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recognition of the event after the fact; at this point in time, PKU gave people the feeling of being a thriving academic institution, which was intimately connected to the lively activities of the student societies. In The University Daily of December 17, 1920, in celebration of the university’s twenty-third anniversary, a whole article was devoted to introducing students’ extracurricular activities: With regard to skills training outside the normal curriculum, there are organized research institutions. Peking University has research societies in music, art, calligraphy, and philosophy; there is also a mathematics society, the Renaissance Society, and an Esperanto research society; there is a chemistry lecture society, a Buddhist lecture society, and an English lecture society, as well as a journalism research society, a debating club, a drama research society, a geological research society, a research society devoted to the theories of Bertrand Russell, one devoted to socialism, and one devoted to folk songs; and there is a fitness club, a boxing club, a drama club, and a reading club.

In addition, there were also the more ‘professional’ organizations like the Commoners’ Education Lecture Society, and the student bank. At closer inspection, the various active types of student societies at PKU at that time can be divided into four main categories: moral cultivation (e.g. the Society for Advancing Morality), politics (e.g the socialism research society), academics (e.g. the mathematics society), and art (e.g. the music society). Normally speaking, one would expect the Society for Advancing Morality, which was organized by Cai himself and had ‘no prostitutes, no gambling, no concubines’ as its basic commandments, to be the most effective in terms of cultivating personal qualities. In reality, however, art education ‘moistens things gently and without a sound,’66 and is perhaps more worthy of our attention—not only because of its numerous, highprofile activities, but for the fact that these truly implemented Cai Yuanpei’s ideal of ‘aesthetic education.’ In fact, Cai Yuanpei seemed to have a soft spot for these art societies. Although he wrote the ‘Aims and Objectives’ (1918) for the Society for Advancing Morality, he was rarely reported to take 66

[Translator’s note] The author is citing a famous line from a poem by Du Fu 杜 甫, ‘Enjoying Rain on a Spring Night.’ The English translation here is quoted from Stephen Owen, ed. and transl., An Anthology of Chinese Literature: Beginnings to 1911 (New York & London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1996), 427.

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part in its activities. In contrast, he regularly attended the events of the calligraphy, painting, and music societies and addressed them with great eloquence. To give one example, in the period from 1918 to 1919, Cai Yuanpei wrote four essays for the painting society: ‘Objectives of the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society,’ ‘Speech at the End of Term Ceremony for the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society,’ ‘Speech at the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society,’ and ‘Speech at the Autumn Meeting of the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society.’ More importantly, each of these texts and lectures had substance. Some examples: ‘science and art are both guiding principles of the new education;’67 ‘to do research on the techniques of painting, one should be able to see more famous paintings,’ but people were hording classical paintings, and did not easily permit other people to view them, so ‘in the future, we must do our utmost to devise ways to borrow privately-held classical paintings and other original works,’ and then exhibit them publicly, so as to widen people’s horizons;68 ‘Chinese and Western paintings are different in their initial approach: Chinese painting starts by copying models; foreign painting begins with copying reality.’ It was the same in literature, philosophy, morality, and science, ‘therefore I hope that Chinese painters will also adopt the advantages of the composition and realist depiction in western paintings;’ 69 ‘I have paid quite a lot of attention to the harmonizing of the new and the old painting techniques and the communication between Chinese and Western artistic principles, gaining a synthesis and studying the essences, as a means to develop aesthetic education.’70 These are all quite penetrating insights. Only someone with a true interest and background in Chinese and Western 67

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Beida huafa yanjiuhui zhiqushu’ 北 大 画 法 研 究 会 旨 趣 书 (Objectives of the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 156157. 68 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Beida huafa yanjiuhui xiuyeshi yanshuoci’ 北大画法研究会休 业 式 演 说 词 (Speech at the End of Term Ceremony for the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 182183. 69 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Zai Beida huafa yanjiuhui yanshuoci’ 在北大画法研究会演说 词 (Speech at the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 207208. 70 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Zai Beida huafa yanjiuhui qiuji huiyi yanshuoci’ 在北大画法研 究 会 秋 季 会 议 演 说 词 (Speech at the Autumn Meeting of the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 347.

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art could discuss the problems and opportunities faced by Chinese painting in such a precise manner. However, the many activities of the art societies were not required courses of the university. As Cai Yuanpei had said, the students were allowed to choose freely what they wanted to learn. Whether it was calligraphy, painting, music, or theatre, the key was the encouragement of interest, not of ability. This was in line with Cai’s ideal of employing ‘aesthetic education’ to cultivate the students’ personal qualities. However, there is one other aspect: art is the grand embodiment of human civilization and therefore it goes without saying that it should be present inside the university classrooms. The pity is that neither the old nor the new PKU have been able to run a successful art department (only in the past decade or so has it gathered some strength). The introduction of art studies and art history courses also did not go entirely as desired (there was no lack of good professors, but there was no systematic approach). Of course shortage of funding and of personnel have been important factors, but it has to be pointed out that for a very long time, the teaching of art in comprehensive universities was in an unclear position. Regardless of how it is advocated, if ‘aesthetic education’ is not brought into the organized system of education, it can never keep pace with the already systematized moral education, knowledge education, and physical education. 71 When people praise the extremely vigorous activities of old PKU’s art societies, they often forget, or are unwilling to point out, its shortcomings in establishing art as a discipline. From the Music Research Society to the Music Seminar The question if art education at university should have emphasis placed on cultivation of interest or of ability constitutes a dilemma. Art education at PKU always claimed to place equal emphasis on cultivation and specialization, but such statements were perhaps 71

In his ‘Aesthetic Education over the Last Twenty-Five Years in China,’ Cai states: ‘The term “aesthetic education” received the same amount of attention from educators as knowledge education, moral education, and physical education. This really was a special characteristic of those twenty-five years.’ (CYPQJ, vol. 6, 54). In my view this so-called equal standing of the four types of education has only existed in name for a very long time; in practice, ‘aesthetic education’ was never given the space to develop fully.

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overly idealistic. If we look at the often cited example of music education, we see that in 1922, PKU changed the name of the ‘music research society’ into ‘music seminar.’ On the surface it seems this was a smooth transition, but it nonetheless betrayed a deep-seated contradiction. The PKU Music Research Society had been in existence for quite a few years already, so why this sudden change of tune? In his ‘Opening Speech for the 1922 PKU Academic Year,’ Cai Yuanpei provided some sort of answer: Research into the sciences is certainly an aim of this school; but we cannot do without the cultivation of art. Originally this school has had research societies for calligraphy, painting, and music, but they have not achieved very much yet, since we allowed them to develop too freely. This year the School has taken over their organization and divided them into two sections: firstly, a Music Seminar with Xiao Youmei in charge; secondly, a Plastic Arts Research Society, which we hope will be led by Qian Daosun 钱稻孙 (18871966). Besides the set curriculum, there will be a musical performance and an art exhibit every week, so as to appeal to students’ aesthetic interests.72

The results had not been ideal because the school authorities had allowed the societies to develop ‘too freely.’ Now there were to be a ‘set curriculum’ as well as public performances in order to ‘appeal to students’ aesthetic interests.’ In plain language, this meant abolishing the art societies, which were mainly part of students’ private recreation, and transforming them into a ‘seminar’ aimed at training specialized talent. This change was certainly not a small matter, rather it could be said that it was turning everything on its head. In 1916, the Peking University Music Society was set up, consisting of two sections, one for Chinese music and one for Western music. Later it was renamed Peking University Music Theory Research Society, and after that it became the Peking University Music Research Society. Although its name and its membership had been through some changes, its basic orientation had not: it was a student music club, supported by the school authorities. For example, in The University Daily on February 3, 1918, there was an article entitled ‘Status of the PKU Music Society,’ which clearly stated that the aim of the society was ‘research into music to foster interest.’ In 72

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Beida yi jiu er er nian shiyeshi yanshuoci’ 北大一九二二年始业 式演说词 (Opening Speech for the 1922 PKU Academic Year), CYPQJ, vol. 4, 264.

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the June 6 issue of the same year, an urgent announcement was published that the university chancellor had drafted regulations for the music society, and had hired Wang Xinkui 王心葵 (Wang Lu 露, 18791921) to teach the guqin 古琴. These regulations further set out the following: ‘The aim of this society lies in sincere and serious music instruction and the promotion of aesthetic education.’ Areas of research were to include musicology, music history, musical instruments, and Chinese opera. Moreover, ‘this society, having been created only recently and being as yet limited in scope, will for the moment offer only classes in qin 琴, se 瑟, pipa 琵琶, flute, and Kunqu 昆曲 opera, depending on the availability of teachers.’73 As Cai Yuanpei indicated, the change from PKU Music Society to PKU Music Research Society came with strong support from the School, which led to a constant increase in the size of the Society and in the number of teachers. According to a publication in The Music Magazine from September 1920, there were by that time nine teachers at the PKU Music Research Society, including Xiao Youmei who taught general music theory, acoustics, and Western musical history, and Wang Lu who taught the guqin and the pipa. Having obtained guidance from well-known teachers, the improvement in PKU’s students was incredibly fast. As a result, apart from playing for their own pleasure, they also took to the stage, hoping to ‘appeal to students’ (and society’s) aesthetic interest.’ We can learn more about these grand occasions by looking at two newspaper reports. The Morning News of April 20, 1919 reported that there had been a PKU Music Society concert the previous night, presided over by chancellor Cai Yuanpei himself and attended by over a thousand people: ‘The programme alternated between classical and contemporary, Chinese and Western music. Kunqu experts were invited to the stage to sing, and additional instrumental performances came from world-famous male and female musicians. The concert ended at 22:30, and the audience left in high spirits.’ According to another report from the Morning News on May 2, 1922, the PKU Music Research Society held concerts on the first and second of May at the YMCA. Besides the originally scheduled programme, they put on a Western-style orchestra, a Chinese zither (qinse 琴瑟) and reed73

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Wei Beida yinyuehui daini zhangcheng’ 为北大音乐会代拟章 程 (Constitution Drafted on Behalf of the PKU Music Society), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 177.

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pipe (shengxiao 笙 箫 ) instruments ensemble, an ensemble with Chinese harp (konghou 箜篌), lute and zither (huzheng 胡筝), strings and flute (ruanxiao 阮箫), a three-string (sanxian 三弦) imitation of opera voices (nixi 拟戏), and a solo pipa performance of ‘Shimian maifu’ 十面埋伏 (Ambush on All Sides). Stage productions included a one-act opera, a ‘Spring Sacrifice’ (chunjiao 春郊) ballet, and ancient-style song and dance. Comparing these two reports, we can see that the PKU student orchestra was constantly gaining in strength, and that instead of a supporting role they were taking on a lead role during concerts.. On the other hand, you can also get the feeling that having Chinese music, Western music, dance, and opera all in one performance is like classroom practise, i.e. not terribly professional. Perhaps this was the crux of the problem. There are no sources showing us what Cai Yuanpei thought about these two concerts, but I believe that such ‘not very professional’ performances will not have satisfied him. In 1919, Cai gave a speech at the PKU Music Research Society, in which he lamented that ‘all other countries in the world strive towards enhancing culture, by attaching the same importance to science and art,’ whereas in China, the advocacy of ‘science’ had only recently begun, and nothing much was happening yet with regard to ‘art.’ When mentioning art (meishu 美术) in this context, he did not just mean painting and sculpture, but also music. Moved by the fact that the university did not have a formal music department, Cai Yuanpei had no better option than to pin his hopes on the amateur PKU Music Research Society: At present our country does not have a conservatory of music, nor has our school set up a formal music curriculum. However, owing to the students’ initiative and the teachers’ promotion of it, we do have this Music Research Society, which might possibly provide a basis for the development of music. I look forward to you gentlemen, knowing that music is a good tool for the advancement of culture, working together to research into the depths of musical understanding, and cultivating talented individuals who will create new compositions, using the strengths of Western music as a supplement for the deficiencies in Chinese music, and making steady progress over time, so that you will live up to the original intent of this society.74 74

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Zai Beida yinyue yanjiuhui yanshuoci’ 在北大音乐研究会演说 词 (Speech at the PKU Music Research Society), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 355.

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In Cai Yuanpei’s eyes, a non-specialized Music Research Society was only the second best option, something which ‘might possibly provide a basis for the development of music.’ PKU’s not being able to ‘set up a formal music curriculum’ was something Cai had always taken to heart. And because of this, a number of years later, when he wrote about twenty-five years of aesthetic education in China and the topic came to music, although he touched upon five different aspects (music schools, the Music Seminar, national music training, concerts, and music magazines), his detailed discussion was clearly biased towards the professional training led by Xiao Youmei (the undergraduate curriculum included music theory, composition, piano, violin, and vocal music), as well as the orchestra performances.75 It is not surprising, then, that when Xiao Youmei first advised to reshape the amateur Music Research Society into a Music Seminar providing professional training, Cai Yuanpei was greatly supportive. In the August 12, 1922 issue of The University Daily the regulations for the PKU Music Seminar were published. They aimed at the cultivation of musical talent and called for the teaching of Western music as well as the preservation, development, and expansion of the Chinese musical tradition. The seminar would offer an undergraduate curriculum, a teacher training curriculum, and elective courses, in order to train professional musical talent as well as music teachers for primary and secondary education. From these regulations it is not difficult to see that this was already quite a formalized music department. Regrettably, after 1927, with the upheaval in the Northern government, it became difficult to maintain classes and Xiao Youmei had no other option than to head South to Shanghai. Cai Yuanpei likewise headed South and together the two men helped establish the National Academy of Music (guoli yinyue zhuanke xuexiao 国 立 音 乐 专 科 学 校 ) (its first name was the National Conservatory of Music, but this was changed in 1929).76 In the Summer and Autumn of 1922, the concerts organized by the PKU Music Research Society and its publication of Yinyue zazhi 音 乐杂志 (The Music Magazine) received vital support from scholars such as Wu Mei 吴梅 (Qu’an 瞿安, 1884-1939) and Wang Lu, who 75

Cai Yuanpei. ‘Aesthetic Education over the Last Twenty-Five Years in China’, 6162. 76 [Translator’s note] In 1956 it took on its current name of Shanghai Conservatory of Music (Shanghai yinyue xueyuan 上海音乐学院).

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possessed a thorough understanding of and practical ability in traditional music and opera. Wu and Wang’s basic train of thought was the reform of national music and theatre; they were not in favour of adopting Western music and spoken drama as a substitute. At the same time, unlike Xiao Youmei, they had never received systematic training in Western music and therefore they obviously lacked an understanding of Western music. This type of academic background meant that PKU’s Music Research Society, on which they had a strong impact, was destined to focus on national music, and to maintain an amateur nature. In December of 1921, Wang Lu died, and the next year Wu Mei took an appointment at Southeast University and thus left to teach in the South. It was just at this time that Cai agreed to Xiao Youmei’s proposal for the establishment of a PKU Music Seminar and the simultaneous dissolution of the PKU Music Research Society. The new Seminar would focus on Western musical education, with special importance given to Western musical theory and orchestra performances. The former sections for guqin, traditional Chinese string and wood instruments, and Chinese opera were abolished. This transformation implied that there was some level of internal conflict in the education of music in modern China: would attention be paid to skill and professional training, or would it be paid to cultivation and amateur enjoyment; would equal attention be given to Chinese and Western music, or would sole respect be given to Western music and thus Chinese music denigrated? (Giving sole respect to Chinese music was not an option.) In this not fully articulated argument, Xiao Youmei’s promotion of professional training ended up victorious. This victory was indicative of the future direction of the development of musical education. From the late Qing onwards, the emergence of large numbers of western-style schools created a demand for large numbers of music teachers. Yet organizations like the PKU Music Research Society (1919), chaired by Cai Yuanpei, the Chinese Aesthetic Education Association (1919), launched by Wu Mengfei 吴 梦 非 (18931979), Feng Zikai 丰子恺 (18981975), and Liu Haisu 刘海 粟 (18961994), and the later Beijing Amateur Music Society and National Music Improvement Association (1927), initiated by Liu Tianhua 刘天华(18951932) and others all had amateurish characteristics. Their founding aims largely adopted Cai Yuanpei’s proposals for ‘aesthetic education,’ namely the use of art and music

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to develop individual freedom and groom one’s noble sentiments, in order to achieve the effects of improving human life and reforming society.’77 Yet without grooming of professional talent, there would be no means by which the daily increasing demand from society could be met. Thus, the appearance of professional musical education was a general trend of the times. Furthermore, the changing of the PKU Music Research Society’s name to PKU Music Seminar chimed in with this tendency.78 At this point it is necessary to stop and briefly introduce the key person in this transformation, Xiao Youmei. Xiao was from Xiangshan 香 山 in Guangdong province. In 1902, he began his studies overseas in Japan and in 1909 he graduated from Tokyo Imperial University. During his period of study in Japan, he also studied music at the Tokyo School of Music. From 1913 to 1916, he studied in Germany, first at the Leipzig Royal Conservatory of Music and then in Leipzig University’s Philosophy Department. In 1916, he obtained his doctorate in philosophy for a dissertation entitled ‘Examination of Classical Chinese Musical Instruments.’ From 1920 onwards, he was active in music education in Beijing. Cai Yuanpei first hired him as a lecturer in the Philosophy Department and teacher in the Music Research Society. In 1922, he proposed to Cai Yuanpei that PKU establish a Music Seminar and abolish the Music Research Society. Cai chaired the seminar, and Xiao acted as its academic dean, 77

Wang Yuhe 汪毓和, Zhongguo jinxiandai yinyue shi 中国近现代音乐史 (History of Chinese Music of the Early Modern and Modern Periods) (Beijing: Renmin yinyue chubanshe, 1984), 51. 78 Wang Yuhe stated: ‘Following in the footsteps of these music societies, China’s earliest institutions for formal music education were gradually established, including the Peking Women’s Higher College of Education Music Department (September 1920), the PKU Music Seminar (1922), as well as the Shanghai Normal School’s Music Department (established in 1920, in 1922 its name was changed to Shanghai Art Normal School). Later, the Peking Art Academy established a music department (1926), as did the Shanghai Fine Arts Academy and the Shanghai Art University. Moreover, in 1927 in Shanghai, China’s first comparatively large and organized independent professional music school was established—the National Academy of Music (at first it was known as the National Conservatory of Music, it adopted its later name in 1929). Although most of these institutions approached their teaching along the lines of the ‘inclusive’ education pioneered by the Peking University Music Research Society, in that they also established a curriculum for national music, in actual fact they followed closely the European system of music education, and the main content of their teaching was knowledge of and skills in Western music.’ (History of Chinese Music, 5152).

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and tried hard to turn it into a conservatory. Organizing small-size orchestras, he arranged over forty concerts between 1922 and 1927, performing work by famous composers like Mozart and Beethoven. In 1927, he moved to Shanghai and set up the aforementioned National Academy of Music, together with Cai. There he authored many music textbooks and developed formal musical education. In the last ten years of his life, he made brilliant achievements.79 One more sentence must be added: Xiao Youmei’s musical studies in Germany were directly facilitated by Cai Yuanpei. Cai went twice to Germany to study, first in 1907 and then again in 1913, and both times he was at Leipzig University, taking classes in philosophy, aesthetics, literary history, the history of civilization, and art history, from which he shaped the concept of ‘aesthetic education.’ Because of this shared experienced between Cai and Xiao, the two had congenial interests and thus were able to cooperate harmoniously. One other national music teacher at the Music Seminar of PKU, Liu Tianhua, who some years later launched the previously mentioned ‘National Music Improvement Association’ and edited its organ The Music Magazine, was quite successful as a composer of music for the erhu 二胡, and in collecting and collating folk music. Generally speaking, though, his theoretical accomplishments and his influence in society were clearly inferior to Xiao’s. Liu had only secondary school education and relied primarily on his own interests and experiments. He studied the erhu and pipa with Zhou Shaomei 周少梅 (18851938), and Shen Zhaozhou 沈肇周 (18851930), and earnestly sought instruction from all kinds of folk artists, as well as 79

Cf. Yun Wenjie 恽文捷, ‘Fugu yu gexin: Xiao Youmei zai Beida de yinyue huodong yu Zhongguo jindai yinyue sixiang de zhuanbian’ 复古与革新——萧友梅 在北大的音乐活动与中国近代音乐思想的转变 (Restoration and Innovation: Xiao Youmei’s Music Activities at PKU and the Transformation of Musical Thought in Modern China) (MA thesis, Peking University). In addition, Wang Yuhe asssessed Xiao Youmei’s written works as follows: ‘In order to match the need for professional and popular music education, [Xiao Youmei] paid much attention to developing music teaching materials. He compiled textbooks such as Common Music Knowledge, Outline of Harmonics, Singing Textbook for the New School System, Textbook for Piano, Textbook for Violin, and Textbook for Organ, and he authored monographs such as Overview of Old and New Chinese and Western Musical Scales, General Introduction to the Historical Evolution of Chinese Music (i.e. a history of traditional Chinese music), and Comparative Research into Chinese and Western Music. These works by Xiao Youmei played a positive role in popularizing and raising the standard of music tuition at that time.’ (History of Chinese Music, 59)

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monks and Taoist priests. Only after he became known and went to Beijing to teach, did he study some violin with a Russian teacher. Xiao, on the other hand, studied overseas in Germany, received specialist education in music, and obtained a doctoral degree. Their outlook, tastes, and scholarly training, as well as their prestige in society, were vastly different. This can be said to epitomize the fate of Chinese and Western music in early modern China. The Dispute between Chinese and Western Music In his ‘China’s New Culture of the Past Thirty-Five Years,’ Cai Yuanpei stated that, although ‘the Chinese people are rich in aesthetic sense, […] yet over the last thirty-five years the fine arts have been deeply influenced by Europe.’ As before, ‘fine arts’ here had a broad meaning and included such things as painting, architecture, music, literature, and theatre. Cai described the state of music as follows: ‘After the formulation of the new educational system, school curricula included music and singing lessons, therefore teachers’ colleges also had these classes. This was the beginning of the use of Western instruments and Western music instruction methods.’ Besides briefly mentioning the PKU Music Research Society, his emphasis was on introducing the Shanghai-based National Conservatory of Music that had been established in 1927, i.e. the later National Academy of Music. Cai expressed his appreciation for the fact that this institution included in its undergraduate curriculum the four elements of music theory and composition, piano, violin, and vocal music, and that it had a fairly comprehensive teaching plan.80 Having served as the first education minister of the Republic, Cai Yuanpei was always able to discuss China’s educational issues from a superior vantage point. Whether as chancellor of PKU or later as President of Academia Sinica, he was never limited to commenting only on his own position. Of course this was due in part to his reputation among scholars, meaning that for many activities in the educational world his opinion and support were always required in some fashion, practically forcing him to ‘meddle in the affairs of others’ (yuezudaipao 越 俎 代 庖 ). In 1918, his ‘Speech at the 80

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Sanshiwu nian lai Zhongguo zhi xin wenhua’ 三十五年来中国 之新文化 (China’s New Culture of the Past Thirty-Five Years), CYPQJ, vol. 6, 86, 89.

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Founding and Opening Ceremony of the National School of Art’ emphasized that ‘Chinese painting has a strong affinity with calligraphy, therefore those good at painting are often also good calligraphers, and our artists pay special attention to the rhythm of the brush. … I hope therefore that, funding permitting, this School will set up a calligraphy unit, to assist in the development of Chinese painting.’81 In his ‘Draft Proposal for the Establishment of a National Art University,’ collaboratively written with Lin Fengmian 林风眠 (19001991) and Xiao Youmei in 1927, there was an even more ardent call for the formalization of art education: Aesthetic education is the backbone of modern education. The implementation of aesthetic education means directly using art to teach in order to cultivate the ability to create and appreciate works of art, and to popularize art more fully in society. For this reason, most countries in the East and in the West have established national art academies, conservatories of music, and national theatres. These are used to train highly qualified artistic talent, to implement and popularize aesthetic education. This is by and large how most governments promote aesthetic education.82

As PKU chancellor, Cai supported numerous kinds of student art societies; as an educationist, he had hoped to establish a professional art school. Both of these ideals could be implemented together without coming into conflict, and equally make apparent Cai Yuanpei’s foresight and sagacity. But the change in name of the PKU Music Research Society to the Music Seminar of PKU holds a more complicated reason. The formal establishment of the Music Seminar of PKU, besides giving prominence to professional training, also gave sole respect to Western music. This was not just directly related to Xiao Youmei’s schooling and taste. The reality was that the Western music education system was already quite mature, and had clear rules that could be followed. In contrast, Chinese music pedagogy emphasized individual experience, making it difficult to establish a formalized way of 81

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Guoli meishu xuexiao chengli ji kaixue shi yanshuoci’ 国立美术 学校成立及开学式演说词 (Speech at the Founding and Opening Ceremony of the National School of Art), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 148. 82 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Chuangban guoli yishu daxue zhi ti’an’ 创办国立艺术大学之提 案 (Draft Proposal for the Establishment of a National Art University), CYPQJ, vol. 5, 179.

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teaching. In addition, the musical fates of both Chinese and Western music were constrained by the overall cultural atmosphere as well. Speaking of the construction of culture, everyone more or less agreed that there was a need to ‘harmonize the Chinese and Western elements;’ but in reality, this was easier said than done. From the late Qing onwards, the great tide of Western learning was breaking upon China’s shores, with the so-called National Learning, National Art, and National Music capable only of warding off the blows, without putting up a fight (zhi you zhaojia zhi gong, er wu huanshou zhi li 只 有招架之功，而无还手之力). With this greater background in mind, the debate between Chinese and Western music on the campus of PKU had a foregone outcome even before it began. The famous guqin player Wang Lu (see above) was in favour of music reform, but he opposed the use of Western music as a substitute or a standard for Chinese music. His reasoning was that ‘Chinese and Western music stem from different places, different times, and different emotions. Reform is possible, but even if you force them to become one, they will not become one.’ 83 Liu Tianhua’s founding of the National Music Improvement Association and its Music Magazine was also intended to give the National Music an independent position: ‘The development of National Music cannot be taken care of by copying some superficial aspects (pimao 皮毛) of Western music, nor by stubbornly holding on to the old ways and established opinions.’ Instead, it must ‘make use of the essence of our country’s tradition, whilst accommodating foreign trends. From this type of harmonization and cooperation between East and West, a new path can be struck.’ 84 Compared to Xiao Youmei’s vigorous introduction of Western music and the music education system of the West, the voices of Wang and Liu sounded especially weak. As can be seen already from his doctoral dissertation, Xiao Youmei’s cultural position was explicitly clear-cut: Chinese music had become stagnant and backward, partly because of technical factors and partly under the influence of political culture. The way to save it was, first, to popularize Western music, in order to enrich the spiritual life of the Chinese; second, to use Western music to 83

Wang Lu, ‘Zhong Xi yinyue guiyi shuo’ 中西音乐归一说 (A Theory of Convergence of Chinese and Western Music), Yinyue zazhi 1, no. 7 (1920). 84 Liu Tianhua, ‘Guoyue gaijin she yuanqi’ 国乐改进社缘起 (The Founding of the National Music Improvement Association), Xin yue chao 1, No. 1 (1927).

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transform Chinese music, in order to enrich the expressive methods and techniques of Chinese music. Xiao Youmei’s ideas, namely his belief in ‘using Western music to transform Chinese music,’ occupied the mainstream position, not only in the 1920s but for more than half a century following. Only in the last decade or so have challenges to Xiao’s ideas and practice emerged, such as views on the simultaneous development of discrete music systems, theories of the non-comparability of different types of music, and discussions about the relative value of music forms. Nonetheless, there are still many who defend Xiao’s ideas and who still firmly believe that his argument in favour of using Western musical technique as the backbone and Chinese national spirit as the soul, in order to give expression to the emotional life of modern Chinese people, is beyond reproach.85 Employing Western music to transform Chinese music was certainly not only Xiao Youmei’s train of thought. Rather, most participants of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture Movement held to this belief. Hu Shi once summarized the new thought tide as having four inseparably interconnected elements: ‘To carry out problem-oriented research, to import scholarly principles, to sort out the national heritage, and to revitalize our civilization.’86 Within this, the importation of ‘scholarly principles,’ was the key: without a new perspective, a new train of thought, and new methodologies, there would be no successful way to sort out the cultural heritage, to say nothing of ‘the revitalization of civilization.’ This highly influential idea that Western leaning should be used to ‘prune’ Chinese culture 87 contained biases, limitations, and intellectual blind spots that Hu Shi and others of the same period simply did not perceive. Why? Because although they subjectively aimed at ‘merging’ the Chinese with the Western, they all felt that Western learning, Western painting,

85

Cf. Chen Lingqun 陈聆群, ed., Xiao Youmei yinyue wenji 萧友梅音乐文集 (Collected Writings on Music by Xiao Youmei) (Shanghai: Shanghai yinyue chubanshe, 1990); Dai Penghai 戴鹏海, ed., Xiao Youmei jinian wenji 萧友梅纪念 文 集 (Xiao Youmei Commemorative Collection) (Shanghai: Shanghai yinyue chubanshe, 1993). 86 Hu Shi, ‘Xin sichao de yiyi’ 新思潮的意义 (The Significance of the New Thought Tide), in Hu Shi wencun (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1921), vol. 4, 151. 87 See my The Establishment of Modern Chinese Scholarship, 262267.

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Western music, and so on, were more scientific in nature and were thus the right course to follow. Cai Yuanpei shared basically the same train of thought. He was more concerned with the ‘importation of scholarly principles’ than with discovering the strong points of Chinese traditional arts and culture. The following three short quotations, one discussing scholarship, another discussing music, and the last concerning painting, show us how Cai Yuanpei thought about cultural comparison and cultural amalgamation: To do research is not just to import Europeanization, but to make innovative discoveries while Europeanizing. It is not just to preserve the national essence, but to employ scientific methods to expose the true face of the national essence.88 On the one hand, [we should] import Western musical instruments and musical scores, to compare them to the music we already have. On the other hand, [we should] consult Westerners’ musical theories, to verify them against our country’s music and find out how well they apply.89 In the past when people studied painting, they were either famous literati wielding their brushes at random, or they were expert craftsmen creating copies and imitations. If we want to study paintings today, we must be fully aware of the methods of scientific research. We must do away with the careless exercises of the literati and reform the overly conventional mockery of the craftsmen, and use scientific method to enter into art.90

The repeated references to ‘scientific method’ in these quotes can in reality only refer to ‘Western methods.’ In his mind, Cai was quite clear about this, for instance when he stated that since the founding of the Republic, all schools of art had ‘focused on Western painting techniques,’ with the only difference that between those who managed to approximate them, and those who did not. The so-called ‘ways of communicating between China and the West,’ 91 basically 88

Cai Yuanpei, ‘Inaugural Introduction to the Peking University Monthly,’ 210. Cai Yuanpei, ‘Yinyue zazhi fakanci’ 《 音 乐 杂 志 》 发 刊 词 (Inaugural Introduction to The Music Magazine), CYPQJ, vol. 3, 397. 90 Cai Yuanpei, ‘Speech at the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society,’ 208. 91 In ‘Zhongguo zhi shuhua’ 中国之书画 (Painting and Calligraphy in China), Cai stated the following: ‘Since the beginning of the Republic, public and private art schools have been founded one after another, and they all focus on European painting techniques. The tools are of course different, and the method of Western painting starts with realistic sketches and aims at eventually practicing creative 89

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changed into an effort to ‘use the West to transform China.’ Against this larger background, it is hardly surprising that Xiao Youmei’s promotion of standardization, scientification, and Westernization of music education obtained the strongest support from Cai Yuanpei. The Learned Tradition and the ‘Amateur’ Let us return to the ‘May Fourth’ period’s incredibly active art societies at PKU. In my view, the university’s painting society, music society, and so on, were not just stepping stones on art education’s route towards professionalization, but each had their own independent value. Conversely, the various professional academies, which started out small and weak but have since become strong and healthy, may have trained ever larger numbers of professionals, but while doing so they over-emphasized technical training, lacking a broader cultural vision and long-term spiritual pursuits. This one-dimensional development of students has caused many regrets. In my view, ‘aesthetic education’ is impossible without specialized art colleges; but it is even more impossible if it relies solely on specialized art colleges. Reportedly, at the present time across the nation there are already over eight hundred schools that have established art departments, which is a great thing. Yet I should like to make a precautionary comment and state that the memories of old PKU’s ‘amateurish’ art societies should still be cherished. In his ‘Speech at the Opening of the Twenty-Second Academic Year of PKU,’ Cai Yuanpei explained why the school authorities encouraged students to set up art societies: To do scholarly research requires that one have a lively spirit. It is not something that can be achieved with the stale old method of ‘not looking out the window for three years (san nian bu kuiyuan 三年不窥 园 ).’ Therefore, this school supports sports clubs, music clubs, calligraphy and painting societies, and so on, as a means to nourish the soul (hanyang xinling 涵养心灵). Generally, the outcome of scholarly research must have influence in the lives of the people. If there is no cultivation of the love for mankind, no habit of serving society, then not only will there be a lack of material to verify one’s research, but expression. This requires a different disposition than the old style of imitating ancient masters as the only way towards progress. Numerous schools have also set up national painting curricula, but these, too, pay quite a lot of attention to the ways of communicating between China and the West, and they are still in an experimental stage.’ (CYPQJ, vol. 6, 140)

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the results of research would be meaningless. Therefore, this school has promoted initiatives such as the consumer commune, lectures for the common people, evening classes for campus workers, and the Renaissance magazine. These are all the things that this university considers very important, and I hope that all of you will take note of this.92

In other words, old PKU did not expect all those who took part in these art associations to become famous painters, calligraphers, musicians, or dramatists. They only hoped that the students would have the opportunity to experience these types of activities ‘as a means to nourish the soul’ and to develop ‘a lively spirit.’ This use of artistic activities to cultivate personality was precisely the most outstanding quality of Chinese traditional education. Cai Yuanpei was absolutely right when he spoke of the ‘Six Confucian Arts,’ noting that, save for maths, ‘they all contained elements of aesthetic education.’ And his verdict that ‘music is pure aesthetic education’ was an unalterable truth.93 If we examine things from this perspective, studying music had not the purpose of being able to take the stage and perform, rather it was to play music for one’s own enjoyment and one’s own spiritual nourishment. In that sense, the PKU Music Research Society came much closer to the ideals in the Yueji 乐记 (Record of Music), and was more in line with the ideals of ‘aesthetic education.’ In reality, the art societies at old PKU followed more the ideals of ‘aesthetic education’ and less that of professional art education. We 92

Cai Yuanpei. ‘Speech at the Opening of the Twenty-Second Academic Year of PKU,’ 344345. 93 Cf. the Record of Music: ‘Ceremonies afforded the defined expression for the (affections of the) people’s minds; music secured the harmonious utterance of their voices; the laws of government were designed to promote the performance (of the ceremonies and music); and punishments, to guard against the violation of them. When ceremonies, music, laws, and punishments had everywhere full course, without irregularity or collision, the method of kingly rule was complete.’ [Translator’s note] English translation by Donald Sturgeon, cited from ‘Chinese Text Project,’ accessed January 31, 2009, http://chinese.dsturgeon.net. See also the ‘Yuelun’ 乐论 (Discourse on Music) in Xunzi 荀子: ‘Music was enjoyed by the sage kings; it can make the hearts of the people good; it deeply stirs men; and it alters their manners and changes their customs. Thus the Ancient Kings guided the people with ritual and music, and the people became harmonious and friendly.’ [Translator’s note] English translation cited from John Knoblock, Xunzi: A Translation and Study of the Complete Works (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), vol. 3, 83.

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can gather as much solely from looking at their founding aims and the later development of their leading figures. According to The University Daily of December 5, 1917, Luo Changpei 罗 常 培 (18991958) and others had taken the initiative to organize the Calligraphy Research Society, drawing up eleven bylaws and stating as their aim the ‘flourishing of calligraphy as a means to cultivate our personality.’ In later life, Luo did not become a famous calligrapher, but a well-known linguist. The February 3, 1918 issue of The University Daily reported on the inaugural meeting of the PKU Painting Techniques Research Society, held two days prior. The meeting had put forward Di Fuding 狄福鼎 (Ying 膺, 18951964) and others as temporary secretaries. During the ‘May Fourth’ Movement, Di Fuding was quite active and he later became a political figure. In the same issue of The University Daily we find the ‘General Regulations for the PKU Music Society,’ which set its aim as the ‘research into music in order to cultivate one’s personality.’ The University Daily of January 14, 1920 introduced the PKU Drama Research Society, which had been established in December 1919, ‘with the aim of reforming and further developing Chinese drama.’ The Society was chaired by the first-year English Department student Hu Zhemou 胡哲谋, with Mao Zhun 毛准 (Zishui 子水, 18931988) in charge of general affairs and Chen Mian in charge of research. Chen only ever published one rather crude one-act play in New Youth [see Chapter 2], while Mao became known for his research into the national heritage. 94 The PKU Experimental Theatre Association, founded February 22, 1922 had, by general acclaim, requested Wei Jiangong 魏 建 功 (19011980) and others to draft their general regulations. Wei never achieved fame in the acting profession, but went on to become well-known linguist. The general regulations for the PKU Experimental Theatre Association are quite interesting in that they promulgated ‘to aim for the progress of art through an amateur character and a spirit of experimentation.’ The Chinese term aimei de 爱 美 的 , literally ‘beauty-loving,’ was used to transliterate the English term ‘amateur’ (normally translated as yeyu de 业 余 的 ). In April 1921, the 94

[Translator’s note] Hu Zhemou went on to work for the Commercial Press in Shanghai in the 1920s, where he edited Yingwen zazhi 英文杂志 (The English Student).

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playwright Chen Dabei 陈大悲 (18871944) serialized the article ‘Aimei de xiju’ 爱 美 的 戏 剧 (Amateur Theatre) in the Beijing Morning News, wherein he mentioned the American experience with Little Theatres, advocating amateur theatre in opposition to professional, commercialized theatre. Afterwards, numerous universities established student theatre troupes, promoting the further development of the modern Chinese drama movement. I am interested in the term aimei/amateur/beauty-loving because it bears affinities with the old Chinese learned tradition: to like art, but not as one’s profession, let alone as a way to make a living. To possess culture and engage with a particular realm and a particular atmosphere is a positive thing, even if one’s technique is lacking in some areas—at least it avoids the ‘artistic triteness’ (jiangqi 匠气) often encountered among students in professional academies. Speaking of this brings to mind Qian Mu’s 钱穆 (18951990) Balanced Inquiries into Modern Chinese Academia. That book contains four chapters discussing Chinese music. Qian’s basic premise is that ‘the Chinese emphasize cohesion, while Westerners are concerned about distinction, which is where the difference lies between the larger cultural systems of China and the West.’ On this basis he comes up with all kinds of brave conjectures. Many of his analyses are forced and far-fetched, but some are quite brilliant. The quotation below, which is nostalgic and rational at the same time, ably highlights the special qualities of Chinese music: Before the end of the Qing Empire, my middle school classmate Liu Tianhua, who loved music, played the big drum in a military band, which made him the laughing stock of his fellow pupils. At the beginning of the Republic he studied Chinese music in Shanghai. On a winter’s night, two or three classmates gathered round to listen to him playing ‘Ambush on All Sides’ on the pipa. His play conveyed emotion and power and his technique was wonderful. It still lingers in my ears, and over these many years I have never forgotten it. Then in Beiping, he performed the erhu, his novel skills causing a sensation that the whole nation admired. But decades passed since then, and Liu Tianhua’s erhu was gradually no longer heard in public. The modern mood is that you are only fashionable if you take the stage and perform in front of a jam-packed auditorium. Classical Chinese instruments such as the qin, pipa, down to the erhu, are performed at home and in solitude, for one’s own happiness, not as a gift to others. Also, Chinese society had many retired scholars. But times have changed

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and tastes are different, and retired scholars are now a rare sight indeed.95

I read Qian Mu’s book over a decade ago, but ‘over these many years I have not forgotten’ this passage. Especially his contrast between ‘taking the stage’ and ‘performing in solitude,’ provided me with an important epiphany. Such being the case, why not borrow flowers to give to the Buddha, and use these words as this essay’s concluding remarks.

95

Qian Mu 钱 穆 , Xiandai Zhongguo xueshu lunheng 现 代 中 国 学 术 论 衡 (Balanced Inquiries into Modern Chinese Academia) (Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 1986), 260.

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HOW TO FORMULATE KNOWLEDGE: THE VERNACULAR WRITING OF ZHANG TAIYAN Confucius has two famous sayings about the relationship between knowledge and formulation, both of which widely influenced posterity. One is: ‘If the language lacks patterning, it will not go far’ (yan zhi wu wen, xing zhi bu yuan 言之无文，行之不远).1 The other is: ‘Words should attain their ends and that’s all’ (ci da er yi yi 辞达而 已矣). 2 The former points to rhetorical ingenuity and the latter opposes excessive embellishment. It is not easy to achieve a suitable balance between the two. Therefore, the focus of quarrels among literary men and scholars of the past was not the question if ‘patterning’ is necessary, but rather the meaning of ‘attaining their ends.’ Different genres require rhetorical embellishment to vastly different degrees. Adding to that the influence of Zeitgeist and the limitations of writers’ talents, it is natural that there is no consensus in the understanding of the relationship between wen 文 (rhetoric) and zhi 质 (content). The unclear status of the boundary has its own advantage: it is commonly agreed that both composition and learning require ‘caution in the use of words.’ Both plane and ornate styles are attempts at finding out the best policy for expressing thoughts or feelings. This pursuit is not fundamentally affected by the high or low status of the genre. To use Zhang Taiyan’s words, every kind of composition requires its own kind of learning as well as its own kind of form, and that which conforms to the rules is graceful. ‘Therefore, fiction can be graceful, as well as vulgar. It is not the case that it is necessarily vulgar. If even formal letters and fiction can be graceful, then surely this applies even more to decrees, doctrines, history, and essays.’ In discussing learning and composition, what should be avoided most is ‘to set one structure as the standard for a myriad of 1

Zuozhuan 左 传 (Zuo Commentary), Xiang 25. Translation quoted from Stephen Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Council on East Asian Studies, 1992), 28. 2 Lunyu 论语 (Analects), XV.40. Translation quoted from Owen, Readings, 135.

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structures.’3 It is not difficult to see how much the literary men of the Ming and Qing dynasties emphasized the ‘differentiation of genres’ when one reads their anthologies, such as the Differentiation of Writings (by Wu Na 吴讷, 13721457), Differentiation of Genres (by Xu Shizeng 徐师曾, 15171580), Classified Compendium of Ancient-Style Prose and Verse (by Yao Nai 姚鼐, 17311815), or An Anthology of a Hundred Classical and Historical Writers (by Zeng Guofan 曾国藩, 18111872). Such an emphasis upon the significance of ‘genres’ is a challenge to those scholars who do not excel in rhetorical matters. The scholars of the Qing dynasty aimed at synthesis in both learning and composition. However, there were not many who displayed a comprehensive grasp of argumentation, philology, and rhetoric. The fact is rather that ‘who is good at learning is usually bad at composition,’ as Liu Shipei said. If we conceed that scholarly writing can be graceful as well as vulgar, then the statement that ‘learning falls apart with composition, and the study of argumentation and philology is differentiated from the various branches of rhetoric’ should not equal the idea that ‘the more one learns, the worse one writes.’4 In fact, Zhang Taiyan approached the problem precisely from this perspective, trying to bring about literary reform during the late Qing period by praising the writings of scholars and assuming the guise of restoring past standards (fugu 复古). In 1909, Zhang felt greatly offended when he found himself ranked amongst Tan Sitong, Huang Zunxian, Wang Kaiyun 王闿运 (1833–1916), Kang Youwei, and others in an attempt in Shanghai to ‘choose the fifty great literary men of recent times.’ In his letter to Deng Shi 邓实 (18771951), apart from criticizing the scholarship and the works of Tan, Huang, Wang, and Kang, Zhang Taiyan also expressed straightforwardly his own ideal of writing: the ‘bellicose essays’ he published in The Minpao Magazine, which had acquired wide acclaim, were not praiseworthy. Rather, his cramped and obscure scholarly works such as Qiu shu 訄书 (Book of Urgency), ‘being erudite and concise, refined and substantial,’ were really 3

Zhang Jiang 章绛 [Zhang Taiyan], ‘Wenxue lunluë’ 文学论略(下) (Brief Discussion of Literature [Part Two]), in Guocui xuebao 23 (1906). 4 Liu Shipei, ‘Lun jinshi wenxue zhi bianqian’ 论近世文学之变迁 (On the Development of Modern Literature), Guocui xuebao 26 (1907).

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worthy of the name of literature (wenzhang 文章).5 This is because Zhang greatly disapproved of those literary men who ‘were fond of magnificent words and were too discursive to argue with rivals’ and resented being praised for his ‘outstanding literary skills’ in ‘commenting on current events and judging people.’ Therefore, he was eager to commend his own position, emphasizing that the ideal he pursued was scholastic writing which ‘discusses the rites on the basis of principles’ (chi li yi li 持理议礼).6 According to Zhang, amongst his own writings, there were, apart from the Book of Urgency, another dozen pieces stored up in his chest which were also grand and graceful. These must have been the writings that were included in his Guogu lunheng 国 故 论 衡 (Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning; hereafter Balanced Inquiries), published the following year. The historian of literature Hu Shi thought that ‘there are only seven or eight examples of meticulously composed books during the past two thousand years which can really be called “works” (zhuzuo 著作),’ and Balanced Inquiries was one of them. In this magnum opus, each chapter, according to Hu Shi, ‘has the sentiment of literature. It is a supreme work of classical composition.’7 Here, we leave aside the quarrel between classical writing and vernacular writing and concentrate only on the question of whether ‘composition’ and ‘learning’ can be united. On this point, Hu Shi was a knowledgeable person. He unambiguously acknowledged the literary value of Zhang’s works. It is debatable whether scholarly works can be included into the history of literature; but it is no small matter whether scholars are conscious of their genres and attentive to the words they use when they write their works, since it concerns the question of whether ‘composition’ and ‘learning’ would forever fall apart. My own attitude is a bit 5

Zhang Taiyan, ‘Yu Deng Shi shu’ 与邓实书 (Letter to Deng Shi), in Zhang Taiyan quanji, vol. 4 (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chuban she, 1985), 169–170. 6 Zhang Taiyan, ‘Lun shi’ 论式 (On Standards), in Guogu lunheng (Shanghai: Dagonghe ribao guan, 1912), 17–124. 7 Hu Shi, ‘Wushi nian lai Zhongguo zhi wenxue’ 五 十 年 来 中 国 之 文 学 (Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years’), in Hu Shi gudian wenxue yanjiu lunji (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1988), chapter 7. I fairly appreciate Hu Shi’s view but, from the perspective of literary writing, I think that ‘On Standard’ and ‘Yuan xue’ 原学 (The Origin of Learning) are better than ‘Ming jie gu’ 明解故(上) (Understanding the Commentaries [Part 1]) and ‘Yuyan yuanqi shuo’ 语言缘起说 (The Origin of Language), which Hu Shi recommended.

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ambivalent: I do not suggest to ‘replace learning with composition’ though I appreciate ‘well written studies’ very much. To put it precisely, I dislike using pompous literary style as disguise for treating scholarly topics which require rigorous argument. I also dislike scholastic works which are dry, discursive, full of neologisms or pretentious profundity. I agree with Qian Mu that Zhang Taiyan’s work should count as one example of ideal scholarly writing.8 It is worth noticing that, while being the undisputed master of ancient prose in late Qing and early Republican China, Zhang also published a book written in vernacular language, which deals with topics in history and literature. Below, we shall examine in detail the adventurous history of this small publication. First, I want to point out that in considering the question of how to formulate knowledge, both written and spoken genres are involved. For Zhang, the former was the result of great pains, while the latter appeared almost accidental. Considering that in the New Culture Movement it was a crucial breakthrough to employ the vernacular language in scholarly works (not just in narrative fiction or lyric poems), our account of the rise and development of the vernacular language around ‘May Fourth’ is very likely to be at odds with the traditional discourse presented, for instance, in Hu Shi’s famous article ‘Driven to Revolt.’ Here, it is necessary to introduce a very popular late Qing genre of writing, namely lecture notes (yanjiang gao 演讲稿). Our case study will be the dramatic publication history of a book called The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan. Pride of Ancient Prose and Vanguard of Vernacular Language Anyone who has taken a look at Zhang shi congshu 章氏丛书 (Zhang’s Collected Works) will be astonished by his erudition, his deep thought, and the archaic style of his writing. As one who ‘takes phonology and philology as basis, the Pre-Qin philosophers as the extreme, and teaches classics of Buddhism besides these,’9 Zhang 8

Yu Yingshi 余英时, You ji feng chui shui shang lin: Qian Mu yu xiandai Zhongguo xueshu 犹记风吹水上鳞——钱穆与现代中国学术 (Still Remembering the Wind Blowing Ripples on the Water—Qian Mu and Modern Chinese Scholarship) (Taibei: Sanmin shuju, 1991). 9 Zhang Taiyan, ‘Guocui xuebao sheshu’ 国粹学报社书 (Letter to the National Essence Journal), Guocui xuebao 59 (1909).

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was well-versed in Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism. Furthermore, he applied the classics to daily life and promoted revolution in his teaching of ancient learning; therefore, he had once attracted innumerable young students, including Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren, and Qian Xuantong. But as time went by, ‘opposing the Qing dynasty’ soon became history and ‘archaic words’ were real obstacles to reading. When faced with Zhang’s writings, which are full of ‘archaic words’ and therefore appear to be cramped and inarticulate, modern-day readers can hardly read through them, let alone imitate them. Apart from specialists, there must be few people, if any, who can read them through without the help of reference books. This is the reason why Hu Shi dared to assert that ‘Zhang’s classical composition proved him to be the best writer in fifty years,’ but due to his excessive liking of archaic things, ‘we cannot help but say that [his literature] will not survive him.’10 Here, we put aside the question of whether ‘the literature of Zhang Taiyan’ would ‘survive him,’11 and concern ourselves only with the well-known graceful and archaic style of Zhang’s writings. In 1921, when the vernacular movement was in full force, this commonly acknowledged master of ‘ancient prose’ published the book The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, which is full of humour and even buffoonery. What gave the readers the biggest impact in this little book of 137 pages was at first not its concrete discussion, but the ‘transfiguration’ of Zhang—his changing from ‘the last commander’ of classical language to the ‘vanguard’ of the vernacular language. This is exactly what made the publisher feel proud of it. The three main characteristics outlined by Wu Qiren 吴齐仁 (pseudonym of Zhang Jinglu 张静庐, 1898–1969) in his ‘Short Comment from the Editor’ basically capture all the significance of this dramatic event: It is well known and unanimously acknowledged that Zhang is a great master of Chinese literature. But his books are not comfortable to read for newcomers because of their deep thoughts and the ‘solemn’ 10

Hu Shi, ‘Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years,’ 127. See my The Establishment of Modern Chinese Scholarship, in which I leave aside the relatively superficial ‘liking for ancient words’ and concentrate on the impact which Zhang Taiyan’s exposition of ‘the manners of the Wei and Jin Dynasties’ and ‘the essays of the Six Dynasties’ made upon the Zhou brothers, and the continuation of cultural tradition made manifest by this. 11

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classical language. Therefore, the following request naturally arises: how can we hear his speech directly? Now, we have it. This book is the only set of his lecture notes you will find. The characteristics of this book are: (1) Zhang has scarcely written in vernacular language throughout his whole life. The editor has gone through great pains to collect a few pieces; (2) although there are only a few pieces, they include almost all the means of pursuing National Learning and the ways of cultivating oneself, through which the readers can not only enhance knowledge, but also cultivate morality; and (3) they use the most simple vernacular language to expound the most illuminating principles, so that they can be used as paradigm of the vernacular language. These are the main characteristics that the editor wants to introduce to the readers.12

The most noteworthy and intriguing characteristic of this book is its presentation as ‘lecture notes.’ Unfortunately the editor, overwhelmed by the Zeitgeist, paid his entire attention to showing how Zhang used ‘the most simple vernacular language to expound the most illuminating principles, so that they can be used as paradigm of the vernacular language.’ Here, we will temporarily suspend the analysis about the genre of ‘lecture notes’ and follow the line of 12

Wu Qiren 吴齐仁, ‘Bianzhe duanyan’ 编者短言 (Short Comment from the Editor), in Zhang Taiyan de baihuawen (Shanghai: Taidong tushuju, 1921, 1st edition). The essays collected in this volume were originally published in The Educational Magazine. The titles of most of these essays were changed for the book publication. The original titles and publication dates are listed below according to their order in the book: ‘Liuxue de mudi he fangfa’ 留学的目的和方法 (The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad) is a pseudo-editorial (dai she shuo 代社说) entitled ‘Gengxu hui yanshuolu’ 庚戌会衍说录 (Record of a Lecture at the Gengxu Society) , published in vol. 4 (June 1910); ‘Zhongguo wenhua de genyuan he jindai xueshu de fada’ 中国文化的根源和近代学术的发达 (The Origin of Chinese Culture and the Development of Modern Scholarship), is originally an editorial (she shuo 社说), published in vol. 1 (March 1910); ‘Changshi yu jiaoyu’ 常识与教育 (Common Sense and Education) is originally an editorial published in vol. 2 (April 1910); ‘Jing de dayi’ 经的大意 (The General Meaning of the Classics) was originally entitled ‘Lun jing de dayi’ 论经的大意 (On the General Meaning of the Classics) and published in vol. 2; ‘Jiaoyu de genben yao cong ziguo zixin fachulai’ 教育的根本要从自国自心发出来 (The Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart) was originally entitled ‘Lun jiaoyu de genben yao cong ziguo zixin fachulai’ 论教育的根本要从自国自心发出 来 (On How the Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart) and published in vol. 3 (May 1910); ‘Lun zhuzi de dagai’ 论诸 子的大概 (Outline of the Philosophers) is the original title, as published in vol. 3; ‘Zhongguo wenzi lüeshuo’ 中国文字略说 (Brief Discussion of Chinese Characters) was published in vol. 1.

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thought of the editor, trying specifically to clarify whether Zhang Taiyan was able to be a ‘vanguard of the vernacular language.’ In most people’s view, Zhang Taiyan, who wrote gracefully and liked archaic things, should really be standing on the opposite side of the vernacular language movement. In fact, this thoughtless and prompt conclusion is not capable of withstanding careful examination. It is true that the graceful and obscure writing style from the Wei and Jin dynasties, in which Zhang excelled, is radically different from Hu Shi’s proposal to write ‘as clear as speech.’ However, at the time of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture Movement, Zhang did not openly challenge the leaders of the movement, as Lin Shu did, nor did he mock them behind the scenes, as Yan Fu 严复 (18541921) did.13 Instead, when he received a gift copy of Hu Shi’s Outline of Chinese Philosophy, he wrote a letter in reply to Hu Shi and discussed the evaluation of Zhuangzi with him.14 Why did Zhang Taiyan act so ‘unexpectedly’? Firstly, he was occupied with political issues at that time and did not have time for other things. Secondly, many of the advocates of the vernacular language were his students. 13

It is by now well-known that Lin Shu wrote the essays ‘Lun guwen zhi bu dang fei’ 论古文之不当废 (The Classical Language Should Not Be Abolished) and ‘Lun guwen baihua zhi xiang xiaochang’ 论古文白话之相消长 (The Relative Force of the Classical and the Vernacular Language), as well as the stories ‘Jing Sheng’ 荆生 (Master Jing), and ‘Yao Meng’ 妖梦 (Devil Dream), as they have been cited and critiqued in various histories of modern Chinese literature. As for Yan Fu, he left the following interesting remarks in ‘Yu Xiong Chunru shu’ 与熊纯 如书 (Letter to Xiong Chunru): ‘One should see that it is a matter that belongs to the age of evolution and revolution. There are thousands of doctrines. When they are applied to the human world, the best survive and the worst fall naturally by the wayside. Even if there were thousands of people like Chen Duxiu, Hu Shi, Qian Xuantong, could they ever grasp this? They are just like birds in Spring and insects in Autumn: one only needs to let them sing or buzz and stop on their own accord. It is laughable that people like Lin Qinnan would like to argue with them.’ See Yan Fu, Yan Fu ji 严复集 (Yan Fu’s Works) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986), vol. 3, 699. 14 See item no. 574 in the ‘Hu Shi Archive,’ kept at the Institute of Early Modern History of the Chinese Academy of Social Scienes, and cited by Bai Ji’an 白吉庵 in his Hu Shi zhuan 胡适传 (A Biography of Hu Shi) (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1993), 119. We can understand the writing style of Zhang Taiyan from the first paragraph of his letter to Hu Shi: ‘Look, Shizhi! I received your Outline of the History of Chinese Philosophy. It is full of insight. But the philosophers are actually hard to understand. One has to see their main concerns to get it right. Passages are garbled and original meaning is lost if one only looks at one or two fine sentences. I hope that you will strive to improve and make further progress.’

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Most crucial, however, were his breadth of mind as a historian, as well as his rather tolerant concept of literary form. When clarifying the function of literature and describing the development of writing, Zhang was used to assigning different positions to rhythmic and prosaic writings, and not championing any genre or any writer. Perhaps because he attracted so many readers’ attention with his outstanding discussions about the need for rhetoric to be based on philology and the need to understand basic principles before addressing obscure issues, his suggestions that every kind of writing has its own form and that there is no single form for all have often been overlooked. The following passage from Zhang’s ‘Brief Discussion of Literature’ is worth reflecting on: Therefore, for ancient documents, to use classical language is graceful; for modern documents, to use modern language is graceful. […] Modern fiction is street talk. Novels like The Water Margin [traditionally ascribed to Shi Nai’an 施 耐 庵 , 14th century] and The Scholars [by Wu Jingzi 吴 敬 梓 , 17011754] are gothic and mysterious, and as for the stories in Random Notes from Yuewei Cottage [by Ji Yun 纪昀, 17241805], nothing prevents them from being graceful. If one is boastful of ancient splendour and overindulges in beauty, it always leads one on the wrong path. Therefore, fiction can be graceful, as well as vulgar. It is not the case that it is necessarily vulgar. If even formal letters and fiction can be graceful, then surely this applies even more to decrees, doctrines, history, and essays.15

Contrary to common perception, Zhang Taiyan, despite being a master of the classical language, not only did not reject but even appreciated ‘chapter novels’ (zhanghui xiaoshuo 章回小说) written in the vernacular language, such as The Water Margin. According to Zhang, ‘being skilful or clumsy depends on talent and being graceful or vulgar depends on norms,’ and ‘to be graceful yet clumsy is preferable to being vulgar yet skilful.’16 He allowed each genre to have its own rules (including special demands for the genre) and the so-called rhythmic and prosaic writings, the so-called classical and the vernacular language were, in fact, of no absolute value. The foremost task of writers was to follow ‘the norms of writing;’ to develop one’s own talent was only secondary. This comparatively 15 16

Zhang Jiang, ‘Brief Discussion of Literature (Part 2).’ Ibid.

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conservative idea of literature may inhibit groundbreaking innovation, but its advantage is that it respects the inner logic of development of each genre, therefore it is open and without the obstinacy and narrow-mindedness which is easily found in the tendency to champion one school or one genre. In this regard, to praise the ‘straightforward’ The Revolutionary Army [by Zou Rong 邹 容 , 18851905] and the ‘vulgarly written’ Story of Hong Xiuquan [by Huang Xiaopei 黄小配, 18721913],17 as well as to publish The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, is not so unimaginable for Zhang Taiyan.18 The impression that Zhang Taiyan ‘argued for the classical language and against the vernacular language’19 probably originates from a short essay by Lu Xun. In 1935, when discussing ‘the relationship between vernacular and classical language,’ Zhang Taiyan posed the question: ‘People nowadays intend to replace the classical language with the vernacular one. This is really innovative, but can the vernacular language really be separated from the classical language?’ He came to the conclusion that ‘… the meaning of the vernacular language is not complete, and from time to time one cannot but use the classical language.’ And he added: ‘There are many ancient phrases which lay hidden in the vernacular language. If one does not know philology, how can one master the vernacular language?’ 20 This opinion incurred the anger of the advocates of the vernacular language and attracted some criticisms from the New 17

Zhang Taiyan, ‘Geming jun xu’ 革命军序 (Preface to The Revolutionary Army), in Zhang Taiyan zhenglun xuanji, ed. Tang Zhijun (Beijing: Zhonghua shu ju, 1977), 192–193; and ‘Hong Xiuquan yanyi xu’ 洪秀全演义序 (Preface to Story of Hong Xiuquan), in Ershi shiji Zhongguo xiaoshuo lilun ziliao, ed. Chen Pingyuan and Xia Xiaohong (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1989), vol. 1, 338–339. 18 Among his own writings, Zhang Taiyan was doubtlessly most proud of his ‘grand and gracefully written’ Book of Urgency, rather than his ‘vulgarly written’ pieces ‘on current events.’ See ‘Letter to Deng Shi,’ 169. Contrary to his contemporaries who evaluated writings on the basis of the difference between classical and vernacular language, Zhang Taiyan was more concerned with the distinction between scholarly writings and political writings. 19 For example, the article written by Liu Siyuan 刘思源 is based on this. See Liu Siyuan, ‘Jiuji chongfan: Zhang Taiyan de baihuawen’ 旧籍重翻: 《章太炎的 白话文》 (Rereading Old Books: The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan), Lu Xun yanjiu yuekan, no. 2 (2001). 20 Zhang Taiyan, ‘Baihua yu wenyan zhi guanxi’ 白话与文言之关系 (The Relation between the Vernacular Language and the Classical Language), in Guoxue gailun (Hong Kong: Xianggang xuelin shuju, 1971), 113–121.

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Culture advocates. For example, the rhetorician Chen Wangdao mocked Zhang’s statement that ‘if one is not well-versed in philology, one cannot know which sound of vernacular speech nowadays corresponds to which ancient sound and which ancient characters, so one will make mistakes,’ calling it ‘the third policy for the preservation of the classical language.’ 21 Lu Xun was also discontent that his former teacher ‘applied philology, in which he is so well-versed, too extensively,’ and added the following comments: Zhang’s statements are true. The vernacular speech nowadays is not something that just fell from the sky. There are of course many ancient phrases in it. As there are ancient phrases, of course many of them may have appeared in ancient books. If one who uses the vernacular language has to check each word in the Shuowen jiezi 说文解字 (Explanation and Analysis of Simple and Compound Characters; hereafter Shuowen), it is really much more difficult than to write in the classical language, which freely employs substitute characters (jiezi 借 字 ). However, ever since the vernacular language has been promoted, there are no advocates of it who maintain that the aim of writing in the vernacular language is to find out the original words from ‘philology.’ We employ the conventional substitute characters. […] Therefore, Zhang’s third policy actually misses the target.22

It is worth noticing, however, that the main point of this essay is to extirpate the deep-rooted superstition of the Chinese people about ‘famous people’ and to emphasize that ‘not all words spoken by famous people are famous words.’ Therefore, although it concerns itself with Zhang’s ‘attack on the vernacular language nowadays,’ there is no mockery in it. On the contrary, at the end of this essay, Lu Xun even apologizes that he ‘referred to Zhang in so many places.’ It may have been a strategical choice for Zhang Taiyan not to declare his position at the time of ‘May Fourth,’ when the classical language and the vernacular language were sharply opposed, but to speak out only in the mid-1930s when the debate had passed and the vernacular had gained the dominant position in the education system and in literary expression. Although Zhang Taiyan was used to being 21

Nanshan 南山 (Chen Wangdao), ‘Baoshou wenyan de di-san daoce’ 保守文 言的第三道策 (The Third Policy for the Preservation of the Classical Language), Taibai 2, no. 7 (1935). 22 Lu Xun, ‘Mingren he mingyan’ 名人和名言 (Famous People and Famous Words), originally published in Taibai 2, no. 9 (1935), now collected in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 6, 361–364.

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independent and fond of saying surprising things, he in fact did not act blindly. For example, it is not accidental that the letter to Wang Heming 王鹤鸣 in which he first criticized new-style schools was written in 1906. Zhang Taiyan had urged eagerly to abolish the imperial examinations and to establish new schools in earlier times, but once the Qing government decreed that the imperial examinations would stop from 1906, Zhang became critical of the new schools. That he acted always so ‘untimely’ was related to his particular line of thought in matters of study: Study is originally aimed at saving from deviation, but deviation arises whenever it is implemented.23

To distrust any stable things or principles, to be cautious of any attempts to ‘amend faults,’ to prevent it from becoming new ‘despotism’—according to this line of thought, in China of the 1930s, it was the moment to seriously reflect about the vernacular language which had become ‘the obligatory weapon of literature.’ This is not to deny that in trying to ‘amend the faults of learning,’ Zhang was too proud of his own professions, so that that he only achieved the opposite effect; what we want to clarify here is that we should not include Zhang amongst the opponents of the vernacular language on the basis of this essay. What Zhang sneered at several times was actually vernacular poetry, rather than vernacular prose. Zhang Taiyan defended strictly the ‘boundary that that which rhymes is a poem and that without rhyme is prose,’ and therefore maintained that ‘since the vernacular poem nowadays does not make use of rhyme, it should be included into prose and should not be regarded as poem, even though there is also a sense of beauty.’24 In fact, amongst the famous literary men and scholars in the 1920s and 1930s, Zhang Taiyan was not alone in bearing misgivings towards the new poems which were without rhyme.25 What should be the direction of New Poetry is a question open to and worthy of serious debate. This is not the same as to 23

Zhang Taiyan, ‘Letter to the National Essence Journal,’ in Zhang Taiyan zhenglun xuanji, ed. Tang Zhijun, 498. 24 Zhang Taiyan, Guoxue gailun 国学概论 (Outline of National Learning), 25, 78, 92. 25 See Chapter Five.

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support or to oppose the vernacular language movement at the level of thought and culture. Though Zhang was not an opponent of the vernacular language movement, he was also far from an active supporter of the vernacular language; when his Book of Urgency and his Balanced Inquiries are put together with The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, there is always a feeling of discord. Probably due to this reason, this seemingly ‘unearthed relic,’ The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, did not attract wide attention from the academic world, although there were three printings of it in the year of its first issue. It is only when historians turn their heads to past things and check out the spoils of triumph of the vernacular language movement that they would meet up with this book. Just like the independence of its author, The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan is difficult to classify. It adds a number of variables to the well fixed ‘historical narrative’ of the vernacular language movement. There is, sure enough, another direct reason that scholars are unwilling to encounter this little book. It is that the authorship of this book is still unclear and controversial. This controversial case in the history of modern Chinese scholarship is actually not difficult to solve. It will become evident as soon as the relevant materials are properly arranged. The problem is that the rumour that the authorship of this book should be ascribed to Qian Xuantong is congenial to the critical attitude of the time, and is consistent with the common images of Zhang Taiyan and Qian Xuantong. Therefore, this rumour has spread quickly. It is quite surprising that the first person to express doubts about The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan was in fact Zhang’s student Qian Xuantong; and many later speculations were actually based on misunderstandings of Qian’s view. We will examine the relevant materials in chronological order and see how this problem was generated and how it was gradually solved. On May 25, 1923, Qian Xuantong, one of the champions of the New Culture Movement, wrote a letter to Gu Jiegang to express his support for Gu’s theory of ‘the sedimentation of ancient Chinese history.’ This letter was published in Volume 10 of Dushu zazhi 读书 杂志 (Reading Magazine) (June 1923) under the title ‘Reply to Gu Jiegang,’ and was later included into the first volume of Gu’s Disputing Antiguity. This long letter of nearly 10,000 words is an

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important document of the movement for the critique of ancient history and is widely known. In order to illustrate the importance of falsification, there is the following ‘influential’ passage in this letter: There are really a great number of spurious books in China to the extent that there are even spurious books in modern times: Qian Xuantong’s essay ‘Zhongguo wenzi lüeshuo’ 中国文字略说 (Brief Comments on Chinese Characters) appears inside The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan! Therefore, when we read Chinese books, no matter whether we study National Learning or Chinese history, the effort of criticism must not be spared.26

To quote The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan as an example in talking about spurious books is likely to give the wrong impression that this book was not written by Zhang Taiyan. The explicit claim that there is Qian’s own writing in this book is likely to induce the thought, which soon spread from one to another, that The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan was, in fact, The Vernacular Language of Qian Xuantong. In fact, if one reads carefully, what Qian Xuantong meant by ‘spurious’ is the fact that this book wrongly collects the essay ‘Brief Comments on Chinese Characters’ and it is not meant to deny his teacher’s authorship of the whole book. In August 1935, Zhou Zuoren wrote his ‘Introduction’ to the first prose volume of the Compendium, in which he specifically introduced The Educational Magazine. This is fairly helpful in clearing the historical mist and informing the readers that Zhang Taiyan actually ‘used the vernacular language to talk about’ Chinese culture: Besides the editorial, its content includes studies of Chinese characters, classics, studies of the philosophers, history, geography, and education. The vernacular language is used, in order to propagate the opposition to the Manchus across all areas of Southeast Asia. As it says in the preface to the first issue: ‘We expect citizens and friends to cultivate a passion for the ancient and strive to be good sons of our ancestors.’ The writers included Zhang Taiyan, Tao Huanqing 陶 焕 卿 (Chengzhang 成章, 18781912), and Qian Deqian 钱德潜 [i.e. Qian Xuantong]. At that time Qian Xuantong did not yet have the name ‘Xuantong.’ Instead he called himself ‘Xia 夏’ which means that he was a ‘Chinese.’ He wrote two essays about the study of Chinese 26

Qian Xuantong, ‘Da Gu Jiegang xiansheng shu’ 答顾颉刚先生书 (Reply to Gu Jiegang), in Gu shi bian, ed. Gu Jiegang et al. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1982), vol. 1, 81.

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characters in The Educational Magazine with the pseudonym Hunran 浑然. The essay ‘Gonghe jinian shuo’ 共和纪年说 (A Chronology for the Republic) in the first volume, which proposes to use the event of the joint ruling of Duke Zhou and Duke Shao (Zhou Shao gonghe 周召共和) as the starting point of the Chinese calendar, was written by him.27

In this article, the description about the The Educational Magazine, which was first published in 1910 and had a total six issues, is quite precise and accurate. Its statements that Zhang Taiyan wrote for this journal and that Qian Xuantong wrote about the Chinese characters in this journal with the pseudonym Hunran can both be confirmed by relevant materials. But there is one problem. Zhou’s article touches on The Educational Magazine in its discussion of the development of the vernacular language in the late Qing but does not mention how the essays by Zhang were later collected into a book. Therefore, the readers remain puzzled about the origin of the book The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan. As the accounts of Qian and Zhou, who were both familiar with the matter, are not very clear, there was plenty of room left for latecomers to improvise. However, if it were not due to the lack of reference materials for scholars during wartime, the rumour would not have spread in such a manner. In May 1938, Li Jinxi, who had fled to Chenggu 城固 in Shaanxi province, was writing a biography for his late friend Qian Xuantong. Since his diary for the last thirty years was left in Beijing, he could not check it and could only write relying on his memory. The ‘Biography of Qian Xuantong’ written by Li Jinxi is a magnificent text, written in an unusual style.28 While it offers many excellent materials, there are also some defects in it due to lack of evidence. In describing Qian Xuantong’s contributions at the time of New Youth, Li’s comments are quite impressive: ‘Amongst the editors, he alone was the student of the master of the old literature Zhang Taiyan. Since his studies had a solid foundation and he used plenty of “jargon,” his rousing calls were even more 27

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Daoyan’ 导言 (Introduction), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi (Shanghai: Liangyou tushu yinshua gongsi,1935), vol. 6. 28 Li Jinxi, ‘Qian Xuantong xiansheng zhuan’ 钱玄同先生传 (Biography of Qian Xuantong), included as an appendix in Qian Xuantong nianpu, ed. Cao Shujing (Jinan: Qilu shushe, 1986), 147–202.

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influential.’29 But the following remarks are obviously due to errors of memory or misunderstandings of Qian Xuantong’s letter to Gu Jiegang: Qian’s use of the vernacular language to write academic works can be traced back even further. When he was studying in Japan during the late Qing, he ran The Educational Magazine together with his teacher Zhang Taiyan. A total of six issues were published. Its aim was to impart general knowledge of the Chinese language and history to those who were not able to go to school and some of its essays also had the tendency of advocating racial revolution. All essays were written in the vernacular language. He had his own pseudonym, but actually all essays signed ‘Taiyan’ were also written by him. Later, there appeared a book entitled The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, which actually should be called The Vernacular Language of Qian Xuantong. The appearance of this kind of academic works written in the vernacular language preceded the efforts of New Youth by almost a decade. But at that time there was still no conscious awareness of a ‘Literary Revolution,’ and this kind of magazine could only be regarded as a kind of high-end popular magazine. It spoke to the common people and still could not be situated into the realm of what Hu Shi called ‘consciously to promote the vernacular literature.’30

Li’s dramatic account was soon accepted by Xiao Yishan 萧一山 (19021978), an expert in Qing dynasty history. In his book Annals of the Publications of Qing Scholars, published by the Commercial Press, Xiao discusses The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan in the following way: The last piece was written by Qian Xuantong and wrongly included. In fact, this book was gathered from The Educational Magazine, which was run by Zhang Taiyan and Qian Xuantong. Almost all essays of this magazine were written by Qian Xuantong, and even those signed ‘Taiyan’ were written by him. Therefore, it should be called The Vernacular Language of Qian Xuantong.31

This passage is clearly a mixture of the accounts by Qian and Li. It is obviously not proper for a historian to transfer the authorship of a publication without sufficient evidence. Later, in his General history 29

Ibid., 170–171. Ibid., 171. 31 Cited from Tang Zhijun 汤志钧, Zhang Taiyan nianpu changbian 章太炎年谱 长编 (Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan) (Beijing : Zhonghua shuju, 1979), 622. 30

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of the Qing Dynasty, Xiao Yishan made a correction and ascribed the authorship again to Zhang Taiyan.32 In 1972, The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan was reissued by Yiwen yinshuguan 艺文印书馆 in Taipei. The editor emphasized in the ‘Editor’s Foreword’ that this book ‘is important to the study of Zhang Tiayan’s early thought.’ But the editor did not give any account of the origin and the authenticity of the articles collected in this book, obviously ignorant of this controversy. By neglecting The Educational Magazine, in which the articles of this book were originally published, saying that ‘these are the lecture notes of Zhang’s teaching in Tokyo where he stayed idle after the Minpao Magazine was suppressed,’ 33 and even supplementing the speech which Zhang Taiyan made in the welcome meeting organized by students in Tokyo (which the editor entitled ‘My Life and Ways of Acting’), it inadvertently set the record straight. Unfortunately, however, neither before nor after this have scholars tried to interpret The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan from the perspective of ‘lectures’ rather than that of ‘writing.’ The controversy over the authorship of The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan is first seriously dealt with in the Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan, published in 1978. The author of this book, Tang Zhijun 汤志钧, first quotes the research of Xiao Yishan and then remarks that: ‘Xiao Yishan’s account is wrong. The Vernacular Language of Zhang Taiyan is composed of the lecture notes of Zhang’s teaching in Japan, which were published in The Educational Magazine.’ Besides, this book also provides an important clue: Zhang Jinglu told me that ‘the name “Wu Qiren” means there is “no such person” (wu qiren 无其人).’ The book was actually edited by 32

Xiao Yishan initially inherited the account from Li, as can be seen in his Qingdai xuezhe zhushu biao 清代学者著述表 (Annals of the Publications of Qing Scholars) (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1944). He later corrected the mistake. In Qingdai Tongshi 清代通史 (The General History of the Qing Dynasty) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986), 589, he included The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, which he once saw as spurious, into the publications of Zhang Taiyan. (The 1986 Beijing edition of Xiao’s work is a reproduction of the fifth revised edition published by the Commercial Press in Taiwan in 1980.) 33 See the editorial note in Zhang Taiyan de baihuawen 章太炎的白话文 (The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan) (Taipei: Yiwen yinshuguan, 1972).

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Zhang Jinglu and was based on materials found by him in Zhang Taiyan’s home in Shanghai.34

Tang Zhijun should be very familiar with The Educational Magazine, since he quoted a large number of passages from it when he composed the Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan. At this point, Tang might have pointed out out that there are really some mistakes in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan—it wrongly included ‘Brief Comments on Chinese Characters,’ and neglected ‘Lun wenzi de tongjie’ 论文字的通借 (On the Rules of Substitution in Writing), signed Dujiao 独 角 in Volume 4. Unfortunately, Tang did not do this, and he also did not trace the origin of Xiao’s account. Therefore, he still left something for the latecomers to clarify. In Supplement to the Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan (by Xie Yingning 谢樱宁) and Chronological Biography of Qian Xuantong (by Cao Shujing 曹述敬), published ten years later, the controversy is clarified with one further step. Xie Yingning added Qian Xuantong’s ‘Reply to Gu Jiegang’ and Li Jinxi’s ‘Biography of Qian Xuantong,’ so that we can have a clearer view of the development of this controversy. Xie’s conclusion is that the author of the first six essays of The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan ‘is not in doubt and should be Zhang Taiyan.’35 This conclusion is correct, but perhaps because he has not seen The Educational Magazine, Xie does not know that this book neglects ‘On the Rules of Substitution in Writing,’ which was also written by Zhang Taiyan. Besides, he also complicated the problem by bringing in Nie Gannu’s 聂绀弩 (19031986) view that The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan was edited and published by Cao Juren.36 34

Tang Zhijun, Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan, 622. Cf. Xie Yingning, Zhang Taiyan nianpu zhiyi 章太炎年谱摭遗 (Supplement to the Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan) (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1987), 108–109. 36 I suspect that Nie Gannu confused The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan issued by Taidong tushuju 泰东图书局 (Shanghai) with Outline of National Learning, which was recorded by Cao Juren on the basis of lectures by Zhang Taiyan—the interval between the publication of these two books is only one year. The editor of The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, using the pseudonym Wu Qiren, cannot be Cao Juren. The doubtless evidence for this is that according to Cao, he first met Zhang Taiyan only after he had published his edition of Zhang’s lectures. Cf. Cao Juren, ‘Guanyu Zhang Taiyan xiansheng de huiyi’ 关于章太炎先生的回忆 35

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Cao Shujing should have arrived at the right conclusion when he composed the Chronological Biography of Qian Xuantong, since he had taken notice of Zhou Zuoren’s ‘Introduction’ to the first prose volume of the Compendium, as well as Qian Xuantong’s ‘Reply to Gu Jiegang.’ But he still preferred Li Jinxi’s wrong account, obviously because it is more favourable to the protagonist of his book. This is a common mistake of the editing of Complete Works and Chronological Biographies: wherever there are materials favour-able to the protagonist, they are more likely to be accepted than to be rejected. I suspect that the author has never read The Educational Magazine, otherwise he should not have accepted Li’s obsolete account: ‘All essays signed “Taiyan” were actually written by him (which means Qian Xuantong—author’s note).’ But there are actually no essays in The Educational Magazine which are signed ‘Taiyan.’ All essays by Zhang Taiyan published in The Educational Magazine are signed with his pseudonym Dujiao. A dozen years later, Liu Siyuan 刘思源 published a short article in Lu Xun Research Monthly, in which this controversy is addressed again. Although this article is full of speculation,37 there are two points worth noticing: Firstly, he had the opportunity to see Qian Xuantong’s copy of The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan and discovered that Qian added ‘On the Rules of Substitution in Writing’ to the contents page. ‘And even more important is that he only circled “Brief Comments on Chinese Characters” with a red pen and wrote down the words “written by Qian Xuantong.” Thus, it is evident that the other essays of this book were written by Zhang.’38 Although there was already some doubtless evidence before that, finding Qian’s copy of the book was still a wonderful discovery. Secondly, in his ‘Introduction’ to the first prose volume of the (Memories of Zhang Taiyan) and ‘Huixiang sishiba nian qian shi’ 回想四十八年前 事 (Remembering Events from Fourty-Eight Years Ago), in Zhuiyi Zhang Taiyan, ed. Chen Pingyuan and Du Lingling (Beijing: Zhongguo guangbo dianshi chubanshe, 1997), 304–308; and we also know that the lecture series given in Shanghai took place only when The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan had already been published for almost a year. 37 See my, ‘Guanyu Zhang Taiyan de baihuawen’ 关于《章太炎的白话文》 (About The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan), Lu Xun yanjiu yuekan, no. 6 (2001). 38 See Liu Siyuan, ‘Rereading Old Books: The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan.’

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Compendium, Zhou Zuoren sometimes speaks of The Educational Magazine and sometimes speaks of The Educational Miscellany; and in his introduction to The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, Qian Xuantong also uses the name Miscellany (zashi 杂识). In most other writings, it is usually called Magazine (zazhi 杂志). In Liu’s essay, it is exclusively called The Educational Miscellany. It is evident that Liu did not simply follow suit and has deliberated about it. But it seems to me that here the deliberation has gone too far and is not correct. Originally, both Magazine and Miscellany are correct, since the former is used on the cover page and the latter is used inside. However, considering that there is also an English title The Educational Magazine on the cover page and its editing method also follows that of the modern magazine, which had just then become popular, instead of the kind of miscellany well known to earlier Chinese readers, I therefore think that it is better to adopt the more commonly known name The Educational Magazine. By now, the controversy over the authorship of The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan should be considered settled. The only point one needs to add is that one year after this book was published, a book called Taiyan Jiaoyu Tan 太炎教育谈 (Taiyan on Education) was published in Sichuan. All six articles collected in it were also taken from The Educational Magazine.39 Interestingly, this book did not wrongly include ‘Brief Comments on Chinese Characters,’ but neglected Zhang’s pseudo-editorial in the fourth issue, which later became well known under the title ‘Liuxue de mudi he fangfa’ 留学 的目的和方法 (The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad). And it is precisely this essay neglected in the Sichuan edition which was adopted as the first article in the Shanghai edition. The difference between them is indeed worth reflecting upon. After confirming Zhang Taiyan’s authorship of The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, the next question will be: Can ‘the commander of the classical language’ really become a ‘vanguard of 39

In the Spring of the year gengshen 庚申, that is 1920, Guanjianlu 观鉴庐 publishers brought out Taiyan Jiaoyu tan 太炎教育谈 (Taiyan on Education), which included six papers originally published in The Educational Magazine. They are: ‘Brief Talk on Written Language, History, and Philosophy,’ ‘The Substitution of Written Language,’ ‘On Common Sense,’ ‘Outline of the Classics,’ ‘Outline of the Philosophers,’ and ‘The Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart.’ Their titles are somewhat different from the original ones.

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new literature?’ Regardless of the answer to this question, the little book will lead us to another important source of the vernacular language movement of ‘May Fourth,’ that is, the lectures (yanjiang 演讲) and records (jilu 记录) which had become popular in the late Qing. The Appeal of ‘Promoting the Restoration without Abandoning Learning’ While the editor of The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan was ignorant of the origin of the articles included in it, he intuitively and resolutely connected these articles, which were so different in style from Zhang’s usual writings, to ‘lecture notes.’ Although the statements in the editor’s foreword (‘How can we hear his speech directly?’ and ‘This book is the only set of lecture notes you will find’) are a form of advertising, they are not without truth. For example, when the article ‘The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad’ was published in Volume 4 of The Educational Magazine, in lieu of an editorial, the editor Tingjian 庭坚 remarked: This editorial is originally the lecture notes of Dujiao’s speech for the Chinese students studying in Japan Higher Normal School.

As for the other articles, it is difficult to decide whether they are lecture notes or drafts of speeches, or ‘mock speeches.’ But it is certain that the intended receivers of these articles are potential ‘listeners’ rather than ‘readers.’ The vernacular language is employed and the texts adhere to the limitations of the magazine format, but the fairly arbitrary interpolations and discursions are in strong contrast with the preciseness of Zhang Taiyan’s other writings, yet congenial to the vividness of his lectures. Zhang Taiyan’s lectures were ‘full of new insights’40 and ‘sometimes there are jokes and witticisms to induce laughter’; ‘he speaks about studies and current affairs as if about domestic routines, often interpolating amusing jokes, in a manner which is simple, constant and insightful’41—such kinds of descriptions are often seen in his 40

Xu Shoushang, ‘Cong Zhang xiansheng xue’ 从章先生学 (Learning from Zhang) in Zhuiyi Zhang Taiyan, ed. Chen Pingyuan and Du Lingling, 259–262. 41 Cao Juren, ‘Zhang shi zhi xue’ 章氏之学 (Zhang’s Learning), in Outline of National Learning, by Zhang Taiyan, 167.

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students’ memoirs of him. While he disapproved of the imperial examination system, which had wealth and position as its end, and sneered at the new schools which were oriented towards the Western learning, what Zhang Taiyan would like to imitate was rather the traditional teaching of the Confucian scholars. This aim of education was manifested in his refusal to enter the modern institution of the university and achieved in the strong arbitrariness of his teaching and his special attention to the communication and dialogue with his listeners. As an educator, Zhang Taiyan had four periods of intensive teaching in his life, apart from his sporadic speeches. The first was when he fled to Toyko, ‘promoting the restoration without abandoning study’42 (1906–1911); the second was when he, ‘in dangerous times, arriving in the capital sword in hand’ (the first line of one of the poems in the sequence ‘Dangerous Times’ [see also Chapter Six]), was put under house arrest in Beijing and ‘amused himself by teaching’43 (1913); the third was when he was invited by the Jiangsu Society of Education to teach National Learning in Shanghai (1922); and the fourth was when he established the Zhang National Learning Lecturing Society in his old age (1935–1936). A student of his in his old age, Shen Yanguo 沈延国 (19141985), neglected the third period in his introduction to his master’s teaching life,44 probably because it represented popular lectures which were oriented towards the general public and there were no outstanding persons among its listeners. Since they were public lectures, different interests and receptivity should be taken into consideration, so that its academic level could hardly be compared with the other three periods. However, since this lecture series caught wide attention from the mass media, and different lecture notes were published respectively in Shun Pao and Republican Daily News, to the extent that it became a hot topic at the time, its influence, therefore, was also not 42

Zhang Binglin 章炳麟, Taiyan xiansheng ziding nianpu 太炎先生自定年谱 (The Chronological Autobiography of Zhang Taiyan) (Hong Kong: Longmen shudian, 1965), 14. 43 Cf. letter dated December 15, 1913, in Tang Guoli 汤国梨, ed., Zhang Taiyan xiansheng jiashu 章 太 炎 先 生 家 书 (Zhang Taiyan’s Letters to His Family) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985), 33. 44 Shen Yanguo, ‘Zhang Taiyan xiansheng zai Suzhou’ 章太炎先生在苏州 (Zhang Taiyan in Suzhou), in Zhuiyi Zhang Taiyan, ed. Chen Pingyuan and Du Lingling, 370–378.

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comparable to the other three periods. In fact, as to whether this lecture series counts, Zhang Taiyan’s own attitude is decisive. In the opening section of the lecture series in Shanghai, the first thing that Zhang Taiyan said was, ‘I lectured on National Learning once in Toyko and once in Beijing. Today is the third time.’45 Among the four periods of intensive teaching, the one to which scholars pay most attention is naturally the first. Due to the flamboyant description of the Zhou brothers, Zhang’s teaching in Tokyo has long become a well-known legend in the academic world. It is not only because it was the first period or its duration was the longest, what is more important is that many of its listeners turned out to become outstanding persons. Besides, the character of what Lu Xun called ‘the learned revolutionary’46 is most clearly embodied in this working style of neglecting neither political, nor pedagogical issues. Zhang Taiyan himself was also most fond of talking about this period of teaching. Under the years 1909 and 1910 of The Chronological Autobiography of Zhang Taiyan, it was mentioned several times that ‘when the Minpao Magazine was suppressed, I stayed idle teaching my students’; while promoting the Restoration Society together with Tao Chengzhang, ‘I taught as usual’; ‘Since I fled to Japan at the age of 39, I promoted the restoration without abandoning study.’47 There is no lack of inconsistency in the multifarious accounts and memoirs of Zhang Taiyan’s teaching in Tokyo, so there is some clearing up to do. Tang Zhijun is aware of the inconsistency in the students’ accounts of the time of teaching. After examining these accounts, he finds that the opinions of Xu Shoushang 许 寿 裳 (18831948), Zhu Xizu, and Zhou Zuoren are the most reliable—the year in which Zhang started teaching should be 1908.48 It cannot be said that this judgment is wrong, but it overemphasizes the event of the suppression of Minpao Magazine and blurs Zhang’s custom of ‘promoting restoration without abandoning study.’ This mistake can be traced back to ‘Zhang Taiyan Answers Questions,’ written by 45

Zhang Taiyan, Outline of National Learning, 1. Lu Xun, ‘Guanyu Taiyan xiansheng er san shi’ 关于太炎先生二三事 (A Few Things about Zhang), in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 6, 545–547. 47 Zhang Taiyan, The Chronological Autobiography of Zhang Taiyan, 13–14. 48 Tang Zhijun, Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan, 289– 290. 46

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Zhang Yong 张庸 (18691919) in 1912 and ‘Records of Zhang’s Deeds,’ written by Huang Kan 黄侃 (18861935) in 1913. Since many questions which would become entangled later are mentioned in these two essays, they are worthwhile discussing. Let us first have a look at the questions and answers between Zhang Yong and Zhang Taiyan: Q: After the Minpao Magazine was prohibited, what was your life like? A: I taught. Q: Where did your students come from? A: Chinese students abroad, the majority of whom studied education and law. There were also Japanese listeners but not many. Q: How many students were there? A: In total over a hundred. Q: What did you teach? A: Chinese philology and history. These are branches of learning specific to China, not common to other countries.49

The following is Huang Kan’s account of Zhang Taiyan’s hardship after the Minpao Magazine was suppressed, and how his conduct became even more admirable: Zhang was involved in a lawsuit against the Japanese government for a few months. He lost the suit finally and came home teaching students National Learning. […] The reason for his teaching National Learning was that even though the country was in decline, if the learning continued, then the people would have something to look for, so the effect would be great and a renaissance was to be expected. Therefore he taught diligently and there were as many as hundreds of students. Independent and afraid of nothing, his thought became ever clearer. Ever since Gu Yanwu 顧炎武 (1613-1682), there has scarcely been anyone like him.50 49

Tang Zhijun, ed., Zhang Taiyan zhenglun xuanji 章太炎政论选集 (Selected Political Essays by Zhang Taiyan), 258–259. 50 Huang Jigang 黄 季刚, ‘Taiyan xiansheng xingshi ji’ 太炎先生行事记 (Record of Zhang’s Deeds), Shenzhou congbao 1, no. 1 (1913).

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It is not the most important matter whether there were ‘in total over a hundred’ or ‘as many as hundreds’ of students. Since it was not a formal school, there was no registration, no roll call, and listeners came and went freely. Therefore the number of students can only be counted roughly. More important are the content of teaching mentioned by one and the aim of teaching mentioned by the other, which give us a profile of Zhang’s teaching in Tokyo. However, both of them only tell us that Zhang Taiyan earned a living by teaching after Minpao Magazine was suppressed, They do not say that Zhang only started teaching after Minpao Magazine was suppressed. The key factor for the controversy over the question when Zhang Taiyan began his teaching lies in different understandings of the term ‘teaching.’ There are indeed discrepancies in the recollections of students, but more important is that Zhang Taiyan taught more than once. What matters is from which direction you approach the question. On June 29, 1906, Zhang Taiyan was released from imprisonment. Sun Yat-sen (Sun Yixian 孙逸仙, 18661925) sent someone to escort him to Japan and asked him to take charge of the editing of Minpao Magazine. On July 15, Zhang Taiyan gave a speech at the welcome meeting organized by Chinese students studying in Japan, in which he made an appeal ‘to promote the morality of the people by the persuasion of religion’ and ‘to promote the passion of patriotism by the stimulation of the quintessence of the nation.’51 Next, we see the following clear and unambiguous account in the diary of Song Jiaoren 宋教仁 (18821913) on September 26: After having breakfast at Qingwu’s home, I went to the office of Minpao Magazine to visit Zhang Meishu 章枚叔 [i.e. Zhang Taiyan]. We talked for a long while. Meishu said that the Academy of National Learning had been established and regulations released. It is divided into a preparatory course and an undergraduate course. Grammar, writing, and history are taught on the preparatory course. Literature and history, institutions of education, economics, Song-Ming Confucianism, and Buddhism are taught on the undergraduate course.52 51

‘Dongjing liuxuesheng huanying hui yanshuo ci’ 东京留学生欢迎会演说辞 (Speech to the Welcome Meeting Organized by Chinese Students in Tokyo), in Selected Political Writings by Zhang Taiyan, 272. 52 Song Jiaoren, Wo zhi lishi 我之历史 (My History) (Taipei: Wenxing shudian, 1962), 225.

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In the seventh issue of Minpao Magazine, published on September 5, there appears an ‘Introduction to the Academy of National Learning,’ in which, apart from praise for ‘the master of National Learning’ Zhang Taiyan, it was also announced that ‘we are planning to establish an Academy of National Learning and to invite Zhang to give lectures.’ As for the context of the teaching, there were roughly three areas: ‘1. The origin of the formation of the Chinese language and characters; 2. The aim of the establishment of customs and institutions; 3. Exemplary conduct by historical individuals.’53 The idea of publishing the lecture notes was soon realized in Outline of the Academy of National Learning published by Xiuguang she 秀光 社 in Tokyo in September 1906. This book included three essays, ‘Lun yuyan wenzi zhi xue’ 论语言文字之学 (On the Study of Language and Writing), ‘Lun wenxue’ 论文学 (On Literature), and ‘Lun zhuzi xue’ 论诸子学 (On the Philosophers). According to Tang Zhijun’s investigations, all three essays were published in the Guocui xuebao 国粹学报 (The National Essence Journal) in the same year, the only difference is that the titles of the latter two essays were changed into ‘Brief Comments on Literature’ and ‘Brief Comments on the Philosophers.’54 Although the expectation of ‘one volume every month’ was not realized and the progress of teaching was not very agreeable, this was still a good start that historians should not disregard and be silent about. Furthermore, Minpao Magazine was suppressed on October 19, 1908. Since after that Zhang Taiyan had written to argue against the suppression three times and there were still some subsequent issues which he had to deal with, he could hardly turn to teaching immediately. However, the small seminar set up for eight students including the Zhou brothers had started already three months prior to this, according to the manuscript of Zhu Xizu’s diary.55 We can only 53

‘Guoxue jiangxi hui xu’ 国学讲习会序 (Introduction to the Society for the Teaching of National Learning), Min bao 7 (1906). 54 I have not seen the 1906 Guoxue jiangxi hui lüeshuo 国学讲习会略说 (Brief Introduction to the Academy of National Learning) printed by Xiuguang she. Here, I follow the account in Tang Zhijun, Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan, 216–217, 239. 55 According to a quotation provided by Tang Zhijun in Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan, Zhu Xizu wrote in his diary on July 11, 1908: ‘From eight o’clock, I went to Zhang’s home to listen to his teaching of

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say that the suppression of Minpao Magazine made Zhang Taiyan put his energy mainly to teaching but not that Zhang Taiyan began teaching due to the suppression of Minpao Magazine. We have to add together the Academy of National Learning, which had been prepared since 1906, the lecture series delivered at Dacheng 大成 secondary school in 1908, and the small seminar organized by the Minpao Magazine in the same year, in order to understand the attitude of ‘promoting restoration without abandoning study’ which Zhang was so proud of. In the five years that Zhang was living in Toyko, the main focus of his work shifted, but ‘teaching’ in the broad sense never stopped. Hence, when Zhang’s students recalled the teaching of their master, they often did so from their respective viewpoints and naturally there are quite a number of discrepancies between their accounts. For example, according to Wang Dong 汪 东 (18901963), Zhang ‘complied with the request of students to teach at assemblies,’ 56 suggesting that there was a band of listeners; but according to Liu Wendian, who said he ‘went to consult him [i.e., Zhang Taiyan] everyday,’57 it seems that students acted individually. An article by Ren Hongjun and the diary of Zhu Xizu are comparatively more informative and are therefore more worthy of phonology. There were seven fellow students there.’ This should be the small seminar with which we are familiar. 56 Wang Dong wrote: ‘Zhang compared himself to Gu Tinglin 顧亭林 [i.e. Gu Yanwu]. When he dwelled in Japan, he cherished great ambitions, writing thousands of words for Minpao Magazine every month, while studying diligently in his free time. He once complied with the request of students to teach in an assembly. Zhou Shuren, Huang Kan, Qian Xuantong, and others became his students at that time. Shuowen and Zhuangzi were the main content of his teaching. In his teaching of Zhuangzi, he brought out some deep thoughts besides clarifying the meaning of words and there is some consilience with Buddhist doctrines in his interpretation. He later published his interpretation as Zhuangzi jiegu 庄子解诂 (An Interpretation of Zhuangzi). He also wrote a book entitled Qi wu lun shi 齐物论释 (A Commentary on ‘The Equality of Things’). Other books like Xin fangyan 新方言 (New Dialect) and Xiaoxue dawen 小学答问 (Question and Answer in Philology) were also written in these years.’ See Wang Dong, Ji’an suibi 寄庵随笔 (Ji’an’s Jottings) (Shanghai: Shanghai shu dian, 1987), 6. 57 Liu Wendian, ‘Huiyi Zhang Taiyan Xiansheng’ 回 忆 章 太 炎 先 生 (Remembering Zhang Taiyan), Wenhui bao, April 13, 1957: ‘I went to consult him every day, listening to his talks about the method of studying classics and philology. He also taught me Shuowen and Zhuangzi. Since I was still young at that time, when he taught Shuowen, I still understood something, but when he taught Zhuangzi, I could not understand, and I was all the more perplexed when Buddhism was added.’

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attention. Ren Hongjun mentioned that when Zhang Taiyan was in charge of Minpao Magazine, ‘there was a band of students studying abroad, interested in National Learning, who organized an Academy of National Learning at this occasion and invited Zhang to teach National Learning.’ As for Ren himself, he only went to Japan to study in 1908 and attended the lecture series held at Dacheng secondary school. Amongst the twenty listeners in his list of those who ‘went whenever there was a lecture,’ many would become wellknown experts in literature and history. According to Ren, the content of teaching was determined by Zhang Taiyan. He first taught Gu Yanwu’s Five Books on Phonology, Duan Yucai’s 段 玉 裁 (17351815) Commentary on the Shuowen Dictionary, Hao Yixing’s 郝懿行 (17571825) Commentary on the Erya Dictionary, and Wang Niansun’s 王念孙 (17441832) Commentary on the Guangya Dictionary, once a week for a year or two. ‘When the teaching of philology was completed, we urged Zhang to teach the philosophers. Therefore, Zhang taught Zhuangzi.’ ‘After the teaching of these ancient books was completed, Zhang also offered a systematic lecture on the history of Chinese literature.’58 Even more reliable than the memoirs of Ren Hongjun is the manuscript of Zhu Xizu’s diary now in the National Library. According to Tang Zhijun, Zhu Xizu had begun listening to the teaching of Zhang Taiyan in March 1908. The course in Dacheng Secondary School was more frequent, held twice a week, with Shuowen taught first, and then Zhuangzi, Chuci 楚辞 (Songs of Chu) and Erya.59 Amongst the four people mentioned above, only Zhu Xizu attended the well-known small seminars for eight students. Compared with the sporadic speeches and the fleeting visits, the little seminar composed of eight students, including the Zhou brothers, was apparently more fruitful, to the extent that whenever the teaching of Zhang Taiyan in Tokyo is mentioned, this seminar is what first comes into view. Of course, the later reputation of the Zhou brothers and the marvelous memoirs written by them are relevant to this. 58

Ren Hongjun, ‘Ji Zhang Taiyan xiansheng’ 记章太炎先生 (A Note on Zhang Taiyan), in Zhuiyi Zhang Taiyan, 267–268. 59 Tang Zhijun, Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan, 289– 294.

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The most detailed report of Zhang Taiyan’s teaching in Tokyo should be that of Xu Shoushang, one of the eight students in the seminar. In both the articles ‘Remembering My Late Teacher Zhang Taiyan’ and ‘Impressions of My Late Friend Lu Xun,’ Xu Shoushang speaks of Zhang Taiyan’s teaching in Tokyo. But most remarkable is his book Zhang Binglin, published in 1945, in which Section 14, entitled ‘Teaching Not Forgotten during the Revolution,’ is perfect for our purposes: The place where Zhang taught in Tokyo was a classroom in Dacheng Secondary School. The Zhou brothers and I were willing to attend. But due to it clashing with classes in school, I entreated Gong Baoquan 龚宝铨 (18861922, Zhang’s son-in-law) to convey my wish that Zhang could run another class. Zhang granted this. The place was Zhang’s home—the office of Minpao Magazine in Hachiban Nichome Ushigome-ku 牛込区二丁目八番地. I went every Sunday morning. Both Zhang and the students sat on the floor, surrounding a little table. Zhang taught Duan Yucai’s Commentary on the Shuowen and Hao Yixing’s Commentary on the Erya, and so on. He was acute, insightful, and energetic. He elaborated every word, talking on and on, sometimes clarifying the origin of a word, sometimes deducing the original form, sometimes demonstrating by using dialects. His new insights were endless. Sometimes he even chatted with us casually, there were frequently amusing jokes to induce laughter. He taught from eight o’clock in the morning until noon without a break, exemplifying what is called ‘teaching people tirelessly’ (huirenbujuan 诲人不倦). His New Dialects and Question and Answer in Philology were written after the class. And the draft of his magnificent Origin of Language was also written at this time. These are the facts concerning Zhang’s teaching in Tokyo. There were eight listeners in the class: Zhu Zonglai 朱宗莱 (18811919), Gong Baoquan, Qian Xuantong, Zhu Xizu, Zhou Shuren, Zhou Zuoren, Qian Jiazhi 钱 家 治 (18821969), and myself. The former four were also in the class at Dacheng. Other fellow students were numerous, including Huang Kan, Wang Dong, Ma Yuzao, and Shen Jianshi.60

This passage combines information already obtained from the two abovementioned articles, but the introduction to other fellow students is new. This is very important, because amongst the eight people, it is only Qian Xuantong and Zhu Xizu who were genuine inheritors of Zhang’s achievements in philology and history; as for the Zhou 60

Xu Shoushang, Zhang Binglin 章 炳 麟 (Zhang Binglin) (Chongqing: Chongqing chubanshe, 1987), 55–56.

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brothers, although they had a deep spiritual connection with Zhang, their interests were different. There were many other excellent students besides those eight, and the depth and variety of their academic accomplishments are impressive. For example, the philology and classical studies of Huang Kan were highly commended by Zhang; 61 and the classical composition skills of Wang Dong were prominent amongst Zhang’s students. 62 The account in the section ‘Attending Lectures in the Minpao Office’ in Zhou Zuoren’s Zhitang’s Memoirs is roughly the same as Xu’s account, but it adds something. Especially the description of Zhang’s expression in teaching is quite exquisite: I went to the office of Minpao Magazine to listen to Zhang Taiyan’s teaching of Shuowen during the year 1908–1909. It lasted for more than one year. This was the result of Gong Weisheng’s 龚未生 [i.e. Gong Baoquan] effort. At that time, Zhang on the one hand was in charge of Minpao, and on the other hand established the Academy of National Learning, teaching at the Dacheng Secondary School in the district of Kanda 神田. He was very influential amongst the students there. Lu Xun told Xu Jifu 许季茀 [i.e. Xu Shoushang] and Gong Weisheng that he wished to listen to Zhang’s teaching but he feared that the large class was too crowded. Gong Weisheng told Zhang of Lu Xun’s wish and urged him to run another class in the office of Minpao on Sunday morning. Zhang agreed. There were four people who came from ‘The House of Five’ (wu she 伍舍), namely Xu Jifu, Qian Jiazhi and us. Weisheng, Qian Xia 钱 夏 (later named Xuantong), Zhu Xizu and Zhu Zonglai were originally in Dacheng and also came along with us. There were eight listeners in total. The office of Minpao was at Shin Ogawa-Machi, Koishikawa-ku 小石川区新小 川町, in a house with the size of eight mats. There was a little table in the middle; Zhang sat on one side, and the students on the other sides. The book he taught was the Shuowen. He taught one word after 61

In ‘Huang Jigang muzhiming’ 黄季刚墓志铭 (Epitaph for Huang Jigang), Zhang Taiyan said, ‘Jigang’s personal name was Kan 侃. He hailed from Qichun 蕲春 in Hubei. He became my student when I went in exile to Japan. He was only in his twenties at that time, whereas his style of writing was already extraordinarily excellent. Therefore, I taught him philology and classics and we sometimes also shared our poems with each other. Four years later, the revolution broke out in Wuchang 武昌.’ See Zhang Taiyan quanji, vol. 5, 259. 62 In his preface for Wang Dong’s book Ji’an’s Jottings, Zheng Yimei 郑逸梅 writes, ‘Xuchu 旭初 [i.e. Wang Dong] was a student of Zhang Taiyan, master of National Learning. Almost all of Zhang’s students were famous for philology, whereas Xuchu specialized in composition (cizhang 辞 章 ), which was really exceptional.’

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another, sometimes following the old doctrine and sometimes providing his new inter-pretations. Although the materials were dull, his application made them very interesting. Zhang had a bad temper towards rich people, but he treated young students very well. He chatted and joked with us as if we were friends and family. In Summer, he bent his legs and sat on the mat, having only a long vest and showing his naked arms. He wore a beard. He looked happy while teaching, sometimes amused and sometimes solemn, like a statue of a Bodhisattva in a temple.63

Similar to Lu Xun and Xu Shoushang, Zhou Zuoren also mentioned the Shuowen alone when he spoke of Zhang’s teaching in Tokyo. This monotony is not due to brevity, but probably because it was all that he heard. The description by Lu Xun in ‘A Few Things about Zhang’ is vaguer. His statement that ‘until the present day I still recall the voice and facial expression of Zhang, but his teaching of the Shuowen I have totally forgotten’64 can be subjected to various interpretations (for example, other courses have not been forgotten). The meaning of Xu Shoushang’s statement in ‘Remembering My Late Teacher Zhang Taiyan’ is clearer: ‘Unfortunately I attended for only a short period of time and what I received was very little. In March of the following year, I went home on leave because of personal reasons.’65 It is roughly the same for Zhou Zuoren. In the above-mentioned article about his recollection of going to the office of Minpao, there is also the following passage: ‘After the teaching of the Shuowen was finished, it seems that Zhuangzi was also taught. But I don’t remember this clearly. Perhaps I only attended the lectures on Shuowen, and quit afterwards.’ He did not appreciate Zhang Taiyan’s approach of interpreting Zhuangzi with Buddhist doctrine, and so he ‘did not regret that he had not attended the teaching of Zhuangzi.’ And he also emphasized several times that Zhang’s contribution to National Learning ‘consists mainly of his achievements in philology and phonology.’66 63

Zhou Zuoren, Zhitang huixianglu 知堂回想录 (Zhitang’s Memoirs) (Hong Kong: Sanyu tushu gongsi, 1980); Zhou Zuoren huiyi lu 周作人回忆录 (Zhou Zuoren’s Memoirs) (Changsha: Hunan renmin chubanshe, 1982), 204. 64 Lu Xun, ‘A Few Things about Zhang,’ 546. 65 Xu Shoushang, ‘Jinian xianshi Zhang Taiyan xiansheng’ 纪念先师章太炎先 生 (Remembering My Late Teacher Zhang Taiyan), in Zhuiyi Zhang Taiyan, ed. Chen Pingyuan and Du Lingling, 58. 66 Zhou Zuoren, Zhou Zuoren’s Memoirs, 205.

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This can explain why there is such an obvious omission in the Record of Fellow Students which Zhang Taiyan organized his students to edit in his old age. ‘Therefore, the master puts on the splendid gown and becomes the leader of scholars. So many people are eager to be his students that they raced to edit a book called Record of Fellow Students.’67 This mockery by Lu Xun was mainly directed at its omission of the ‘bellicose essays’ written in the early period. But if we realize that the name ‘Zhou Shuren’ is absent from this Record of Fellow Students, Lu Xun’s article seems to acquire a deeper significance. Qian Xuantong wrote a letter to Zhou Zuoren to ask specifically about this matter. He said Wu Chengshi 吴承仕 (18841939) had asked Zhang in person why Lu Xun, Xu Shoushang, Ren Hongjun, and others were absent from the Record of Fellow Students and whether there was any significance to his choice. Zhang’s answer is interesting: ‘There is none. It only depends on memory.’68 Even if we believe Zhang’s explanation that the omission was only accidental and not intentional, the omission of such famous figures at that time as Lu Xun in the Record of Fellow Students, which was so carefully edited, can still make clear what it meant to be a ‘genuine student’ in Zhang’s mind. Therefore, I am more inclined to interpret this omission by Zhang in terms of intellectual heritage rather than that of personal relationship or political position.69 Although scholars of later times think that the spiritual world and way of thought of Lu Xun were deeply influenced by Zhang Taiyan, Lu Xun really cannot be regarded as an ‘excellent student’ from the viewpoint of his professional writings. This was already clearly revealed in the Chronological Autobiography of Zhang Taiyan, composed in 1928. In it, there is the following passage under the year 1910: Although the discussions with teachers and friends helped my study, I obtained most from my own eventful experience. Since I fled to Japan 67

See Lu Xun, ‘A Few Things about Zhang,’ 547. See the section ‘Zhang Taiyan de beiyou’ 章太炎的北游 (Zhang Taiyan’s Journey to the North), in Zhou Zuoren’s Memoirs, 518–522. 69 The proof of this is that even though Zhou Zuoren had written ‘a quite disrespectful’ article entitled ‘Xie benshi’ 谢本师 (Taking Leave of My Teacher) (published in Yusi 94 [1926]), his name still appears in the Record of Fellow Students. See Zhou Zuoren’s Memoirs, 521. 68

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at the age of 39, I promoted restoration without abandoning study … I wrote the books Question and Answer in Philology, New Dialect, The Origin of Language, and made many refinements to the Balanced Inquiries, A Commentary on ‘The Equality of Things’ and The Book of Urgency. Amongst students who have some achievement are: Huang Kan (Jigang 季刚) from Qichun 蕲春, Qian Xia (Jizhong 季中) from Gui’an 归安, and Zhu Xizu (Tixian 逖先) from Haiyan 海盐. Both Jigang and Jizhong are skillful in philology and Jigang is especially good at phonology and writing. Tixian is erudite and capable of understanding the principles. There are so many other students that to list all is impossible. I regret that life is short, and any further studies will not be fully publicized.70

Huang Kan, Qian Xuantong, and Zhu Xizu are regarded as the representatives of ‘students who have some achievement’ and no mention is made of the Zhou brothers. Seen from the content of the teaching, this is not inappropriate. Traditional classics, history, and the study of philosophers were not within the interests of the Zhou brothers and, of course, not their major contributions to modern Chinese culture. Qian Xuantong’s account in ‘My Recollection and Brief Evaluation of Zhou Yucai’ reiterates that there was first the teaching in Dacheng Secondary School and then another class on the request of the Zhou brothers. It is not different from the articles by Xu, Zhou and others. What is of interest is that Qian mentioned the Zhou brothers’ ‘other intention’ in attending the class. The Zhou brothers were editing Yuwai xiaoshuoji 域外小说集 (Collection of Foreign Fiction), and writing long essays for the Henan Magazine. ‘Their thought was outstanding and their writings were deep. They gathered materials seriously and translated faithfully. Therefore, their use of words was very careful. But they were still not satisfied and wanted to learn philology from Zhang in order to use words appropriately.’71 This statement was in a certain sense confirmed by Zhou Zuoren. After the death of Lu Xun, when Zhou Zuoren was answering reporters’ questions, he mentioned that at that time ‘[we] urged Zhang to teach every Sunday at the office of Minpao Magazine;’ and the following remark is very important: ‘At that time, my late brother 70

Zhang Taiyan, The Chronological Autobiography of Zhang Taiyan, 14. Qian Xuantong, ‘Wo duiyu Zhuo Yucai jun zhi zhuiyi yu lüeping’ 我对于周 豫才君之追忆与略评 (My Recollection and Brief Evaluation of Zhou Yucai), Shijie Ribao, October 26, 1936. 71

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also intended to issue a magazine, with the aim of transforming the thought of our countrymen. The name La Vita Nuova had been chosen and some articles had been gathered.’72 According to the materials at hand, if the recollections of Qian and Zhou are true, then while the Zhou brothers attended the teaching of Zhang Taiyan, they had already begun their literary ventures which aimed at curing the spirit of their countrymen. Thus, the attitude of the Zhou brothers towards traditional learning, such as the Shuowen dictionary, must have been very different from those people like Qian Xuantong who came from the Dacheng Secondary School. Regardless of whether or not they solely ‘wanted to learn philology from Zhang in order to use words appropriately,’ the fact that they quit halfway and that they would not regard classics, history, and the study of the philosophers as their professions did not make them the kind of students that Zhang Taiyan could be proud of. If the intentions of Lu Xun and others for studying Shuowen were not ‘pure,’ was the teaching of Zhang Taiyan in Tokyo solely done for the sake of study? ‘To promote the passion of patriotism by the stimulation of the quintessence of the country’ was the famous motto Zhang Taiyan proposed in his first public speech after his arrival in Japan. Did that motto not also set ‘practical use’ rather than ‘truth’ as its aim? As someone who wrote on the political newspaper Minpao and the academic journal The National Essence Journal at the same time, and who was proud of ‘promoting restoration without abandoning study,’ Zhang Taiyan was never a ‘pure scholar.’ In his ‘Introduction to the Academy of National Learning,’ published in Minpao Magazine, he stressed the political significance of the teaching of National Learning: I have heard that in a competitive age, it is not enough to build up a country by means of traditional learning, but I have never heard that a country can stand up while her traditional learning is not prosperous. I have heard that a country may fall and her traditional learning still stays, but I have never heard that a country may still stay after her traditional learning is extinct.73

This coincides with Huang Kan’s praise of Zhang Taiyan: 72

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Zhou Zuoren tan wangshi’ 周作人谈往事 (Zhou Zuoren on Past Events), Shijie Ribao, October 20, 1936. 73 Zhang Taiyan, ‘Introduction to the Academy of National Learning.’

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The reason for his teaching National Learning was that if the learning continued, even though the nation was in decline, the people would still be affected by it, and if great achievements [in learning] were obtained, then a revival [of the nation] could be expected.74

If there was such huge political ambition and cultural passion in the master’s mind when he taught philology, the philosophers, and history, how could we blame the students for having non-scholarly preoccupations? According to Lu Xun, his initial reason for wanting to become a student of Zhang Taiyan was that he liked Zhang’s bellicose essays in Minpao Magazine, which ‘fascinated me with the way they swept away all adversaries.’ ‘It was not because he was a scholar, but because he was a learned revolutionary.’75 I believe that Lu Xun’s was not an isolated case. There must have been a considerable number of Chinese students in Japan who came to listen to Zhang’s teaching because they admired him as a revolutionary. Zhang was an expert but he did not stick to his expertise. This was the charm of Zhang’s teaching. We can understand his unconvential jokes and tirades only if we approach him from this angle—such off-topic diversions were far from dispensable for his listeners. When Zhang came to edit his professional writings, he did not leave a single trace of those ‘casual comments’ that had so delighted his listeners. Concerning the professional works, Balanced Inquiries deserves its reputation of purity and grace; however, if one wants to understand the Zeitgeist of the late Qing, then the heterogeneous The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan is more commendable. In the lectures (or mock speeches), the political impetus beneath the surface is thoroughly expressed by virtue of a variety of interpolations. In this regard, The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, which is closely related to the teaching in Toyko, has a special value which is not eclipsed by the fact that many views in it are more fully developed in the Balanced Inquiries published later. 74 75

Huang Jigang, ‘Record of Zhang’s Deeds.’ Lu Xun, ‘A Few Things about Zhang,’ 546.

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Exclusive Insight and Affective Comments To speak about Zhang Taiyan as ‘promoting restoration without abandoning study,’ one should study his professional works and political essays together in order to see his ‘whole person’ and ‘whole writings.’ In the period of his teaching in Tokyo, he wrote passionate political essays such as ‘The Morality of Revolution,’ ‘Admonition to the New Party,’ ‘An Interpretation of the Republic of China,’ ‘Reply to Wu Jingheng,’ ‘Second reply to Wu Jingheng’ and ‘Representational Government: Right or Wrong?’ He also wrote erudite and thoughtful books such as Balanced Inquiries, A Commentary on ‘The Equality of Things’, The Origin of Language, New Dialect, Question and Answer in Philology and A Commentary on Zhuangzi. Of course, the two types of work were not written exactly at the same time. The professional works were relatively late. Timing is important for political essays. They are often written in one go and no sooner published than they are written. As for academic works, it is necessary to brood over them. One does not start unless one is full of confidence. But it is not really the case that there is no relation between writing political essays and writing academic work, both from the perspective of the author and from the perspective of commentators. It was unwise of Zhang to neglect intentionally the ‘bellicose essays which had appeared in journals’ when he edited his Collected Works in old age. As Lu Xun said: ‘those bellicose essays were the greatest and most lasting achievement in Zhang’s life.’76 Conversely, to understand Zhang Taiyan only from his ‘bellicose essays’ and neglect his professional works, which, according to Zhang’s own evaluation, ‘are more precious than gold’ and ‘exceed Chen Lanfu’s 陈兰甫 (Li 澧, 18101882) Record of Reading in Tongshu ten times in value,’77 is also not appropriate. Different from the numerous revolutionaries or scholars in the late Qing, the singular charm of Zhang Taiyan consists in his ‘promoting revolution without abandoning teaching.’ 76

Ibid. Zhang Taiyan, ‘Zishu xueshu cidi’ 自述学术次第 (My Account of My Course of Study), in Chronological Autobiography of Zhang Taiyan, Appendix, 53; Zhang Taiyan, ‘Zhi Gong Weisheng shu shiwu’ 致龚未生书十五 (Letter to Gong Weisheng, no. 15), cited from Tang Zhijun, Preliminary Chronological Biography of Zhang Taiyan, 509. 77

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Lu Xun’s statement that Zhang Taiyan was a ‘learned revolutionary’ is indeed wonderful; however, it seems to me that to call Zhang a ‘passionate scholar’ is also suitable. It depends on one’s perspective. In his professional works, Zhang stuck to the old maxim ‘to seek truth from facts’ and was opposed to the ‘meaning between the lines’ sought by the contemporary school of classical studies. He also did not approve of the then popular trend ‘to make utility out of the classics.’ As he saw it, ‘utility does not depend on learning and learning is also not exclusively aimed at utility.’78 As to the question whether learning should concentrate on ‘truth’ or rather aim at ‘utility,’ even Zhang’s own statements are not consistent, not to mention the opinions of later scholars. However, to emphasize the independent value and far-reaching influence of academic study, and to regard ‘seeking for truth’ as ‘genuine’ and ‘aiming at utility’ as ‘vulgar’ in matters of study, are the specific lines of thought that connected Zhang Taiyan’s whole life. 79 Therefore, in the professional works such as Balanced Inquiries and A Commentary on ‘The Equality of Things’, what you see is only an erudite, thoughtful, and gentle scholar. On the contrary, in the political essays which promote revolution, and in the comments about current events, Zhang is not so scholastic. Whether it was due to quarrels between academic schools, disagreement in political views, or personal feuds, Zhang was able to crush his adversaries with eloquent vigour, trenchant words, and sarcastic tone. At those moments, Zhang Taiyan as a scholar disappeared, and what came onto the scene instead was a ‘bellicose’ and ‘skilful’ warrior. Only when he taught did fighting and learning coexist—there were deep insights, as well as opportune jokes and tirades. It is rare that the ‘learning’ and the ‘character’ of a speaker can be merged organically like this. The manner of Zhang Taiyan is well captured by the subtitle of Section 14 of Xu Shoushang’s book Zhang Binglin, ‘To promote revolution without abandoning teaching.’ The essay ‘Origin of Learning’ in the second book of the Balanced Inquiries is quoted in it, as the author is convinced that this is ‘the gist’ of Zhang’s teaching, and ‘essential reading for young students.’ 80 This is certainly a 78 79 80

Zhang Taiyan, ‘The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad,’ 1. See my The Establishment of Modern Chinese Scholarship, 28–69. Xu Shoushang, Zhang Binglin, 56–61.

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helpful insight. ‘Among those who practice learning in this world, some imitate other countries, others acquire it by following their traditions;’ the culture of Japan was so shallow that it could only ‘go to other countries to find something to imitate;’ as for ‘China and India, their own achievements, although now in decline, are still vast and they clearly stand at a higher level [than Japan].’81 It is not difficult to find statements as confident as these in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan. For example, we find the following in the opening passage of ‘The Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart’: For those countries who do not have their own learning and for those people who do not have their own insight, they can only follow others’ footsteps. The course of education for those countries who have their own learning and those people who have their own insight is naturally different.82

Of these two courses of education, the former refers to Japan, while the latter is reserved for China. Such kind of aggrandizing oneself and debasing the other is similar to the ‘patriotic arrogance’ which later become an object of widespread derision. Zhang was not aware of this trap. At the end of the article, Zhang shifts his focus: ‘We should not imitate the tone of the Gezhi guwei 格致古微 (Search for Ancient Science) [by Wang Renjun 王仁俊, 1866-1914].’ However, Japan remains his target in his mockery of Westernization: As for those learnings which other countries have and China not, we should take them as supplement, and we should not imitate the tone of the Search for Ancient Science, saying that China in the ancient times already possessed the good learning of other countries. We should learn that we cannot abandon our own excellence and we also cannot reject other’s goodness. To abandon one’s own excellence and to reject other’s goodness is the bad habit of the insular people. As the people of a great country, we should not imitate their miserly character!83

What concerned Zhang was not how to ‘reject other’s goodness,’ but to oppose at all cost abandoning ‘one’s own excellence.’ This rather 81

Zhang Taiyan, Guogu lunheng 国故论衡 (Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning) (Shanghai : Da gonghe ribao guan, 1912), 147–150. 82 Zhang Taiyan, ‘The Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart,’ 83. 83 Ibid., 112.

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‘conservative’ position was surely a vigorous reaction to the prevailing trend of Westernization. When he emphasized in his ‘The Origin of Learning’ that ‘people are ashamed of not being similar to the Far West,’ while ‘I am more proud of not being similar,’ this was not a one-sided debasement of Western learning. It rather aimed to bring forth the nationality of culture. To put it in today’s terms, he was more inclined towards ‘cultural pluralism.’ The following passage is most capable of bringing out Zhang’s insight and interest: Tofu and cheese are of different taste, yet both are delicious. At present China cannot devote itself to the Far West, just as the Far West cannot devote itself to China. 84

In fact, the second risk—the Far West devoting itself to China—was basically not encountered in the twentieth century. Hence, the fundamental aim of Zhang’s teaching in Tokyo consisted rather of emphasizing the indelible value of Chinese culture: that it was not an obstacle to enlightenment, but could even provoke patriotism. This aim had already been clearly expressed in the ‘Speech to the Welcome Meeting Organized by Chinese Students in Tokyo’: There is one kind of Europeanizers (Ouhuazhuyi de ren 欧化主义的 人) who always maintain that the Chinese people are far inferior to the Western people. And so they abandon themselves, saying that China is doomed to perish and the yellow race is doomed to become extinct. Since they don’t understand the merits of China and find nothing loveable in her, their love for their country and their race withers daily. If they were to understand these things, then even the most heartless of people would see the love for their country and their race surge irresistibly. I am not like the author of the Search for Ancient Science, who made strained comparisons between China and Europe; and I am also not like the advocates of the Gongyang 公羊 School, who maintain that [the classical theory of] the Three Ages (san shi 三世) is the same as [the theory of] evolution, and the Nine Points (jiu zhi 九 旨) are to transform the barbarians into Chinese, following the most shallow theories coming out of Europe.85 84

Zhang Taiyan, Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning, 149. Zhang Taiyan, ‘Speech to the Welcome Meeting Organized by Chinese Students in Tokyo.’ [Translator’s note] The ‘Three Ages’ and the ‘Nine Points’ represented principles of historical development and (among other things) acculturation of barbarians, ascribed to the Gongyang Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals by the Han-dynasty New Text scholar He Xiu 何休 (129182). Cf. On-cho Ng and Q. Edward Wang, Mirroring the Past: The Writing and Use of 85

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Although the hope ‘to promote the passion of patriotism by the stimulation of the quintessence of the country’ was not a main trend in the late Qing, there were many involved in The National Essence Journal who held the same view. In face of the strong current of Westernization, there were those who neither blindly followed nor rebuffed the Western learning but bore hope to renew the old, although they did not necessarily maintain the position of ‘cultural pluralism.’ Beginning from the late Qing, this ‘third way’ continued to be an undertow that could not be overlooked. The special merit of Zhang Taiyan was that he implemented this cultural idea and academic thought on the plane of education. In his ‘Letter to Wang Heming’ written in 1906, he opposes the debasement of the imperial examination system and the praise for the new schools prevailing amongst his contemporaries, and maintains that scholarship would not necessarily ‘advance instantaneously’ once the imperial examinations were abolished and new schools established. His reason is that ‘the Chinese scholarship flourishes when it is promoted from below, declines when it is established from above;’ ‘Now the schools are established by the imperial court. People are content with the prospect of offices and wealth. What can we still expect for scholarship?’86 To predict the future of scholarship solely on the basis of the dichotomy of civil society/the imperial court was nevertheless too hasty. When he wrote for The Educational Magazine in 1910, Zhang’s analysis was more elaborate. Although the emphasis was still on ‘learning in civil society,’ the focus lay on the independence of scholarship. The main reason why the schools established by the imperial government were ineffective was that they transferred the bad habit of respecting rank amongst the Chinese officials to the new schools, in which independence and freedom should be respected instead. Now, ‘no matter in public or private matters, the schools are controlled by the Ministry of Education, compelled to follow the regulations enacted by it, and in addition, supervised by its officials;’ teachers and education officials ‘ever so slightly relate to each other as superior and inferior, in strong History in Imperial China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2005), 77. For the Old Text vs New Text controversy in the late Qing, see also Chapter 6. 86 ‘Yu Wang Heming shu’ 与王鹤鸣书 (Letter to Wang Heming), Guocui xuebao 63 (1910).

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contrast to the independence and dignity of the college heads in traditional academies. If even a scholar as famous as Liao Ping 廖平 (1852-1932) has to suffer insult because he offended an edu-cation official, then what will it be like for those teachers who only teach for a living? With schools run in this way, the independence and dignity of scholars are doomed to vanish.’87 Zhang Taiyan did not know that there was a distinction between private schools and state schools in foreign countries and ascribed all faults of ‘unifying education’ committed by the imperial court to the ‘Western schools’ in opposition to the ‘traditional academies.’ It seemed to him that profound knowledge could only be produced by study associations (xuehui 学会) which were not controlled by the Ministry of Education and allowed for differences of opinion. Therefore, he joined together ‘government’ and ‘new schools,’ ‘civil society’ and ‘study associations,’ in the hope that the momentum of academic development could be preserved by promoting the latter: We can see from the thousands of years of Chinese history that students educated by the government institutes were always bad and students educated in civil society were always good. We can also see from the European countries that profound knowledge was always transmitted outside the schools, even though schools were established. And good results could only be obtained in the schools which had more or less the character of study associations. A school is like a pond. The water will dry up soon if a pond is the only thing on which one depends. It is only when there is a large river outside to fill it that the pond can never dry out.88

In terms of scholarly spirit, Zhang praised the tradition of private education in China for advocating freedom of inquiry and ‘exchanging new insights,’ while opposing the establishment of a single standard by the imperial court and the use of learning for the sake of offices and wealth amongst students; in terms of practical implementation, he praised it for transmitting traditional learning and promoting Chinese culture by means of educational institutes established in civil society, such as academies and study associations.89 87 88 89

Zhang Taiyan, ‘The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad,’ 17–19. Ibid., 19–20. See my The Establishment of Modern Chinese Scholarship, 70–115.

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The main reason why the Chinese people, who had long been derided as ‘conservative,’ were so resolute in ‘abolishing the academies’ and ‘building up schools’ lay in political ideal, rather than educational ideal. In contrast to the fine wish of ‘Chinese substance and Western application’ embraced by people like Zhang Zhidong 张之洞 (18371909), the direction of modern Chinese history was in fact ‘from Western learning for practical application to National Learning incapable of being the substance.’90 Zhang Taiyan emphasized that ‘the foundation of education should come from one’s country and one’s own heart.’ Therefore, the existential value of Chinese culture should first of all be demonstrated. Contrary to those who admired the three ancient dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou) and scolded the subsequent dynasties for degeneration, and those who worshipped Western learning and denied the value of all wholly Chinese scholarship, Zhang was inclined to differentiate meticulously between the state of learning in different dynasties from the viewpoint of an historian. His conclusion was: ‘Chinese scholarship waxed and waned in different ages but the main current was progressive.’91 Based on this judgment, Zhang shifted to criticizing the ‘lack of learning’ and ‘one-sidedness’ of his contemporaries: After all, it is not that Chinese did not have any learning and also not that the recent scholars are without any insight. It is only that they look at it from one side. Hence, they see nothing. What is called onesidedness? To admire only the learning of other countries, and to reject the teaching of one’s own country, no matter if it is good or bad, this is the first kind of one-sidedness. Amongst the learning of one’s own country, to treat only one item and not only neglect the other as insignificant but denigrate it … this is the second kind of onesidedness.92

The defect of this ‘one-sidedness’ is that, without insights and positions of one’s own, one will only be able to follow the trends of the time. To despise the culture of one’s own country is certainly one symptom, and to be blindly confident after hearing some fragmentary 90

Luo Zhitian 罗志田, Quanshi zhuanyi: Jindai Zhongguo de sixiang, shehui yu xueshu 权势转移：近代中国的思想、社会与学术 (The Shift of Power: Thought, Society, and Scholarship in Modern China) (Wuhan: Hubei renmin chubanshe, 1999), 48–62. 91 ‘The Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart,’ 83. 92 Ibid., 90–91.

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words of other people (e.g., Japanese valued the learning of Wang Yangming 王阳明(14721528), Germans liked to investigate oriental learning, and so on), is similarly confused.93 Concerning the teaching in schools, Zhang greatly disapproved of those contemporaries who substituted teaching for self-learning,94 and substituted textbooks for professional works. ‘Now, for the sake of education, a concise kind of book should be edited. This is not history, but a textbook of history. Therefore, the matter of education is incomparable with that of teaching; and books of texts are incomparable to books of works.’95 His contemporaries, comparing the Chinese historical works with Western textbooks, sneered at the former for their ‘unscientific’ character. Zhang gave them the following reply: Anyone is capable of writing some glib things about ‘the system of history, the nature of history, and the scope of history.’ This cannot be called science, it is like filling in blanks. […] As for texts used for teaching, they should be concise, but it cannot be said that what is suitable for the purpose of teaching is scientific. This is also easily understood. If the history of science only consists in conciseness, and it has to cut the feet to fit the shoes in order to be scientific, then it is better not to be scientific.’96

Zhang also wrote an Outline of Chinese History in his early years, but he thought that ‘Western historical works are divided according to ages; whereas in China the historical records (zhi 志 ) are comprehensive. Their analysis is not limited by specific eras;’ ‘that which is divided according to ages is suitable to teaching in school, that which is divided according to type is written for discussion and 93

‘If one, after hearing people of other countries saying that the learning of his country is bad, follows and says that it is bad, it is surely incorrect. If one, after hearing people of other countries saying that the learning of his country is good, follows and says that it is good, it is also incorrect.’ See The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 91. 94 ‘The vice of [educational] institutions is that they expect people to understand immediately but do not seek for the foundation. It emphasizes the learning by ear and neglects the learning by eye. The result is that the students’ knowledge will never extend beyond the lecture notes.’ Cf. Zhang Taiyan, Jiu xuebi lun’ 救学弊论 (Remedying the Defects of Studying), in Zhang Taiyan quanji, vol. 5, 98. 95 ‘The Origin of Chinese Culture and the Development of Modern Scholarship,’ 36. 96 Ibid., 35–36.

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study.’97 To understand and evaluate the format of Western academic works according to the merits and defects of textbooks is naturally a rather ugly misunderstanding. Nonetheless, it was rare to find a person like Zhang, who, while others were obsessed with textbook-style ‘Western learning,’ was acutely aware of the potential pitfalls and persisted in focusing on professional studies, while refusing to dabble in popular ‘general history writings.’ A century later, we cannot help feeling astonished by Zhang Taiyan’s foresight—the preference for writing textbooks and ‘cutting the feet to fit the shoes in order to be scientific’ is really a major defect of twentieth-century Chinese historiography. In contrast, Zhang’s ‘unscientific’ writings like The Book of Urgency and Balanced Inquiries, though unsuitable as textbooks, still preserve strong academic vitality. Whether speaking about education or about morality, the aim of Zhang’s rejection of the view that ‘all men share the same heart and all hearts share the same principles’ was to struggle for breathing space for the domestic culture, which was then in an adversary condition. He did not just heap singular praise on ‘the morality of old.’ Rather, he emphasized the national characteristics of morality. ‘The morality of other countries is surely good, but we have to listen to Zhuangzi’s words that a vehicle cannot be used in water and a boat cannot be sailed on land.’ This line of thought must be counterbalanced by the temporality of morality, otherwise it will easily become fettered by old conventions. This is precisely what Zhang did: It is wrong to say that China is conservative, there is only ancient morality and no new morality, and it is not suitable to the modern world. The morality of China has gradually changed from the Three Ages, to the Han Dynasty, to nowadays. It is not the same as in ancient times. 98

There is an implication for this emphasis on the development of morality: now, in China, it is possible and necessary to realize a 97

‘Zhongguo tongshi lüeli’ 中国通史略例 (Outline of Chinese History), in Zhang Taiyan quanji, vol. 3, 329. 98 ‘Jing de dayi’ 经的大意 (The General Meaning of the Classics), in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 80.

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‘renewal of morality,’ but it is not necessary to transfer the morality of the Far West. Zhang maintained that education should come from one’s own country and one’s own heart, in order to achieve self-renewal in morality and culture, but he also opposed the official regulations concerning ‘the establishment of courses in reading classics in schools.’ This strategy, in the actual context, had to wage war on two kinds of enemies. One was ‘those ridiculous people who now speak for the contemporary school of classics. They regard classics as strange books and Confucius as Jesus or Mohammed. This is really crazy.’ 99 Another was the Japanese Ōkuma Shigenobu 大隈重信 (18381922) who ‘wrote Reader for Citizens, doing nothing but aggrandizing his own country, urging his people to go on advancing.’ This is not education, but like ‘building up a stage at a temple and asking an old man to wear yellow robes to teach.’ 100 He was convinced that reading classics nowadays ‘is for enhancing historical knowledge and enlightening people’ and it should not carry any mystic or sacred meaning. This line of thought obviously originated from Zhang Xuecheng’s 章学诚 (1738-1801) theory that ‘the six classics are all history.’101 To regard and understand the ‘classics,’ which were sacred in the past, as ‘historical documents’—this way of study, which amounts to ‘not using the study of classics for understanding politics,’ ‘not judging human affairs with Yin and Yang’ and, therefore, ‘leveling the Six Arts into history’102 is crucial for the history of Chinese classical and historical study. If ‘study of the classics’ was not aimed at ‘understanding the Dao,’ then the traditional prevalence of the classics henceforth vanished.103 Zhang’s view on this was inherited by many of his students. Li Jinxi has pointed out that the vigorous revolutionary attitude of Qian Xuantong during the ‘May Fourth’ 99

Cf. ibid., 72. Cf. ibid., 77–78. 101 Zhang criticized his predecessors for misunderstanding the function of classics, ‘more recently, there was Zhang Xuecheng a hundred years ago, whose opinion was that the six classics were all history. This statement is really enlightening.’ See The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 69–70. 102 ‘Jianlun: Qingru’ 检论·清儒 (Investigative Essays: Qing Confucians), in Zhang Taiyan Quanji, vol. 3, 476. 103 See Wang Fansen 王汎森, Zhang Taiyan de sixiang 章太炎的思想 (Zhang Taiyan’s Thought) (Taibei: Shibao wenhua chuban gongsi, 1985), 190–191. 100

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period had its source: ‘Boldly speaking, the basic idea for his crushing effort in the New Culture Movement was the view that “the six classics are all history.”’ Of course, still more important was the ‘debasement of Confucius’ he learned from his master. As Li says in A Biography of Qian Xuantong: The master of ‘ancient prose’ Zhang Taiyan simply regarded Confucius as a ‘historian,’ perhaps also carrying the additional stench of an ‘educator.’ He considered Confucius’s greatest achievement to be that he put many old books and ancient histories (classics) in order. Zhang wrote an article ‘Refuting the Proposal to Establish Confucianism as the National Religion.’ Anyone who reads this article will know that Qian was greatly influenced by his master on this point. Therefore, in 1918, he ‘smashed the Confucian shop’ with one blow. He objected to ‘cannibalistic rites,’ to ‘the arranged marriage trade,’ to hiring a band of beggars to hold up the signs saying ‘Be Silent’ and ‘Keep Away’ at funeral marches, and so on. This was the ‘New Culture’ enlightenment movement which occurred just before the ‘May Fourth Movement.’104

Li added a lengthy remark following the phrases ‘smash the Confucian shop’ and ‘objected to “cannibalistic rites,”’ afraid as he was to cause misunderstanding. This was not really necessary. This was after all an age of ‘re-evaluating all values,’ and more efforts were put into ‘destroying’ rather than ‘establishing,’ so radical statements were not surprising. Moreover, to advance theories in an unscrupulous manner and to pursue satisfying and original rhetorical effects was always the characteristic of Qian’s personality and writing. Although Zhang Taiyan’s ‘Refuting the Proposal to Establish Confucianism as the National Religion’ was only published in Volume 22 of Xianfa Xinwen 宪法新闻 (Constitution News) in October 1913, it had an intimate connection with his early writings. The article ‘To Correct Confucius,’ included in the second edition of The Book of Urgency, was Zhang’s first attempt to degrade Confucius; later, due to his reaction to the trend of the time, or due to the shift of his own cultural ideas, there were a number of adjustments in Zhang’s discussion of Confucius. In the ‘Speech to the Welcome Meeting Organized by Chinese Students in Tokyo’ of 1906, there was this statement: ‘The greatest stain of Confucius was 104

Li Jinxi, ‘Biography of Qian Xuantong,’ 175–176.

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that he caused people to be haunted by wealth and offices.’ Zhang expressed still harsher criticism of the ‘Confucian defect of aiming for wealth and offices’ in his ‘Brief Discussion of the Philosophers’ written in the same year. This view not only deeply restricted his students’ (including Qian Xuantong and Lu Xun) academic or artistic imagination about Confucius, but also influenced many advocates of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture. Unfortunately, there is no trace of this important link in intellectual history in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan. His ‘Outline of the Philosophers’ makes a beginning at it but soon leaves it aside; even if we add the part about philosophy in ‘The Origin of Chinese Culture and the Development of Modern Scholarship,’ it is still far from sufficient. Fortunately, the ‘Brief Discussion of the Philos-ophers’ published in the National Essence Journal, which is the same as the article ‘On the Philosophers’ in Brief Introduction to the Academy of National Learning, is also more or less related to Zhang’s teaching and therefore should be included in the analysis. The article ‘On Literature,’ published in Brief Introduction to the Academy of National Learning at approximately the same time, and the mock speech ‘Brief Talk on Literature’ should also be taken into consideration. Amongst Zhang’s essays for The Educational Magazine, none is directly related to ‘literature.’ This is very different from his later period, in which he always dealt with ‘literature’ when he talked about ‘National Learning.’ 105 In ‘The Origin of Chinese Culture and the Development of Modern Scholarship,’ Zhang only dealt with philology, history, and philosophy, and neglected ‘literature.’ On the contrary, he touched upon Qu Yuan, who ‘was skilful in writing,’ in ‘Outline of the Philos-ophers.’ However, the sentence ‘political strategists played a crucial role in the transformation from philosophical writing to literary collections,’ which clearly bears the imprint of Zhang Xuecheng’s views, makes 105

In his teaching in Shanghai in 1922, Zhang put his emphasis on clarifying ‘Jingxue zhi paibie’ 经学之派别 (The Schools of Classical Studies), ‘Zhexue zhi paibie’哲学之派别 (The Schools of Philosophy) and ‘Wenxue zhi paibei’ 文学之 派别 (The Schools of Literature); in his teaching at Suzhou in his old age, the lecture notes are divided into five parts: ‘Xiaoxue lüeshuo’ 小学略说 (Outline of Philology), ‘Jingxue lüeshuo’ 经学略说 (Outline of Classical Studies), ‘Shixue lüeshuo’ 史学略说 (Outline of Historical Studies), ‘Zhuzi lüeshuo’ 诸子略说 (Outline of the Philosophers), and ‘Wenxue lüeshuo’ 文 学 略 说 (Outline of Literature).

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literary men retreat into the background immediately.106 Zhang did not especially despise literature, but he based the important task of ‘literary revival’ on ‘promoting philology’: The foundation of writing lies in words. Before the Tang Dynasty, all literary men understood philology. Therefore their writings are beautiful and moving. After the Song Dynasty, philology began to decline. All names and terms were wrongly employed and there was nothing left to be moved by. […] Unfortunately, philology gradually declined and writing also became bad. If promoting philology could bring about a literary revival, this would automatically constitute a great force of patriotism and racial survival. 107

In relation to this, there was nothing strange about the Zhou brothers, who were enthusiastic about literature, going to listen to Zhang Taiyan’s teaching of the Shuowen because they wanted to ‘understand philology in order to use words appropriately.’ Situated at a time when westernization had become predominant, Zhang’s self-respect and confidence are really moving; however, the ‘arrogance’ which he revealed when he praised the value of Chinese culture is not without its problems, even if it was largely a discursive, highly defensive strategy. (Zhang Taiyan did not wholly reject the trend to seek for the truth from the West. He even engaged himself in this trend in his early years.108 He not only translated Kishimoto Nobuta’s 岸本能武太 [18661928] book Sociology, but also read widely in ‘books written by Greek and German philosophers and translated into Japanese’ when he fled to Japan.109) Concerning the matter of learning, statements such as ‘While the learning of other countries probably can be sought from other countries, can the learning of one’s own country also be sought from other countries?’ and ‘People should learn the learning of their own country, as one 106

Cf. The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 21–44, 113–120. Zhang Taiyan, ‘Speech to the Welcome Meeting Organized by Chinese Students in Toyko.’ 108 See Tang Wenquan 唐文权 and Luo Fuhui 罗福惠, Zhang Taiyan sixiang yanjiu 章太炎思想硏究 (Research on the Thought of Zhang Taiyan) (Wuchang: Huazhong shifan daxue chubanshe, 1986), Chapter 2; and my article, ‘You sixiang de xuewenjia—Zhang Taiyan qiren qiwen’ 有思想的学问家——章太炎其人其文’ (A Thoughtful Scholar—Zhang Taiyan: The Man and His Writing), in Shusheng yiqi (Shanghai: Hanyu dacidian chubanshe, 1996), 57–63. 109 Cf. the conclusion to Zhang Taiyan, Daohan weiyan 菿汉微言 (Daohan’s Subtle Words) (Letterpress print, Beijing, 1916). 107

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should be familiar with the customs of one’s family. Why should one listen to the comments of other people?’110 are regularly found in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan. If this was only for the purpose of showing respect for the history of his country and encouraging Chinese scholars to undertake in-depth investigations, such excessive statements would not be not very harmful. However, Zhang often treated the scholarship of Japan as a foil when he made such kind of statements. Due to his inveterate prejudice that foreigners were necessarily unable to understand the Chinese culture in any depth, Zhang often made the sinology of Japan his object of mockery: ‘It is laughable that there is a Japanese Kojima Kenkichirō 兒島獻吉郎 (18661931) who composed a Dictionary of Chinese.’111 This kind of statement is obviously not very objective and fair. Hearing that Luo Zhenyu 罗振玉 (18661940) ‘discussed ancient prose’ with the Japanese scholar Hayashi Taisuke 林泰辅 (18541922), Zhang was furious and wrote a letter to reprove Luo: Hayashi Taisuke taught classics in a university, but he does not know them well. His Investigation into the Shuowen is the work of a retailer and professional scribe. Not only Hayashi Taisuke, all Japanese scholars starting from Butsu Mokei 物茂卿 [Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠, 16661728], have only learned something superficial. They take evidence from miscellaneous books and are fond of easy talk but never speak about ancient rites. Surely, their learning is trivial. 112

Contemporary famous Japanese sinologists, such as Hayashi Taisuke, Hattori Unokichi [see Chapter 1], Kojima Kenkichirō, and Shiratori Kurakichi 白鸟库吉 (18651942) were all mocked by Zhang, with the conclusion that the Japanese people are ‘fond of strained interpretations, engaging in speculation, and writing fairytales.’113 110

Cf. ‘The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad’ and ‘The Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart,’ in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 16, 96. 111 ‘The Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart,’ 103. 112 ‘Yu Luo Zhenyu shu’ 与罗振玉书 (Letter to Luo Zhenyu), in Zhang Taiyan quanji, vol. 4 , 171. 113 See Zhang Taiyan, ‘Letter to Luo Zhenyu.’ Also, in ‘The Foundation of Education Should Come from One’s Country and One’s Own Heart,’ Zhang writes: ‘There has been no fabrication of facts in China, since the history of China is so rich and glorious that it does not tolerate talking nonsense; it is only the Japanese people who are fond of tampering with history and making truth out of fiction!’ Cf. The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 110.

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Like Zhang Taiyan, Luo Zhenyu and Wang Guowei also went to Japan around the time of the Republican revolution. They, however, were on good terms with scholars from Kyoto and able to appreciate them; however, Zhang basically had no contact with the sinologists in Tokyo and often sneered at them in his speeches. It naturally had something to do with their respective professional realms, and, all the more, since Zhang participated actively in politics, he had no good impression of the Japanese government which closed the Minpao and suppressed the Chinese students. To be proud of their own cultural heritage and derisive of Japan, which knew only how ‘to imitate other countries,’ was a very common attitude amongst the Chinese students in Japan, who ‘studied Western books and were bullied by Easterners.’ Naturally, the poignant derision by Zhang in his speeches or in newspapers easily gained wide applause. At this point, we should return to the ‘live’ impression of lectures (and ‘mock speeches’). Zhang’s ‘exclusive insight’ and ‘affective comments’ were far more applicable in such kinds of display than in formal treatises. The following two paragraphs, one of which argues that the moral lessons in school are useless, and the other which mocks the Chinese people for not understanding the history and present state of China, are both common sense and not saying anything new. However, in Zhang’s hands, they become very attractive: The moral lessons in school are banal and incapable of moving people. Higher still, as for ethics, it only inquires into the source of morality, always on the level of thought and unrelated to emotion. How can morality arise from it! Moreover, those who teach ethics and moral training are not very moral themselves; in class they straighten their faces and spout some highfaluting phrases, and then after class they drink and wench as usual. Since they earn a living by it, they cannot but speak about it. As the proverb says, ‘A monk rings the bell so long as he is a monk.’ This is the duty of the teacher of ethics. Their speech and their emotions are not related at all; their own morality also cannot be a model for students. If we expect the students to become good by observation, is this not like ‘making rice out of sand?’ It seems that what they call the laws of politics is like a string of coins. There is only string but no coins. It is not so bad that there is only string, but no coins. Worse is that no thought has been given to how big the hole in the coins should be! Will the string be able to go through? How heavy are the coins? Will the string break? Therefore,

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even if the coins are ready, the string may not be applicable. What one can do is merely to fumble the bare string when there are no coins. 114

The focus of the former is shifted from the effect of moral lessons to the teachers of ethics who in class ‘straighten their faces and spout some highfaluting phrases’ but after class ‘drink and wench as usual.’ The laughter induced by this caricature covers up the problem of how to impart moralily in school, which is not easy to solve. The latter even dismisses argumentation but grasps the metaphor of ‘a string of coins’ to fumble so that a satisfying result is achieved. In stark contrast with the accuracy and rigour of his specialist writing, in which he strived to make every argument completely irrefutable, Zhang’s lectures excelled in penetrating metaphors, vivid description, and being unassailable in debate. Would this difference between speech and writing produce a mutual influence, leading to changes in journal writing style, and eventually to a new literary form? That is the key question of this chapter. Another Source of the Vernacular Language The ‘editorial’ published in Volume 1 of The Educational Magazine was renamed ‘The Origin of Chinese Culture and the Development of Modern Scholarship’ in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan. This article is concerned with the written characters, history, and philosophy of China, in order to cure his countrymen’s ‘worship for the West,’ which resulted from their ‘lack of study.’ There are two paragraphs in the beginning and end of this article, dealing with writing methods and discursive strategies, which are worth our attention: The matter of educating (jiaoyu 教育) is different from extensive reading (bolan 博览); and it is even further removed from the status of lecturing (jiangxue 讲学). It is merely to speak casually, based on the level of the audience. Today I am here to talk to a few friends about the roots of Chinese civilization and the events of the development of modern scholarship. Thus the method of teaching can be known and the fathers, sons, and brothers over there can know the way of being educated. 114

Cf. ‘The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad’ and ‘Common Sense and Education,’ in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 4–5, 52.

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I wrote some books about these three things. Perhaps in the future I may give them to a few friends to read. However, the vernacular education that we are discussing today, has not yet reached this stage.115

There are some keywords which may be divided into three groups: ‘educating’ and ‘lecturing,’ ‘reading’ and ‘talking,’ ‘a few friends’ and ‘fathers, sons, and brothers over there.’ And the last point is ‘vernacular education.’ Concerning the difference between ‘educating’ and ‘lecturing’ as conceived by Zhang, one is the newly introduced standardized teaching with the use of textbooks—which mainly consisted of classroom instruction and focused on ‘learning by ear;’ another is that which depended on the personal charm of the college head and the dialogue and communication between master and student—which consisted mainly of self-learning and focused on ‘learning by eye.’ It seemed to Zhang that the former was uniform and more suitable for general knowledge; the latter was taught according to students’ ability and might lead to in-depth research. This ideal presentation of the traditional academy was based on his eight years of specific experience at Hangzhou Philological College, and, all the more, due to his dissatisfaction with his contemporaries’ lack of reflection on the merits and defects of the new-style schools. As for ‘reading’ and ‘talking,’ except for referring to the abovementioned distinction between ‘learning by eye’ and ‘learning by ear,’ the one refers to those academic writings which are probably not easy to understand, while the other is embodied by listener-friendly speeches which are casual and ‘based on the level of the audience.’ The respective academic levels of the two are evident. The essence of learning should be achieved by ‘writing-reading;’ ‘lecturinglistening’ is only secondary. Here it is not about the academic levels of particular scholars, but only about the difference between hearing and seeing in receiving knowledge. Therefore, Zhang Taiyan consciously treated these articles published in The Educational Magazine as ‘mock speeches’ rather than as ‘writing’—he wrote them casually and later he did not intend to include them into his Collected Works. 115

Cf. ‘Zhongguo wenhua de genyuan he jindai xueshu de fada’ 中国文化的根 源和近代学术的发达 (The Origin of Chinese Culture and the Development of Modern Scholarship), in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 21, 44.

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That he sometimes addressed ‘a few friends’ here and sometimes ‘fathers, sons, and brothers over there’ was linked to the supposed readers of The Educational Magazine. Although The Educational Magazine was edited and published in Tokyo, its readership was mainly the Chinese people living overseas. Zhang Taiyan and Tao Chengzhang regarded The Educational Magazine as the ‘official publication’ of the Restoration Society, through which they could communicate with the affiliates in Southeast Asia and transmit Chinese culture by means of the organizations of these affiliates, such as educational societies, newsagents, and storehouses. On the back cover of each issue was printed ‘To be delivered by repre-sentatives overseas,’ whose location included the following cities: Singapore, Perak, Tanjung Rambutan, Kuala Lumpur, Rangoon, Honolulu, Victoria (Labuan), Java, Surabaya, Kediri, Borneo, Pontianak, and Muntok Pinang. Zhang, Tao, and Qian Xuantong saw that ‘since the Western learning was transmitted to the East, many distinguished scholars have abandoned the traditional learning and pursued the novelties to the extent that they are ready to discard the Chinese language and level the Chinese history.’ Therefore they founded this magazine with their own efforts in order to ‘show the right way and counteract the evil diction.’ Since The Educational Magazine, which aimed ‘to preserve the tradition, encourage learning, and promote general education of the people,’ 116 had to address the Chinese students in Japan and the Chinese people living overseas, the linguistic expression should be a matter of great concern. This characteristic of The Educational Magazine was sufficiently expounded in the ‘Foreword’ and ‘Regulations,’ which were supposedly written by Qian Xuantong. It says at first: ‘All writings are based on speech, in order that farmers and commoners are able to understand.’ 117 Later, in the fourth section of the bylaws of the journal, with the heading ‘method,’ the content of the magazine is defined: 2. The discussion of all kinds of learning in this magazine starts from the most simple and most comprehensible, in order to proceed gradually and to be systematic. 116

Cf. ‘Introduction to The Educational Magazine’ and ‘Regulations of The Educational Magazine,’ Jiaoyu jinyu zazhi 1 (March 1910). 117 Cf. ‘Introduction to The Educational Magazine.’

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3. In discussing all kinds of learning, this magazine aims to be clear and avoid difficulties in order to facilitate students and be their guide in their self-learning.118

In accordance with this, starting from the first issue, on the back cover there are ‘editors’ recommendations of textbooks,’ which include history, geography, arithmetics, and sciences. In Volume 4, the editor Tingjian commented on the article which would later be called ‘The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad,’ written by Dujiao. In this remark, apart from stating that this is the speech Zhang Taiyan gave for the Chinese students in Japan Higher Normal School, there is also the following paragraph: This was originally aimed at exhorting the Chinese students in Japan, showing them an approach to study, and setting up a standard of teaching. As regards the ethnically Chinese students overseas (haiwai huaqiao xuesheng 海外华侨学生), they just started learning Chinese. How could they organize an academic society and proceed to such an extent? Therefore, if Chinese students overseas are interested in National Learning, they should start from school.

This article was written for Chinese students in Japan, but it was also suitable for overseas Chinese; as regards essays written for the magazine, the taste of Chinese students in Japan should also be considered. This was the reason why Zhang Taiyan continued to bear in mind ‘a few friends here’ and ‘fathers, sons, and brothers over there’ in the ‘editorial’ he wrote for Volume 1. Due to this double presupposition of readership, there is the framework for proceeding gradually and for teaching ‘National Learning’ systematically with ‘simple language,’119 and there are also the interpolations which deal with Chinese politics and academic thought, and even the present state of Japanese society and sinology. Therefore, it is not purely ‘general education of the people.’ Although ‘simple language’ was also used in The Educational Magazine, it differed from the numerous vernacular magazines in China which aimed to ‘enlighten the people’ by reporting current 118

Cf. ‘Regulations of The Educational Magazine.’ The second section of the ‘Bylaws of The Educational Magazine,’ entitled ‘Name’ states: ‘According to the aims stated above, simple language will be used in this magazine. Hence the name The Educational Magazine.’ But changes were made to this later. An ‘Announcement’ in the double issue 4&5 says: ‘Starting from this issue, both vernacular and classical Chinese will be used.’ 119

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affairs and transmitting new knowledge, in that its task was to ‘preserve tradition, encourage learning’ and, still further, ‘to promote the passion of patriotism by the stimulation of the quintessence of the country.’120 In respect of this task, the requirement for the readers should certainly be more than ‘to be just able to read and write.’ Instead, they were expected to be familiar with the National Learning to a certain extent. After all, this is ‘teaching’ rather than ‘commenting on current affairs’—the latter only needs ‘passion,’ whereas the former requires that one has relatively profound knowledge. To use ‘simple language’ in teaching was certainly related to the requirement of ‘general education of the people,’ but still more important was the popularity of ‘public speeches.’ In 1904, Qiu Jin 秋瑾 (18751907) wrote ‘The Advantage of Public Speeches,’ in which she said that apart from newspapers, ‘in order to enlighten the people and move their mind, public speeches are indispensible.’ After demonstrating the five advantages of public speeches, she wrote: Now the Chinese students in Japan have realized the importance of public speeches so that they founded a society for training to speak in public. They also publish the speeches so that people can know the affairs in the world and academic thoughts. Ah! You should not slight this society. This society can be regarded as having taken the lead in arousing our citizens and developing their knowledge.121

On January 13 of the next year, Qiu Jin persuaded another revolutionary, Song Jiaoren, to join the society for training in public speaking. According to the account in Song’s diary My History, Qiu Jin should be one of the founders of this society: I went to Qiu Xuanqing’s 秋璿卿 [i.e. Qiu Jin] home and talked for a long while. Miss Qiu organized a society for training in public speaking with several comrades. They meet every month and published one issue of a vernacular newspaper. Now they have 120

See ‘Regulations of The Educational Magazine’ and ‘Speech to the Welcome Meeting Organized by Chinese Students in Tokyo.’ 121 See Qiu Jin, ‘The Advantage of Public Speech,’ Baihua 1 (1904), reprinted in Qiu Jin ji 秋瑾集 (Qiu Jin’s Works) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1979), 3–4.

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published the second issue. I told Qiu that I wanted to join this society and Qiu accepted.122

In fact, in the beginning of the twentieth century, not only Chinese students in Japan, but also many gentry members in China who were enthusiastic about revolution started to promote public speeches.123 The above statement by Qiu Jin is worthy of attention because, apart from her own revolutionary life, it involves two important questions. One is that public speeches are in fact mostly about ‘wordly affairs’ and rarely about ‘academic thoughts.’ This is because the latter is directed at peers or at equally knowledgeable students, rather than at common people who can barely read. And in the late Qing, both the politicians, who promoted revolution, and the modest reformers, who maintained to take education as the starting point, assumed that when they wrote in the vernacular language, their readers were the common people who could barely read. As for Liang Qichao, who focused on ‘transmitting new knowledge,’ when he wrote about ‘academic doctrines,’ simple classical writing rather than vernacular writing was what he used. Instead, it was Zhang Taiyan who started trying to use vernacular language in scholarly writings, although ‘to preserve the tradition’ was his aim. The implication of this requires further investigation. About ten years later, after a vigorous debate, the advocates of ‘May Fourth’ New Culture decided that, starting from the fourth issue of the fifth volume, published in May 1918, all articles in New Youth would be written in the vernacular language. This is a major event in the history of modern Chinese thought and literature that scholars always mention. However, before this, in Volume 3, No. 6 of New Youth, there is a letter from Qian Xuantong to Chen Duxiu which discusses changing from right-to-left vertical printing to topto-bottom horizontal printing, and to adopt new-style punctuation. Qian also proposed to use vernacular language in New Youth, which is especially worthy of attention: 122

Song Jiaoren, My History, 17. Li Xiaoti 李孝悌, Qingmo de xiaceng shehui qimeng yundong 清末的下层 社会启蒙运动 (The Movement for the Enlightenment of the Lower Social Strata during the Late Qing) (Taibei: Zhongyang yanjiu yuan jindai shi yanjiusuo, 1992). In Chapter 4, there are detailed investigations into the promotion of public speech, the training of orators, the location and context of public speech, and the content of public speech. 123

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Since we argue persistently for the use of vernacular language in writing, we should gradually change to use vernacular language in our own writings in New Youth. Starting from this letter, I will use vernacular language in all my later writings, be they essays or correspondences. This is precisely the intention of Hu Shi’s Experiments. I also request that you yourself, as well as Hu Shi and Liu Bannong, all try to do so. Besides, if other gentlemen who write in New Youth and those gentlemen who approve of the use of vernacular language all are willing to ‘try,’ then it must be ‘successful.’ What ‘there was not from the ancient times onward,’ surely will ‘be’ ‘from now on.’ I don’t know whether all you gentlemen would agree with this. 124

With regard to Qian Xuantong’s suggestion, Chen Duxiu agreed to change to top-to-bottom horizontal printing, ‘but as for changing to use vernacular language, it seems that it should not be constrained.’ Chen Duxiu had once been the founder of the Anhui Vernacular News. He should know quite well the merits and disadvantages of using vernacular language in writing. Besides, he was also the one who first endorsed publicly Hu Shi’s ‘Modest Proposals for Literary Reform,’ saying that, ‘I believe and hope that vernacular literature will become the mainsream of Chinese literature.’125 Then, why did Chen hesitate about using vernacular language in New Youth? It was because scholarly works were different from literary writings. The supposed readership of the former was erudite literary men and scholars. It was doubtful whether they would appreciate the vernacular language. In May 1935, Cai Yuanpei wrote a ‘General Introduction’ to the Compendium of China’s New Literature. He cited especially the above statement by Qian, and said that ‘this shows Xuantong’s effort in promoting the vernacular language.’ Cai Yuanpei certainly knew from personal experience that there had already been many influential vernacular newspapers in the late Qing. Even so, however, he still thought that the efforts of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture advocates like Hu Shi and Qian Xuantong in promoting the vernacular language was praiseworthy: 124

Qian Xuantong and Chen Duxiu, ‘Tongxin’ 通信 (Letters), XQN 3, no. 6 (1917). 125 See Chen Duxiu’s notes appended to Hu Shi, ‘Wenxue gailiang chuyi’ 文学 改良刍议 (Modest Proposals for Literary Reform), XQN 2, no. 5 (1917).

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The reason for promoting vernacular language at that time [i.e. the late Qing] was that it was easy to understand and available for the common people. It was not to replace the classical language. The proposal to replace the classical language with vernacular language and to raise the flag of Literary Revolution emerged at the time of New Youth.126

Similar statements were made by Hu Shi and Zhou Zuoren, but they were not like Cai Yuanpei, who, having witnessed the changes, ‘spoke on the basis of his own experience.’ However, Cai did not point out that Qian Xuantong’s contribution consisted of enlarging the scope of vernacular language from ‘literary writing’ to ‘scholarly writing.’ This was later supplemented by Li Jinxi in his Biography of Qian Xuantong: Hu Shi published vernacular poetry, which ‘was creative but literary;’ ‘only to boldly use vernacular language in writing serious treatises’ was ‘quite embarrassing’ to the scholars at that time.127 It is only against this background that the significance of Zhang Taiyan and Qian Xuantong’s founding of The Educational Magazine and their attempt to use vernacular language in academic writings can be understood. In his History of Chinese Literature, Hu Shi discusses the blood relationship between ancient vernacular language and modern vernacular language. There are two statements in it that are related to the theme of this article and should be analysed. One is, ‘Both Zhu Xi (11301200) and Lu Jiuyuan 陆九渊 (11391192) were good at writing classical language, but in the notes of their teaching, there were many good writings in vernacular language’; another is, ‘Today many people who write vernacular prose learn from philology, but none from the notes of Tang, Song, and Ming Dynasties.’128 Let us start from the latter one. When those people writing for New Youth promoted the vernacular language, they in fact mainly took the Ming and Qing chapter fiction as their models; later when they taught ‘Chinese literature,’ they also traced it back to the Water Margin. Zhou Zuoren was dissatisfied with this and traced it further back, starting from the prologue to The Scholars, with a detour via Wang Mian 王冕 (1287-1359), to many Ming and Qing literary men who did not care about the form and spoke from their hearts, and thus 126 127 128

CYPQJ, vol. 6, 574–575. See Li Jinxi, ‘Biography of Qian Xuantong,’ 170–171. Hu Shi, Hu Shi’s Writings, vol. 8, 119, 112.

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clarifying ‘the origin of Chinese new literature.’129 However, all such ‘inquiry into origins’ was aimed at the ‘literary writings’ (or, belleslettres), but not at the equally noteworthy ‘academic writings.’ When considering the contribution of ‘May Fourth’ New Culture advocates, scholars generally follow the analytical framework of Hu Shi, maintaining that their difference from the late Qing newspapers and the advocates of the alphabet movement was that they ‘had no distinction between “them” and “us”’ and thought that ‘the vernacular language was not only a means for “enlightening the people,” but also the only means for creating Chinese literature.’ This general judgment is still acceptable today. The so-called ‘superior people’ (ren shang ren 人上人) of the late Qing were still engrossed in the writings of the Han, Wei, Tang, and Song Dynasties, and they only ‘demeaned themselves to write some vulgar essays’ because they pitied ‘the small crowd’ for their ignorance.130 Even though Hu’s tone was a bit too harsh, this is basically a matter of fact. The problem is that the late Qing scholars classified writings not only by the distinction between ‘us’ and ‘them,’ which was later to be somewhat ridiculed, but also by the unnoticed distinction between ‘academic discussion’ and ‘political comment.’ For example, Zhang Taiyan distinguished between the writings of literary men and scholars in terms of their style: The difficulty of discussion does not consist in commenting on current events and judging people, but it hinges on debating the rites on the basis of principles. To comment on current events and to judge people is what the literary men excel in. It is only professional scholars who are capable of discussing the rites on the basis of principles. 131

For Zhang Taiyan, narration, which is not the strong point of historians, lyricism, which is the occupation of poets, and the argumentation practised by prose writers, can be divided into ‘academic discussion’ and ‘political discussion;’ and the difficulty and charm of ‘academic discussion’ should be superior to that of ‘political discussion.’ This is also the main reason why he disliked being praised for his famous ‘Refutation of the Letter on Revolution by Kang 129

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Guanyu jindai sanwen’ 关于近代散文 (On Modern Prose), in Zhitang yiyou wenbian (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1985). 130 Hu Shi, ‘Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years,’ 153–154. 131 Zhang Taiyan, ‘On Standards,’ in Guogu lunheng, 118–119.

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Youwei’ and desperately recommended his ‘grand and graceful’ Book of Urgency.132 In fact, this predilection for ‘academic writings’ was not merely Zhang Taiyan’s private prejudice. When Yan Fu confessed that the difficulty of translation was that ‘the establishment of a single term requires months of consideration,’133 he was referring to academic writings. Lin Shu, in his translations, could write at dictation speed, but when he composed his own writings in classical language, he was likewise exhausted. Since the late Qing, academic writings also encountered the task of self-renewal. This task was achieved mainly through two ways. One was the introduction of new terms, new grammar, and even new writing forms actively engaged by scholars of new learning, such as Yan Fu, Liang Qichao, and Wang Guowei, in order to enrich the expressive capability of Chinese. This effort was consistent with the general trend of the ‘process of modernization’ of China so that it has long been the focus of scholars. However, there was also a sinuous and obscure pathway, for example, that of Zhang Taiyan, who, facing the interest of new readers and the demand of the era, unintentionally enhanced the academic content of the modern written language through his systemic teaching of Chinese culture, making his own unique contribution to turning the ‘vernacular language’ into an effective tool for academic debate. The renovation of writing styles brought about by ‘lecturing’ in the modern sense, as represented by Zhang Taiyan, is worth noticing for a number of reasons. Firstly, although Zhang, after leaving the Philology College, made his lectures an important academic resource for resisting the prevailing Western-style schools, he had nevertheless imperceptibly accepted modern academic classification. Zhang’s teaching was basically topical. In contrast with the Confucian scholars of the past, who ‘sat around and discussed the Dao,’ Zhang undertook his teaching while conscious of academic disciplines such as ‘philosophy’ and ‘literature.’ Hu Shi said that ‘there are many good writings in vernacular language in the teaching notes’ of neo-Confucian scholars, such as Zhu Xi. This is, in fact, not accurate—there are many good vernacular speeches, but not writings 132

See ‘Letter to Deng Shi,’ 169–170. Yan Fu 严 复 , ‘Tianyan lun: Yili yan’ 天 演 论 · 译 例 言 (Translator’s Introduction to Evolution and Ethics), in Yan Fu ji, vol. 5, 1322. 133

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in vernacular language. The teaching notes of Confucian scholars handed down to us are generally precious and exquisite, but they are not good writings. Right up to Kang Youwei’s Discourse at Wanwu Cottage, they are all scattered and fragmented. Since the writings are so brief and the ideas so full of leaps, it is necessary to place them back into the special situation of daily and close teaching between teachers and students in order to understand their beauty. In those writings we see the improvisation of the speakers and the intentional selections of the recorders. What is handed down to us is the conclusion, not the concrete demonstration. As for Zhang Taiyan’s teaching, there is no complete record left of the Tokyo seminar with eight students, whereas we do have a record of his public lecture ‘The Aim and Method of Studying Abroad.’ The former is similar to traditional academies, in which a special book was chosen, the selfstudy of students was of primary importance, and the teachers were only responsible for showing the crucial points. Even if it were recorded, it could not have turned out to be a complete text. The latter must be about a special topic and finished within a particular period of time. Even if it cannot give the listeners the feeling of receiving a private lesson from an excellent teacher (ru zuo chunfeng 如坐春风), it should at least make sure that the listeners can follow the main argument. For such kind of lectures, there may be a draft or a transcript, and it generally has the form of ‘written text’ (wenzhang 文章). Secondly, since he was involved simultaneously in ‘teaching’ and in ‘public speaking,’ Zhang Taiyan’s implied readers were not the illiterate crowd, but the students abroad or Chinese overseas who were interested in National Learning. Therefore his strategy of discussion needed to be adjusted and to differ from the popular political propaganda and general enlightenment. Every meeting included the teaching of some professional knowledge, while social critique was interpolated later. The latter might colour the surrounding atmosphere and evoke feelings, but was never to take centre stage. This was different from the public speeches of revolutionaries, aimed at mobilizing the crowds, in that it attracted the listeners with humour, not with passion. Finally, as suggested by Qiu Jin, public lectures were to be published so that people could read them. Here, the co-existence of ‘teaching’ and ‘public speaking’ in Zhang Taiyan showed its special

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charm. Gu Yanwu criticized some teachers, saying that ‘those who started from teaching notes are rarely good at rhetoric.’134 They not only were not good at rhetoric, but also, more importantly, were not good at structuring the whole work. To have good phrases but to have no good writings is the common defect of teachers. Whether teaching in the classroom or speaking in an open area, once it is embodied in written words, the defects of looseness and emptiness will become evident. Zhang made ‘teaching’ his basis and ‘public speech’ his appearance, so that he had the knowledge foundation of the former and the approachability of the latter. When these two are combined, it can be seen as a special kind of ‘writing.’ Those speech-like writings of Zhang Taiyan were probably speech drafts prepared by the author in advance (e.g. ‘Speech to the Welcome Meeting Organized by Chinese students in Tokyo’), or recorded speeches (e.g. the improvised and widely applauded ‘Speech on the Anniversary of Minpao’)135 or, even more plausibly, they were ‘mock speeches’ written in one go in his study. Many articles in The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan have traces of this kind. The most obvious is surely ‘The Origin of Chinese Culture and the Development of Modern Scholarship,’ which involves ‘the fathers, sons, and brothers over there.’ The ‘mock speech’ is worthy of attention because it reminds us of another route of the development of modern written language. Reflecting on the academic discussions about the vernacular language movement in ‘May Fourth,’ two suggestions can be provided. First, the focus cannot be wholly put on the statement ‘vernacular literature, as the orthodoxy of Chinese literature, will also be the necessary tool for literature in future.’136 It seems to me that the mark of success of the vernacular language movement is not only the creation of ‘a national language for literature, and a literature in the national language.’ The use of vernacular language in academic 134

Gu Yanwu, Ri zhi lu 日知录 (Record of Knowledge Gained Day by Day) (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji chubanshe, 1990), 452. See entry no. 19, Xiu ci’ 修辞 (On Rhetoric). 135 This article was a record of a speech and was not included into the Collected Works by its author; ‘Congratulations on the Anniversary of Minpao Magazine,’ published at the same time, was regarded as ‘writing’ and included into the Preliminary Edition of Writings by Taiyan. 136 See Hu Shi, ‘Modest Proposals for Literary Reform.’

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writings is quite likely to be another crucial step.137 Nowadays, the attitudes towards vernacular language in ‘literary writing’ and in ‘academic writing’ are still vastly different. Secondly, the positive influence on the vernacular language movement and the improvement of writing styles made by the popularity of ‘public speeches’ in the late Qing still requires further investigation. In the meanwhile, is the connection and distinction between ‘being transmitted by mouths and ears’ and ‘being obvious to the eyes,’ and the interaction of the two by virtue of the appearance of ‘mock speeches,’ also one of the reasons for the gradual maturation of vernacular writings? As regards the question of how to discuss appropriately the difference between speech draft, speech record, or mock speech, and the independently written professional work, it requires further investigation. Here, I want to point out that Zhang Taiyan delivered a great number of speeches in his life and the quality of speech records varies. Thus, when he edited Constitutional Words in his old age, he ‘frequently warned that fewer speech records should be published.’ It seems to me that The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan is not included in this ‘warning.’ To appropriate the analysis of Shen Yanguo, a student of Zhang’s in his old age, this book should belong to the first and third kind of speech record—i.e., ‘speech draft written by himself’ or speech recorded by students and ‘revised by the master.’ Therefore, it can be cited and discussed as reliable material for the investigation of Zhang Taiyan’s thought.138 Being the first kind of teaching record of Zhang, The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan is an integral element of Zhang’s activities as ‘scholar and educator,’ as are his later works Daohan’s Subtle Words, recorded and edited by Wu Chengshi, Outline of National Learning, recorded and edited by Cao Juren, and Lectures on National Learning, 137

Zhu Ziqing has paid attention to this point. In ‘Hu Shi wenxuan zhidao dagai’ 《胡适文选》指导大概 (Guideline to Selected Writings of Hu Shu), he emphasized the improvement of long treatises during the New Culture movement, and said of Hu Shi that ‘his prosaic writings, especially his long treatises, have their own particular style and their achievement is superior to his vernacular poetry.’ See Zhu Ziqing quanji 朱自清全集 (Complete Works of Zhu Ziqing) (Nanjing: Jiangsu jiaoyu chubanshe, 1988), vol. 2, 299. 138 The analysis of the five types of records of Zhang’s lectures in Shen Yanguo’s ‘Zhang Taiyan in Suzhou’ is worth noticing. Cf. Zhuiyi Zhang Taiyan, 392–394.

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recorded and edited by Wang Chengliu 王乘六 (18941980) and Zhu Zugeng 诸祖耿 (18991989). These four books are surely not as rigorously composed as The Book of Urgency, Balanced Inquiries, The Origin of Written Language, and A Commentary on ‘The Equality of Things’, but they are likewise full of innovative views. For Zhang, who preferred independent teaching to entering the modern institution of the university, this ‘little pamphlet’ is really not contemptible. Ren Hongjun, who had listened to Zhang’s teaching in Tokyo, expressed his feeling a few decades later, as follows: ‘If his words had been recorded, they could have formed a piece of very good vernacular writing without any refinement. Later, Zhang put these lectures to paper and this became his Balanced Inquiries. Unfortunately, when they were written down in classical language, their vividness and humour were lost.’139 The classical language and the vernacular language, treatise and public speech, each carry different functions and have different forms. It is unnecessary to put one before the other. However, we can roughly appreciate the charm of Zhang Taiyan in public speech by virtue of The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan. Moreover, by comparing this book with professional works like the Balanced Inquiries, we can arrive at a better understanding of Zhang’s academic thought, cultural sentiment, and the styles of his academic writing. 139

Ren Hongjun, ‘A Note on Zhang Taiyan,’ 266–270.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE SHAPING OF THE CANON: HOW THE ZHOU BROTHERS AND OTHERS EDITED HU SHI’S POEMS The Chinese word jingdian 经典 and the English word canon are both solemn terms. They refer not only to the fundamental works for the spread of religious doctrines, but also to writings that traditionally possess authority. Their function lies not only in their intrinsic value for continuous reading and research, but also in how they set standards and paradigms for other, similar books. Therefore, the spiritual values and cultural tendencies of a particular historical period usually find expression in the ‘canonical works’ that it brought forth. The ranks of canons have swollen almost imperceptibly as a result of a tolerant frame of mind that acknowledges that every era, every people, and even every field of specialization has the ability to contribute its own ‘canonical works’ to human history. The basic connotations have not changed, but the standards for selection have been considerably lowered. In the eyes of tolerant modern man, a ‘canon’ can be temporary: as long as it is widely acknowledged by the readers of a given time, then it can be awarded this title. Canonical works in this sense do not have the ‘impregnable’ status of the Confucian Analects or the Christian Bible. Over time they experience various ups and downs until eventually their status is determined. If you take a broad view, you will find that there are ‘canonical’ works of twenty, fifty, one hundred, five hundred, one thousand, or two thousand years old, and that their ‘intrinsic value’ often stands in direct relation to their age. A two-thousand-year-old canonical work will from time to time receive more or less attention, but the chances of it being completely forgotten are small. Conversely, a ‘canonical’ work from twenty years ago can at any moment fall victim to changing times and be faced with elimination. Whether or not a work is canonized depends not only on its own inherent quality, but also on historical opportunity, long-term filtering processes, far-sighted commentators, and especially the active participation of the wider reading public. Those who focus on

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the long term will often emphasize that history is fair. However, from the medium- and short-term perspectives, the filtering out of canonical works is inevitably steered by political, cultural, gender, and ethnic bias. The crucial discerning opinion may have been a brief moment of excitement, while those who echo that opinion may well not have genuinely appreciated the work in question. Once prestige has taken shape, even sceptical readers will not openly dare to challenge the affirmed ‘social consensus.’ Only when ‘the whole building collapses,’ will there suddenly be giant waves of critical opinion. This suffices to cast doubt on the ‘fairness’ of historical judgment. Yet casting doubt on the meaning of the word ‘canon’ or trying to find out whether or not a certain work has an unearned reputation is not, in my view, as interesting as looking into how a canon was shaped. For no matter how obvious things may be in hindsight and how ludicrous the barely rational selections that were once made, the establishment of canonical reputation for any given work must depend on ‘good fortune’ that is worth analysing in detail. And that in turn is an excellent entry point into the interpretation of the cultural taste of a particular period. Readers belonging to different periods and different communities will most likely give widely differing responses to the question of what constitutes the canon. These days, when cultural values are becoming more and more diverse, it would be an insurmountable task to propose any kind of canonical work that would meet with universal approval. Relatively speaking, older works are easier to deal with, such as when one makes a selection of poems from the Tang or Song dynasties, but with more recent works, for instance twentieth-century Chinese literature, it is a lot more difficult. To appreciate the subtleties involved in the latter enterprise, one only has to think of the ‘public outrage’ that followed the publication by Xie Mian 谢冕 and others of two sets of works representing ‘the literary 1 canon’ of the last hundred years. Since the scholarly verdict failed to convince, others went for the next best option, resulting in the ‘one 1

See the articles by Yan Jingming 阎晶明, Li Du 李杜, and Han Shishan 韩石山, collected under the title ‘Jingdian, shiqu gongshi – guanyu liangbu “bainian jingdian” de taolun’ 经典，失去共识 – 关于两部‘百年经典’的讨论 (Canon, Loss of Consensus – A Discussion About Two ‘Century Canons’) in Wenyi bao, September 27, 1997.

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hundred outstanding publications of one hundred years of Chinese literature’ arrived at on the basis of votes cast by famous authors and scholars. Compared to the ‘literary canon,’ the ‘outstanding works’ were given a less resounding title, seemingly insufficient to attract attention amongst all the other fin de siècle activities. Arriving at some sort of standard in a measured manner is of course a good thing; still, it was a shame that the controversial question of how the canon was shaped was circumvented. There is a concrete question underlying my interest in this case: why is it that, when the achievements of the century were summed up, no famous poems by Hu Shi were included in the Chinese Literary Canon of the Century, whereas his poetry collection Experiments was named as one of the ‘one hundred outstanding publications of one hundred years of Chinese literature?’ This was not a result of diverging critical standards, nor of editorial bias. It is the mainstream view in Chinese academia these days that, as an author of ‘New Poetry,’ Hu Shi had a famous publication but no famous works. His collection Experiments has had its ups and downs and no longer has that many readers, but historians are still reluctant to ignore it. This alerts us to two different meanings of the word ‘canonical’: one has to do with lasting value and freshness, and continued relevance to contemporary people’s spiritual life; the other has to do with changing circumstances and fading into the background, yet being constantly present as a milestone. Experiments undoubtedly belongs to the latter category. What I want to find out is if the creation of a canonical position for works like Experiments relied upon other factors besides the familiar ones, such as historical opportunity and promotion by famous people. What about, for instance, things like the author’s own efforts, the support of fellow poets, and assurances provided by a particular system? The reason for establishing this argument is only to a small extent derived from any theory. It was, in fact, the discovery of the manuscript used for editing Experiments that has given us a glimpse of some hidden realities and that has at the same time encouraged us to dwell upon the tricky question of the shaping of the canon.

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The Scrapping of the Poems No discussion of the ‘founding’ of China’s ‘New Poetry,’ regardless of its cultural perspective, can get around Hu Shi’s Experiments. Yet when such discussions present their thorough and incisive appraisals and criticisms, they often overlook one crucial detail: the standard edition of Experiments (the revised fourth edition) is not just a product of Hu Shi’s individual efforts. This unprecedented collection of New Poetry was first brought out in March 1920 by the East Asia Library in Shanghai and it became an instant nationwide success. Two revised editions appeared within two years and thousands of copies were sold. To ensure that it would continue to be a leading novelty for even longer, the poet spent three whole months to trim down the contents of the collection, while at the same time adding a few new works that had met with favourable reviews, and working diligently on a special author’s preface for the fourth edition. The involvement of Lu Xun and other poetry enthusiasts in this process of establishing authority by means of ‘scrapping poems’ (shan shi 删诗) was much more than just a question of putting on some ‘finishing touches.’ It is neither common knowledge, nor is it a well-kept literary secret that Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren, and others helped Hu Shi to scrap poems. Something as notable as this would never remain a secret for 2 long in the hands of ‘my friend Hu Shizhi.’ And sure enough, in the ‘Author’s Preface to the Fourth Edition of Experiments,’ he provides the following detailed account: The scrapping of the poems took place towards the end of 1920. I did the first round of deletions myself, then I gave the manuscript with the remaining poems to Ren Shuyong 任叔永 [i.e. Ren Hongjun] and Sophia Chen [Chen Shafei 陈莎菲, i.e. Chen Hengzhe] and asked them to delete more. Later I also gave it to Mr ‘Lu Xun,’ who went through it as well. At the time, Zhou Zuoren was ill in hospital, and he, too, looked at the manuscript. Later Yu Pingbo came to Beijing and I asked him to go through it. After all of them had looked at it, I had a

2

[Translator’s note] This standard epithet for Hu Shi is originally a satirical reference to the fact that Hu had a wide social network, including many ‘friends in high places.’ Hu Shizhi 胡适之 is Hu Shi’s courtesy name (zi 字).

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few more close looks at it myself, scrapped a few more poems and kept a couple that they had suggested to delete.3

While Hu Shi proudly hailed ‘the scrapping of the poems,’ there is unfortunately not a single trace of evidence for it in the Zhou brothers’ diaries and collected correspondence. For the younger brother this makes sense, because he was ill at the time and did not 4 keep a diary for five months. For the older brother, we have the diary, but it makes no mention of this. This, too, is not strange, since Lu Xun’s diaries were always extremely terse, unlike those by Li Ciming 李慈铭 (18301894) or Hu Shi, who managed their diaries as writing projects and would include copies of imperial edicts or pasted newspaper clippings. Yet even in Lu Xun’s diary there are exceptions, for instance, when a few days earlier he responded to a letter from Hu Shi about the editorial direction of New Youth and 5 recorded the fact in his diary. In the author’s prefaces to the first, second, and fourth editions of Experiments, Hu Shi time and again self-deprecatingly proclaims that 6 his collection merely represents ‘an experimental spirit,’ that it has 7 ‘a bit of historical interest,’ and that it can ‘tell people how it feels

3

Hu Shi, ‘Changshi ji siban zixu’ 《尝试集》四版自序 (Author’s Preface to the Fourth Edition of Experiments), in Changshi ji, fourth edition (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1922). 4 In Section 135, entitled ‘At the Hospital,’ in Zhou Zuoren’s Memoirs, he mentions that he went to Peking University on December 22, 1920, to attend a meeting of the Folksong Research Society, that the meeting ended at 5pm, that he felt exhausted, and came down with a fever two days later. After he was diagnosed with pleurisy, he stayed indoors to recover, and managed to write half an article, as well as the new poem ‘Guoqu de shengming’ 过去的生命 (Life Passing By). The memoirs are so detailed because he was able to rely on his diary. In his published diaries (The Diary of Zhou Zuoren), the entry for January 6, 1921 reads: ‘Clear skies. Examined by Yamamoto.’ This is then followed by: ‘After this I was unable to keep my diary due to illness for five months. Below is a summary of events during that period.’ There are only four entries prior to June 1921, so it is understandable that he would not touch upon trivial matters such as scrapping poems for Hu Shi. 5 The entry for January 3, 1921 in Lu Xun’s diary reads: ‘Received letter from Hu Shizhi in afternoon. Replied.’ See Lu Xun quanji, vol. 14, 407. 6 Hu Shi, ‘Changshi ji zixu’ 《尝试集》自序 (Author’s Preface to Experiments), in Changshi ji (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1920). 7 Hu Shi, ‘Changshi ji zaiban zixu’ 《尝试集》再版自序 (Author’s Preface to the Second Edition of Experiments), in Changshi ji, second edition (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1920).

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8

when someone unbinds their bound feet.’ However, if its only value were to be as an ‘historical document,’ then the collection Experiments need not, and indeed ought not, be constantly revised. Under closer scrutiny, Hu Shi’s modesty seems superficial: revising one’s old works constantly and inviting famous contemporaries to help with ‘scrapping poems’ really is a way of historically positioning one’s own collection. He was not satisfied merely to have broken new ground; therefore, he felt he needed to put more effort into managing his ‘canonical work.’ With regard to Experiments, Hu Shi could often be seen to blow his own trumpet, ranging from publishing his own appreciations of individual poems to his ‘brief history of my proposals for a Literary Revolution,’ as well as his explanations of ‘the Hu Shi style’ (Hu 9 Shizhi ti 胡 适 之 体 ). Hu was intent on experimenting with the writing of poetry in the vernacular and to some extent it is praiseworthy that he tried to keep improving his work, while it is completely understandable that he was trying to get some credit for it. Yet the most surprising move in this process of ‘canon formation’ was his invitation to five contemporary celebrities to help him ‘scrap poems.’ Poets have the right to edit their own work at any time and in any way they want, but to ask other people to perform an ‘operation’ on a widely-renowned publication is a different matter altogether. No matter how modest the poet might have been, his Chinese readers will inevitably have associated this with the very familiar account of Confucius’ editing of the Book of Odes. According to the biography of Confucius in the Records of the Grand Historian, ‘there were more than three thousand ancient songs, but Confucius rejected those which were repetitious and retained those which had moral value […]. Confucius chose three hundred songs in all, and these he set to music and sang, fitting them to the music of Emperor Shun 舜 and King Wu 10 武.’ Whether or not Confucius really scrapped poems from the Odes 8

Hu Shi, ‘Author’s Preface to the Fourth Edition of Experiments’. See the author’s prefaces to the first, second and fourth editions of Experiments. See also Hu Shi, ‘Tantan “Hu Shizhi ti” de shi’ 谈谈‘胡适之体’的诗 (About the ‘Hu Shi Style’ of Poetry), Ziyou pinglun 12 (1936). 10 [Translator’s note] Translation quoted, with one minor alteration, from Szuma Chien, Records of the Historian, trans. Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1974), 22. 9

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has been debated for generations, but most people tend to believe Sima Qian’s 司马迁 (14587? BCE) account. Hu Shi most certainly did not force any comparisons between himself and Confucius, but subconsciously the self-professed ‘history fanatic’ Hu must have been sensitive to the fact that ‘scrapping poems’ was a step towards canonization. In the early 1920s, the Chinese poetry community had started to anthologize vernacular poems and was instantly faced with the big question of how to establish the anthologizer’s authority. Coincidentally, the distant memory of Confucius editing the Odes was raised by a number of people around the same time. Firstly, in August 1920, the Chongwen shuju 崇 文 书 局 brought out the Categorized Selection of Vernacular Poetry, edited by Xu Delin 许德 邻. It excerpted half of an article by Liu Bannong to serve as preface. The title of Liu’s article was ‘Shi yu xiaoshuo jingshen shang zhi gexin’ 诗与小说精神上之革新 (Reform of the Spirit of Poetry and Fiction) and it was first published in New Youth, Volume 3, No. 5. It contains the following passage: There were 3,000 ‘odes’ but when Confucius was done scrapping only 311 were left. The remaining 2,689 included all those wonderful ‘airs of the state.’ The old guy must have been dazed and confused, to use the completely inappropriate standard of ‘being free of heresy’ (si wu xie 思无邪) to kill them all off. He is the greatest criminal in the history of Chinese literature.11

Not long after, the East Asia Library, which had close links with Hu Shi, published an Annual Selection of New Poetry. In their foreword to the collection, the members of the Northern Society (Bei she tongren 北社同人) also referred to Confucius’ editing of the Odes, but their attitude was diametrically opposed to that of Liu Bannong: After Confucius edited the Odes, it became the common ancestor of all poetry anthologies. Two thousand years onwards, we read his Odes to see the state of society two thousand years ago. Ever since the ‘May Fourth’ movement, China’s New Literature has greatly flourished, and all systems and cultural objects are bound to undergo cataclysmic changes following global trends. The people of today wish to collect

11

Xu Delin, ed., Fenlei baihua shixuan 分类白话诗选 (Categorized Selection of Vernacular Poetry) (Shanghai: Chongwen shuju, 1920).

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folk customs, the people of the future wish to understand the past: both depend on the gathering of poems.12

Both the ‘categorized’ and the ‘annual’ selection needed to sift and eliminate, and therefore they had to display a clear ‘violent tendency.’ The forced comparison with Confucius’ editing of the Odes, regardless of whether it was presented in an approving fashion or in the form of a dismissal, was meant to establish the standard of criticism and the authority of the selection. Unlike the Categorized Selection and the Annual Selection, whose editors had the great power of being in sole charge of what to keep alive and what to kill off, Hu Shi invited a bunch of friends to carry out a major operation on his Experiments, which had already been published and received favourable reviews. The unusual nature of this move is open to various interpretations. Did the poet take this unusual step because he hoped to rely on the accurate judgment of his friends in order to provide his readers with a more refined selection? Or did he hope to make use of the huge reputations of his friends in order to provide his readers with a more authoritative collection of poems? Or perhaps both? We need not be overly inquisitive of the motivations of the people involved, but what we need to pay attention to is the fine result that came from this move: it promoted the establishment of the collection’s canonical position. With regard to canon formation, the scrapping of the poems not only related to the poet’s own position, but also to other fascinating issues, such as the aesthetic outlook of the first generation of vernacular poets, trends in the development of New Poetry, and the tension between the theory and practice of vernacular poetry. When interpreting this highly unusual ‘poem scrapping event,’ it is entirely insufficient to rely solely on the preface to the fourth edition of Experiments. The preface represents a one-sided view; it does not tell us if Hu Shi accurately represented others’ opinions, nor if he concealed or distorted anything, neither does it give us any reasons for the cuts and revisions. The fortunate discovery in the Peking University Library of some of Hu Shi’s former belongings, including the manuscript used for 12

Bei she tongren, ‘Xin shi nianxuan – bianyan’ 新诗年选 ·弁言 (Annual Selection of New Poetry – Foreword), in Xin shi nianxuan (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1922).

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editing the collection, as well as letters by the Zhou brothers, has made it possible to start unravelling some of the mysteries. In this chapter, I shall first briefly introduce the newly-discovered sources, before examining each of them from various angles, in an attempt to arrive at a more or less comprehensive overview of how this canonical collection of New Poetry was produced. The edited manuscript of Experiments that was found in the Peking University Library is based on the printed text of the second edition. On the cover there are three lines written in red and black ink. 9, 12, 24, edited in red. 10, 1, 1, two more poems crossed out in ink. Shuyong, Sophia, Yucai,13 Qiming14 suggested cuts.

The numbers indicate the editing dates, i.e. December 24, 1920 (the 9th year of the Republic) and January 1, 1921 (the 10th year of the Republic). The names of Shuyong and the three others are written vertically next to each other and then connected by a big bracket to the rest of the line underneath. Since my book is printed horizontally, I decided to take over one of Hu Shi’s own habits, and add three commas between the names. The other punctuation marks above are all in the original. We can tell from the density of commas and full stops how firmly Hu Shi believed in his ‘experiments’ with the vernacular and with new-style punctuation. All over the contents page there are large and small red and black circles, indicating Hu Shi’s own views, as well as those of Sophia, Shuyong, and the others. Where different people had expressed different verdicts, Hu Shi recorded each individual’s opinion for future reference. For instance, added to the poem title ‘In the Azure Sky’ is the comment: ‘Yucai says scrap; Qiming says consider keeping; Sophia says scrap, Shuyong says consider scrapping.’ At the end of the Table of Contents he recorded the titles of fifteen new poems that were to be included in the fourth edition. The original prefaces to the first edition, by Qian Xuantong and by the author himself, were both crossed out with single strokes of red ink. In the main body of the text, there are various comments in pencil (as explained on the contents page, these are Chen Hengzhe’s notes), as 13 14

[Translator’s note] Yucai 豫才 was a courtesy name of Lu Xun. [Translator’s note] Qiming 启明 was a pen-name of Zhou Zuoren.

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well as some poems that were crossed out in red circles and then later ‘restored.’ These will be discussed in more detail below. There is also a small piece of paper pasted onto the contents page, which records Yu Pingbo’s editorial suggestions, in Hu Shi’s handwriting. I assume that Yu Pingbo passed on his suggestions in speech, without leaving a written record. So although his opinions are clear, they are not ‘properly’ presented. In short, Yu proposed to scrap the poems ‘Beauty from Yu,’ ‘On the River,’ ‘Cold River,’ ‘One Thought,’ ‘Seeing Off Shuyong,’ ‘My Son,’ and ‘In the Azure Sky,’ and to keep the poems ‘Doves,’ ‘Watching Flowers,’ and ‘Demonstration.’ The most exciting discovery, however, was that of two letters, pasted in before the contents page, one signed ‘Shu’ 树 and one signed ‘Zhou Zuoren.’ The first letter is one page only, with letterhead saying ‘Shaoxing Prefecture Middle School Examination Paper’ (Shaoxing fu zhongxuetang shijuan 绍兴府中学堂试卷), and the handwriting is unmistakeably Lu Xun’s. The second letter has two pages and is on common lineated paper; it is currently unclear in 15 whose handwriting it is. 16 The five friends who were invited by Hu Shi to edit his collection all in one way or other left their traces on this manuscript. Others who influenced Hu Shi in the process of editing included Qian Xuantong, who wrote the first preface, Hu Xiansu, who publicly ridiculed the work [see Chapter 2], and the authors of various published reviews. All these have provided possibilities for later examinations and elucidations. It is a thought-provoking fact that the final edition of this ‘foundational work’ of vernacular poetry came about with the help of so many contemporary luminaries. It is also a rare opportunity that, through the discovery of the source used for ‘scrapping the poems,’ we can gain insight into the tastes of the first generation of vernacular poets. So although this may seem a fairly trivial matter, there is still a lot that can be said about it. 15

Cf. the reproductions of letters from Lu Xun and Zhou Zuoren to Hu Shi in Lu Xun yanjiu yuekan, no. 10 (2000), as well as my article in the same issue, entitled ‘Lu Xun wei Hu Shi shan shi xinjian de faxian’ 鲁迅为胡适删诗信件的发现 (Discovery of Lu Xun’s Letter Scrapping Hu Shi’s Poems). 16 Kang Baiqing 康白情 wrote to Hu Shi on his own initiative, therefore was not ‘invited.’ However, Hu Shi took his opinion very seriously and it will be further discussed below.

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Clearly, it was felt by this time that the ‘experiment’ of vernacular poetry had already passed the discussion stage and that the question now was how to help it improve. Therefore the final edition of Experiments no longer included Qian Xuantong’s extremely supportive preface, while Hu Xiansu’s criticism was casually dismissed with a few playful comments. In this chapter, I shall follow the order set by Hu Shi himself: firstly, I shall discuss the opinions of Ren, Chen, Kang, Yu, and the Zhou brothers, all mentioned in the preface to the fourth edition; then, when looking at the adjustments made by Hu himself and at the process of canon formation, I shall come back to the critical articles by Qian Xuantong, Hu Xiansu, and others. Old Friends’ Opinions In prime position at the front of the fourth edition of Experiments is a letter from Hu Shi to Ren Shuyong, dated August 4, 1916. To have an old letter serve as the first preface demonstrates Hu Shi’s perception of ‘historical evolution,’ but it also shows his respect for his old friend. It is understandable, therefore, that Hu Shi would invite his old poetry friends from his U.S. days, Ren Hongjun and Chen Hengzhe, who were husband and wife and with whom he continued to be close after his return to China, to help him ‘scrap poems.’ No complex historical investigation is necessary to get a feel for the unusual intimacy between Hu, Ren, and Chen, since it stands out clearly from the pages of Experiments. Among the poems there are titles such as ‘Hudson Dawn: In Reply to Shuyong,’ ‘Seeing Off Shuyong Returning to Sichuan,’ and ‘About to Leave for Ithaca, Shuyong Gifted Me a Poem, This Is My Response, and My Parting Gift.’ Then there is the poem ‘Literature,’ which bears the subtitle ‘Seeing Off Shuyong, Xingfo, and Jinzhuang,’ the poem ‘Morning Star,’ which bears the subtitle ‘Seeing Off Shuyong and Sophia to Nanjing,’ as well as the poem ‘Us Three Friends,’ which comes with the dedication ‘For Ren Shuyong and Sophia Chen.’ An even more straightforward piece of evidence is the ‘little preface’ to the poem ‘Literature’: ‘Without Shuyong and Xingfo, there would have been

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no Leaving the Country; without Shuyong and Jinzhuang, there 17 would have been no Experiments.’ Even non-specialists are generally familiar with how Ren Hongjun and others spurred Hu Shi on in his experiments with vernacular poetry, because Hu published endless reminiscences and elucidations on the topic, ranging from his August 1919 article ‘Why I Want To 18 Write Vernacular Poetry: Author’s Preface to Experiments,’ to his 1933 article ‘Driven to Revolt: The Beginnings of the Literary 19 20 Revolution,’ and all the way up to his autobiography of the 1950s. It is worth noting that the role played by Ren Hongjun in Hu’s writing of vernacular poetry was not that of ‘comrade,’ but that of ‘opponent.’ During his days at Ithaca, the ridicule and the parodies coming from his poetry friend Ren Shuyong drove Hu Shi to making his solemn pledge to start a Literary Revolution based on three 21 principles, and to write his famous boldly-stated lyric entitled ‘Pledge Poem: To the Tune “Spring in the Garden of Qin”’: The Revolution of Writing cannot be in doubt! I shall raise its banner and be a valiant fighter. I must blot out the past millennia, pave the way for hundreds of generations, dismiss their stench and decay, give me magic and enchantment instead. For the sake of Great China, to create a New Literature, who but us can take on this task? The material for poetry, this brand-new world, is here for me to exert myself. 17

[Translator’s note] Xingfo is Yang Xingfo 杨杏佛 (18931933). Qu guo ji 去 国 集 (Leaving the Country) is the collection of classical-style poems that was published together with Experiments. Jinzhuang 觐庄 is the courtesy name of Mei Guangdi 梅光迪 (18901945), the conservative intellectual who was Hu Shi’s friend in his U.S. days, but later became one of the most vocal critics of the Literary Revolution. 18 Hu Shi, ‘Wei shenme yao zuo baihua shi – Changshi ji zixu’ 为什么要做白话 诗——《尝试集》自序 (Why I Want to Write Vernacular Poetry: Author’s Preface to Experiments), XQN 6, no. 5 (1919). 19 Hu Shi, ‘Driven to Revolt.’ This article has been widely reprinted and has had a profound impact on the historiography of New Literature. [See also Chapter 2.] 20 Cf. Chapter 7 in Hu Shi, Hu Shi’s Oral Autobiography. 21 [Translator’s note] The three principles identified in Hu Shi’s earliest statements about a Literary Revolution are: ‘Writing must have substance,’ ‘pay attention to grammar,’ and ‘only use literary language if you cannot avoid it.’ The first two points found their way into his famous 1917 eight-point manifesto. The third point became more explicit along the way, and was later formulated as ‘Do not avoid vulgar language’—which paved the way for the introduction of the vernacular as the main medium of literary expression.

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Apparently Ren Shuyong’s criticism was also one of the more ‘immediate causes’ for the publication of Experiments. In one of his letters, Hu Shi wrote: ‘Would it not be wonderful if, in a few years from now, one could use both the classical language and the vernacular language to write poetry as one pleases? I am practising writing vernacular verse now and it is very much like opening up new territory for literature. Alas, I am alone on this journey, without 22 the company of a comrade.’ To Hu Shi’s mind, the challenges, rebuke, and ridicule coming from his old friend Ren Hongjun constituted a major force motivating him to carry out ‘experiments with vernacular poetry.’ This adventurous story of the errant-knight on his lonely journey is largely based on Hu Shi’s own accounts. Is it not possible that his version underestimated his friend’s contributions, to make him look better? One look at Ren’s responses makes the situation clear. On October 30, 1919, Ren Hongjun wrote to Hu Shi, saying he had read his ‘Author’s Preface to Experiments,’ published in New Youth, and that he had ‘almost sweated with shame.’ Ren wrote: I was not feeling ashamed of our discussions, but I was ashamed of those old poems, because my poems are not worthy of appearing in public.23

This shows that Ren had no intention to jump on the bandwagon and that he had no regrets whatsoever about his initial opposition to vernacular poetry. In fact, a year earlier, in a letter to Hu Shi, Ren had made fun of the publication of vernacular poetry in New Youth, saying it was only for ease of production: ‘When there are no good poems to publish, all you need to do is stand by the machine and it will instantly spit out some poems.’ He also made it clear that his expression of support for the Literary Revolution, which had delighted Hu Shi, was not meant to include the experiments with vernacular poetry: When I wrote in my previous letter that I ‘greatly supported’ your views on a constructive literary revolution, I meant to support what you said about composition methods and about the translation of

22 23

Hu Shi, ‘Author’s Preface to Experiments.’ Hu Shi, Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 7475.

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famous works of foreign literature. Please do not mistake this to mean that I also approve of vernacular writing.24

Ren’s position on the issue remained firm. This is clear from his dismissive tone in the quote above, as well as from his statement in a letter sent two months later, in which he writes: ‘The vernacular poems (with no form and no rhyme) that you and your friends advocate can definitely not be called poems.’ For Ren Hongjun, who was a scientist and an educator, as well as one of the founders of the China Science Society, literature was not his vocation, and chanting poems was merely a hobby. Later in the 1920s, Ren would still send his old friend Hu Shi poems and lyrics from time to time, but he never tried his hand at those ‘formless and rhymeless’ vernacular poems. The case of Chen Hengzhe, however, is completely different. Hu Shi was always very kindly disposed towards ‘Miss Sophia.’ Without going into further details, we shall treat this here only as a literary 25 friendship. Chen Hengzhe went to study in the U.S. in 1914, returned in 1920, and was appointed Professor of Western History and Professor of English at Peking University. She later became known mainly for her research on the history of the European Renaissance, but her contributions to early New Literature have also received ample attention from literary historians. In the author’s preface to Experiments, we find the following passage: Over the past two years, my Beijing-based friends Shen Yinmo, Liu Bannong, Zhou Yucai, Zhou Qiming, Fu Sinian, Yu Pingbo, and Kang Baiqing, as well as my U.S.-based friend Ms Chen Hengzhe, have all been working hard to create vernacular poetry.

Between 1918 and 1920, while she was far away across the Pacific, Chen Hengzhe published several works of ‘vernacular literature’ in New Youth, including the poems ‘“People Say I’m Crazy,”’ ‘Bird,’ ‘Gipsy Returning from Battle,’ the short play ‘The Old Couple’ [see 24

Ibid., 14. Both Tang Degang’s reading of Hu Shi’s poem ‘Woman Deceased’ and Xia Zhiqing’s 夏志清 (C. T. Hsia) reading of Chen Hengzhe’s short story ‘The Story of Louise’ are very convincing. Despite the blossoming ‘scholar-beauty romance’ between Chen and Hu, they were eventually, as Tang Degang jokingly puts it, ‘destined to be oceans apart.’ Cf. Tang Degang, Hu Shi zayi 胡适杂忆 (Random Memories of Hu Shi) (Taibei: Zhuanji wenxue chubanshe, 1980), 195198. See also C. T. Hsia’s preface to the same book. 25

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Chapter 2], and the short stories ‘Raindrops’ and ‘Bo’er.’ It must have been Hu Shi who acted as a go-between between Chen and New 26 Youth. Hu Shi once stated that Ren Hongjun and his other old friends had all opposed his experiments with writing poetry in the vernacular when he was still in the U.S., and that there had only been one woman who had silently observed and expressed support. That woman was Chen Hengzhe. Most people are familiar with the debates between Hu and Ren, because Hu himself repeatedly described them in great detail in his accounts of the origins of vernacular literature. The third of ‘Us Three Friends,’ Chen Hengzhe, has never been that much in the public eye, but she was in fact also involved in those debates. Hu Shi did not comment on this until 1928, when he wrote the following in his preface to Chen’s short story collection Raindrops: Between July and August 1916, Mei [Guangdi], Ren and I discussed literature most often and most intensely. Sophia was spending the summer in Ithaca at the time, so she was aware of our debates over writing. Although she did not take part in the discussions, she clearly sympathized with my side of the argument. Shortly thereafter, for some work-related reason, I sent her a letter and after that we corresponded regularly. She did not actively involve herself in the later paper battle, but her sympathy for my proposals provided me with no little comfort and encouragement. She was one of my earliest comrades.27

In his last year in the U.S., Hu exchanged four or five letters with Chen, many of which touched upon the topic of writing poetry. This kind of mutual support between fellow enthusiasts must indeed have given Hu Shi comfort and encouragement in the course of his ‘lonesome literary experiments.’ But it is surely an exaggeration to infer from this, as Tang Degang has done, that Chen was the clear ‘inspiration’ for Hu’s writing and to state that ‘therefore Sophia must 26

In Liu Bannong, ed., Chuqi baihua shigao 初期白话诗稿 (Manuscripts of Early Vernacular Poems) (Beiping: Xingyuntang, 1932), there is a reproduction of the pen-written manuscript for Chen Hengzhe’s poem ‘“People Say I’m Crazy.”’ On the manuscript are some additional quotation marks and question marks written in brush. Moreover, the line ‘and they told me to nurse her’ was changed into ‘and they told me to be her nurse.’ If there had only been the added punctuation marks, it would have been impossible to decide who made the corrections, but the handwriting of the additional characters is unmistakeably Hu Shi’s. 27 Hu Shi, ‘Xiao yudian xu’《小雨点》序 (Preface to Raindrops), in Hu Shi wencun san ji (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1930), 10961097.

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be credited for bringing about the New Literature, the New Poetry, 28 and the new written language!’ There is a simple reason why I cannot subscribe to Tang Degang’s ‘bold hypothesis’: Hu Shi had already begun his experiments with New Poetry before he started to correspond with Chen Hengzhe. In fact, we should turn things around: it was not Chen Hengzhe who aroused Hu Shi’s inspiration for writing, but it was the debate between Hu and Ren and Hu’s bold experiments that brought about Sophia’s interest in literature. ‘From 1917 onwards, Sophia also wrote many vernacular poems,’ and quite a few of them were sent to Hu Shi with the request to recommend them to New Youth or to publish them in Nuli zhoubao 努力周报 29 (The Endeavor). Chen Hengzhe was by no means a first-rate poet, but she was extremely well-trained in writing and the ‘few short pieces’ she wrote 30 ‘for amusement’ were not bad at all. In my view, at least, her works of New Poetry are in no way inferior to Hu Shi’s. In Hu Shi’s diary for February 4, 1922, he pasted a copy of Chen Hengzhe’s poem ‘Shizhi’s Third Day Back in Beijing – A Poem as a Present for Him,’ which contrasts nicely with Hu Shi’s earlier ‘Us Three Friends.’ Let us look at the last stanza of both poems, which express similar sentiments of parting and separation. Here is Hu’s stanza: Three years apart, Yet again among mountains and rivers, -And still us three friends. This scenery has no match. This day is unforgettable, -Long may you both live in my New Poem!

Now let us look at Chen’s poem: 28

Tang, Random Memories, 196. Cf. Hu Shi wencun san ji, 10931097 and Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 153, 156, 166, 193. 30 Cf. Chen’s letter to Hu in Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 166. It seems that Hu Shi had an overly high esteem for Chen’s scholarship and talent, resulting in overly high expectations. At one point he greatly lamented the fact that she was unable to teach during pregnancy, referring to the congratulatory couplet that he had composed at Ren and Chen’s wedding: ‘Not producing offspring is a big disgrace, but writing books is the best thing’ (wu hou wei da, zhu shu zui jia 无后为大，著书 最佳). He concluded by writing: ‘This is after all a natural shortcoming and there is no point in regretting it.’ See Hu Shi riji 胡适日记 (Hu Shi’s Diary) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985), vol. 1, 211. 29

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This cannot go on! Only the later reminiscences, Like bright pearls, Will always be in the sea of our hearts, Emitting their beautiful glow.

Neither of these are good poems. Hu’s is far too straightforward, while Chen’s simile is unremarkable, although at least it is unadorned and fitting. Of course we should not expect too much from these early ‘experiments’ with vernacular poetry. Of the two old friends, one always maintained that poems ‘without form and without rhyme’ were not poems, while the other was one of Hu Shi’s ‘earliest comrades’ in the writing of vernacular poetry. To have them both help with the editing of his collection seems like a good idea. The problem is, however, that Hu Shi seems to have given more weight to the opinion of the Zhou brothers, while somewhat neglecting the views of his old friends. A close comparison shows that, interestingly, many of the suggestions by Ren and Chen were not adopted by Hu Shi. Hu Shi cannot entirely be blamed for this, since it is connected to the aim of the fourth revised edition. Was it to leave traces of the past? Or to leave an imprint on the history of poetry? In cases such as ‘In the Azure Sky’ (‘Yucai says scrap; Qiming says consider keeping; Sophia says scrap, Shuyong says consider scrapping.’) it was easy: three against one, so scrap. But upon closer scrutiny, it seems that some of Shuyong and Sophia’s opinions were not based on any appreciation of artistic value, but rather on nostalgic sentiments. Shuyong suggested that ‘Beauty from Yu: Mocking Zhu Jingnong’ could be kept, while Sophia said she wanted to keep ‘Cold River.’ What they liked in those poems was not necessarily their artistic value, but more likely their value as reminders of their shared overseas student days. In the case of ‘Seeing off Shuyong to Sichuan,’ Yu Pingbo suggested scrapping, while the contents page and the main body also show it as having been crossed out, but still there is a note in pencil from Sophia, in English, saying: ‘A good historical record. keep?’ None of these three poems eventually ended up in the new edition. Clearly, Hu Shi’s main reason for revising and republishing Experiments was not to commemorate old friendships, but to provide a specimen (biaoben 标本) for the Literary Revolution.

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Students’ Suggestions In the early 1920s, when the New Poetry movement transitioned from fervent debate to the more challenging task of creation, the new generation of vernacular poets began to have diverging judgments on what New Poetry was and how it should develop. Zhou Zuoren, for example, complained in his ‘On New Poetry’ that ‘the poetry scene nowadays can be said to be extremely depressed.’ The older poets had become quiet and the new ones were not necessarily all that promising. ‘We all worked very hard to cultivate a new field for poetry, but halfway through we left it barren, and now a bunch of 31 idlers are using it to herd cows.’ Hu Shi, on the other hand, loudly applauded the vigorous advances of vernacular poetry and especially the rapid growth of the young poets in his prefaces to the first, second, and fourth edition of Experiments: ‘When I read the New Poems by these young poets, I am like that woman who unbound her feet watching a bunch of girls with natural feet jumping up and down. I 32 am filled with envy.’ Although their appraisals were entirely different, Zhou and Hu both predicted the future development of New Poetry by referring to the younger poets. For Zhou Zuoren poetry was never his main area of interest. Not only did he express disappointment at its current state, he also gradually closed his ‘literature shop’ and began to manage his ‘own garden,’ eventually winning over his readers with his unique variety of prose essays. Hu Shi always claimed that he was ‘intent on promotion, but powerless at creation.’ But who exactly were those young poets that filled him with envy? And how did that new generation of poets, who had not been restricted by ‘bound feet,’ look at the ‘unbound feet’ of the collection Experiments? That is an interesting question. In 1935, when Hu Shi edited the volume on foundational theory for the Compendium, he included in the section on New Poetry theory, apart from his own articles, ‘Correspondence About Poetry’ by Guo Moruo, ‘My View of Poetry’ by Kang Baiqing, and ‘Society’s Various Attitudes Towards New Poetry’ by Yu Pingbo. 31

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Tan xin shi’ 谈新诗 (On New Poetry), in Tan hu ji (Shanghai: Beixin shuju, 1928). 32 Hu Shi, ‘Preface to the Fourth Edition.’

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(He also included ‘The Future of Poetry’ by Zhou Wu 周 无 (18951968). Also known as Zhou Taixuan 周太玄, Zhou Wu’s main field was biology. He later became a famous scientist and educator, but he did not acquire fame as a poet, so he is not included in the discussion below.) These choices correspond with the first four published individual collections of New Poetry: Experiments (March 1920), Goddesses by Guo Moruo (August 1921), Grass by Kang Baiqing (March 1922), and Winter Night by Yu Pingbo (March 1922). Clearly, Hu’s selection was based both on historical and aesthetic verdicts. Although the later historiography of New Literature has praised Guo Moruo’s Goddesses to the skies and ranked it far higher than Kang Baiqing’s Grass and Yu Pingbo’s Winter Night, the collection initially did not meet with much approval from the ‘head’ of New Poetry, Hu Shi. Nevertheless, Guo Moruo’s poetry appeared very much in agreement with Hu Shi’s perception of the work of the younger generation, as it was ‘bravely liberated’ and had a ‘fresh flavour.’ He could therefore not entirely overlook the rising reputation of this particular colleague. In his diary for August 9, 1921, Hu recorded his impression of a meeting with Guo Moruo: Moruo studied medicine in Kyūshū in Japan, but he has a strong interest in literature. His New Poems display a lot of talent, but his thinking is not very clear and he is lacking in skill.33

In terms of artistic style there is a world of difference between the wildly emotional poems in Goddesses and the crisp and unadorned works in Experiments. Moreover, for Hu Shi, who strongly believed in his pragmatism, the pantheism expounded by Guo Moruo would at the very least have required ‘a bit more evidence.’ It is entirely natural that, when it came to literary tastes, Hu and Guo were not capable of mutual appreciation. When Hu Shi later in life suddenly 34 declared to have ‘liked Guo Moruo’s early work,’ he either had a different motive or he had adjusted his views in hindsight. 33

Hu Shi’s Diary, vol. 1, 180. Tang Degang (Random Memories, 81) writes: ‘Hu Shi often told me: “Guo Moruo’s early work is really good!” He also told me a story. Once during a banquet he said a few nice things about Guo Moruo. Guo, who was at another table, overheard this, walked over, and gave Hu a kiss on the cheek to express his gratitude.’ This incident is also recorded in Hu Shi’s diary: ‘That night Moruo, Zhimo, and Tian Han were all drunk. I mentioned that I had once wanted to write a 34

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The poets that ‘filled’ Hu Shi ‘with envy’ must have been Kang Baiqing and Yu Pingbo. Among the friends who ‘have been working hard to create vernacular poetry’ referred to in the author’s preface to Experiments, Fu Sinian, Yu Pingbo, and Kang Baiqing belonged to the student generation. Fu quickly changed direction to academic research and discontinued his poetic experiments. Only Yu and Kang can truly be counted as representatives of early vernacular poets. In Hu Shi’s Second Collection of Writings, there is an article entitled ‘A Review of New Poetry Collections.’ The article consists of two reviews, one of Grass and one of Winter Night. The reviews contain scarcely veiled praise of Kang and censure of Yu. That being the case, when Hu spoke of young poets who made him ‘happy on the one hand, and embarrassed on the other,’ he must have been referring to Kang Baiqing. There can hardly be any doubt about that. In the evening of the same day that he wrote the author’s preface to the fourth edition of Experiments (March 10, 1922), Hu Shi jotted down the following emotionally charged lines in his diary: Kang Baiqing’s collection Grass has come out. New Poetry of late has really made great progress. I feel embarrassment as well as joy. Baiqing’s poems are full of creative force and full of fresh flavour, really very endearing. Grass also contains an appendix with his old poems. Hardly any of them are any good. This shows how important the great liberation of poetic form has been.35

In his review, written half a year later, Hu Shi develops these ideas most thoroughly. It seems that Hu really liked Kang’s poetry a lot, as he cast aside his usual stability and restraint and came up with quite a few overstatements. He wrote, for instance, that ‘the greatest contributions of Baiqing’s Grass to the history of Chinese literature are its travel poems’ and ‘the thirty-seven poems entitled “Travel to review of Goddesses and that I had spent five days reading it. Moruo was so delighted that he hugged me and kissed me.’ Cf. Hu Shi de riji (shougao ben) 胡适 的日记（手稿本） (Hu Shi’s Diary [Manuscript Edition]) (Taibei: Yuanliu chuban gongsi, 1990). There are many errors and omissions in Hu’s description of the same event in Hu Songping 胡颂苹, ed., Hu Shizhi xiansheng wannian tanhua lu 胡适之 先生晚年谈话录 (A Record of Conversations with Hu Shizhi in His Later Life) (Beijing: Zhongguo youyi chuban gongsi, 1993), 72. This is either because it was much longer ago by then, or because there he was overly emphasizing his opinion that ‘Guo Moruo was very good at constantly changing his position. I never admired him for that.’ 35 Hu Shi’s Diary, vol. 1, 282.

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Lushan,” which occupy eighty-four pages in Grass, are evidently 36 major works in the history of Chinese poetry.’ What Hu Shi appreciated most about Kang Baiqing’s poetry was his ‘free expression of things in his heart,’ as well as the freshness and liveliness of his language. That is all very much in line with what Hu Shi imagined to be the way forward for New Poetry. According to Kang Baiqing’s own account, however, he ‘merely presented some 37 clippings of the times, expressing my individual impulses.’ What is meant with ‘impulses’ (chongdong 冲动) here are instant emotions and realizations, rather than the ‘clarity of thinking’ admired by Hu Shi. Kang’s opinion was that ‘poetry is literature of emotion’ and that ‘if there is no emotion, no poetry can be made; and if the emotions 38 are not rich, the poetry will not be good.’ This is miles apart from Hu Shi’s poetic ideals of transparency and clarity. It is, however, akin to Guo Moruo’s famous ‘formula’ for poetry: POETRY = (INTUITION x MOOD x IMAGINATION) x (APPROPRIATE WORDS)39

What is even more interesting is that Kang cites a passage from ‘my esteemed friend Zong Baihua 宗白华 (18971986),’ in which Zong emphasizes that the sentiment and scenery of poetry benefit from direct observations, realizations, and emotional responses; whereas Guo’s formula appears in a letter written to Zong Baihua. Kang Baiqing was already studying in the U.S. by this time and Hu Shi made highly appreciative mention of the fact that he ‘sent me a letter from thirty thousand miles away, just to add the particle le 了 to one of my lines, to make it conform with vernacular grammar.’ He then seized on this topic to proclaim: ‘If people who write in the vernacular do not pay attention to such seemingly minute but really very important areas, then they are not fit to write vernacular, let alone write vernacular poetry.’ Ironically, however, it is the 36

Hu Shi, ‘Ping xin shi ji – Kang Baiqing de Cao’er’ 评新诗集·康白情的《草 儿》(A Review of New Poetry Collections – Kang Baiqing’s Grass), in Hu Shi wencun er ji (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1924), vol. 4, 274, 277. 37 Kang Baiqing, author’s preface to Cao’er 草儿 (Grass) (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1922). 38 Kang Baiqing, ‘Xin shi de wo jian’ 新诗底我见 (My View on New Poetry), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi – jianshe lilun ji, 329. 39 Guo Moruo, ‘Lun shi tongxin’ 论诗通信 (Correspondence about Poetry), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi – jianshe lilun ji, 348.

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ubiquitous presence of the particle le in Hu Shi’s own poems that has most often been ridiculed by later poets and historians. Zhu Xiang 朱 湘 (19041933) once wrote that there are only seventeen real poems in Experiments, but that ‘the particle le is used thirty-three times as an end rhyme in those seventeen poems (in one place there are even three lines ending in le forming a single stanza).’ For a poet like Zhu Xiang, who was very meticulous about prosody, such over-repetition of the ‘ugly sounding’ le sound was ‘enough to create the feeling that 40 the author is lacking in artistic powers.’ Nearly half a century later, the historian Zhou Cezong 周策纵 (Chow Tse-tsung) raised the issue again in his article ‘On Hu Shi’s Poetry,’ saying of Hu Shi’s poetry: ‘Its greatest defect, or malady, is that it has too many lines ending with le as rhyme.’ Zhou even bothered to produce serious statistics based on Experiments, as well as Later Experiments and Manuscripts of Poems Not Collected in Later Experiments: ‘There are all in all sixty-eight new-style poems. (I disregarded the old-style poems.) There are one hundred and one lines ending in le, an average of almost two lines per poem, that really is too much le (bu wei bu duo 41 ‘le’ 不为不多‘了’).’ As an advocate of vernacular poetry, Hu Shi’s view was that the vernacular should come first and poetry second. It is likely that Hu Shi felt that doing away with prosody, imagery, and imagination in order to highlight the vernacular grammar was a ‘necessary loss.’ Therefore, I prefer to understand Hu Shi’s more unwarranted pursuits not from the angle of ‘poverty of talent’ but from the perspective of his ‘persistent temperament.’ Hu’s appreciation for Kang Baiqing sending him a letter from thirty thousand miles away ‘to add a particle le to one of my lines’ and his lack of enthusiasm for Yu Pingbo’s depth and conciseness are two sides of the same coin. Five days after finishing the author’s preface to the fourth edition of Experiments, Hu Shi read Yu Pingbo’s newly published collection Winter Night and wrote the following passage in his diary: Yu Pingbo’s collection Winter Night has come out. Pingbo’s poems are not as good as Baiqing’s. But they benefit in many places from the influence of old poems and lyrics. His poems are not easy to 40

Zhu Xiang, ‘Xin shi ping (yi) – Changshi ji’ 新诗评 （一）·《尝试集》 (Reviews of New Poetry [1] – Experiments), Chen bao fukan, April 1, 1926. 41 Zhou Cezong, ‘Lun Hu Shi de shi’ 论胡适的诗 (On Hu Shi’s Poetry), see the Appendix to Random Memories, by Tang Degang, 232, 235.

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understand, perhaps because they are too polished (zhuolian 琢炼) or perhaps because we are incapable of finely savouring them.42

Hu Shi was not alone in his view that Yu Pingbo’s poetry was ‘not easy to understand.’ Even before his collection was published, his work had been criticized along those lines, forcing Zhu Ziqing to provide an explanation in his preface: Some people have said that Pingbo’s poems are difficult and hard to understand; some have said they are mysterious. I have never had that feeling. […] Perhaps other people have felt this way because his poetic style is quite terse, and his expression quite economical and flexible, so that at first glance they appear difficult to interpret. If that is the case, then ‘difficult and hard to understand’ is all you can say. But are Pingpo’s poems really ‘difficult and hard to understand?’ In my experience they are crystal-clear, as long as one ponders and mulls over them. The author’s ‘difficulty’ may well result from the reader’s negligence.43

The last sentence irked Hu Shi so much that he quoted and 44 challenged it especially in his later review. From the entry in his diary, where he criticizes Yu’s poetry for being too ‘polished’ but at the same time leaves a caveat (‘perhaps because we are incapable of finely savouring them’), we can see that he was careful in formulating his positions. In comparison, when Hu Shi commented on Yu Pingbo’s efforts to create ‘popularized (minzhonghua 民众化) poetry,’ he pointed out the huge discrepancy between the theory (which was directly descended from his own) and the resulting practice: ‘Pingbo has some good poems,’ but of all the new poets he 45 is ‘the least capable of popularization.’ The ornate qualities of Yu Pingbo’s poetry are instantly visible and they indeed have little in common with the ‘common people’s style’ (pingmin fengge 平民风 格) that was promoted during the ‘May Fourth’ period. According to Kang Baiqing, this was not only 42

Hu Shi’s Diary, vol. 1, 287. Zhu Ziqing, preface to Dong ye 冬夜 (Winter Night), by Yu Pingbo (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1922). 44 Hu Shi, ‘Ping xin shi ji – Yu Pingbo de Dong ye’ 评新诗集·俞平伯的《冬 夜》(A Review of New Poetry Collections – Yu Pingbo’s Winter Night), Hu Shi wencun er ji, vol. 4, 282283. 45 Cf. Yu Pingbo, ‘Shi de jinhua de huanyuan lun’ 诗底进化的还原论 (The Evolutionary Restoration of Poetry), Shi 1, no. 1(1922); Yu Pingbo, author’s preface to Winter Night; Hu Shi, ‘Yu Pingbo’s Winter Night.’ 43

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linked to the benefit Yu received from his training in classical poetry, but also to his inborn ‘poet-hood’ (shirenxing 诗人性): Yu Pingbo’s poems are ornate and intricate, most likely indebted to the song lyric genre. His lines are dripping with his inborn poet-hood. One who writes poems fears the most the lack of poetic flavour. There is much wisdom in the saying ‘if it’s clay and mud, it must smell like clay and taste like mud.’ That is why the ancients said: ‘One who is not a poet must not write poems.’ Someone like Pingbo would be incapable of not writing poetry, even if he tried.46

In terms of poetic disposition, Yu Pingbo was the one young poet experimenting with vernacular poetry who had been most deeply effected by ‘ancient literary customs’ and who lacked ‘common people’s style.’ Hu Shi’s critique was a rude awakening for Yu Pingbo. From then on he followed his own temperament and no longer forced himself to ‘popularize’ poetry. In the author’s preface to Winter Night, Yu Pingbo still engages in earnest self-criticism: ‘I propose to strive towards creating popularized poetry, yet in reality when I write poems, I still cannot help being tainted by the old habits of the elite. This makes me 47 embarrassed and anxious.’ However, when Hu Shi’s review of Winter Night was published, Yu Pingbo instantly decided to start making adjustments to his thinking. Firstly, he used his preface to Kang Baiqing’s Grass to state that in the early phase of New Poetry, the term ‘of the common people’ (pingmin de 平民的) had often been mistaken to mean ‘vulgar’ (tongsu de 通俗的), and that this was wrong. Secondly, he inserted his ‘Letter to Wang Yuanfang’ in lieu of a preface to the second edition of Winter Night, in which he emphasizes that ‘terms such as common and elite have long since lost their significance for me and I certainly do not want to raise those 48 annoying and ridiculous debates in this short letter.’ When faced with a discrepancy between his tastes and his slogans, Yu remained 46

This comment about Yu Pingbo, by a certain Yu’an 愚庵, appears in the Annual Selection of New Poetry. Both Hu Shi and Zhu Ziqing deduced that it must have been written by Kang Baiqing. Cf. Hu Shi, ‘A Review of New Poetry Collections’ and Zhu Ziqing, ‘Shihua’ 诗话 (Poetry Talk), in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi – shi ji (Shanghai: Liangyou tushu gongsi, 1935). 47 Yu Pingbo, author’s preface to Winter Night. 48 Yu Pingbo, preface to Grass, by Kang Baiqing; Yu Pingbo, ‘Zhi Wang jun Yuanfang shu (dai xu)’ 致汪君原放书（代序） (Letter to Wang Yuanfang (In Lieu of a Preface), in Winter Night, second edition (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1923).

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faithful to his own literary sensitivity and discarded his previous radical proposals. Another further statement in the same letter was clearly aimed at Hu Shi’s criticism: ‘Writing poetry is not about looking for people’s understanding, nor is it about avoiding people’s understanding. If they can understand, it is of course gratifying. If 49 they cannot understand, there is nothing the author can do about it.’ And the passage below sounds even more determined: It is far from good to create an atmosphere of vagueness and blurriness, but those things are not necessarily synonymous with restraint and indirectness. Even in prose writing, it is a flaw if everything can be taken in at a single glance, let alone in poetry.50

From then on, both in his prose writing and in his poetry composition, Yu Pingbo no longer departed from this direction. ‘Depth and circumspection,’ rather than ‘instant transparency,’ continued to be the guiding principles of his writing style. The reason why Yu Pingbo’s poems stand out among early vernacular poetry as refined, profound, and possessing an ‘intangible charm’ has to do with his attention to prosody. Zhu Ziqing wrote: ‘Pingbo’s prosodic craft most likely comes from the old poems and lyrics. […] Nowadays we want to establish prosodies for New Poetry, which obviously means having to consult foreign poems, but also, more importantly, not discarding the old [poetic genres of] shi 诗 51 (verse), ci 词 (song lyrics), and qu 曲 (dramatic lyrics).’ Wen Yiduo largely agreed with Zhu’s views in his ‘Review of Winter Night.’ Although he critiqued Yu’s poems for their ‘shallowness and vulgarity of imagination,’ he admitted that ‘its cadences (yinjie 音节) are characterized by conciseness, intricacy, and subtlety’ and added that ‘in this respect, no other contemporary author can compare to Yu, and herein lies Yu’s contribution to New Poetry.’ He further asserted 52 that ‘this craft was transformed out of the old shi, ci, and qu.’ This 49

Yu Pingbo, ‘Letter to Wang Yuanfang.’ Yu Pingbo, preface to Grass. 51 Zhu Ziqing, preface to Winter Night. 52 Wen Yiduo, ‘Dong ye pinglun’ 《冬夜》评论 (Review of Winter Night), in Yu Pingbo yanjiu ziliao, ed. Sun Yurong (Tianjin: Tianjin renmin chubanshe, 1986), 213249. Wen Yiduo also made a comparison between Hu Shi’s and Yu Pingbo’s views of the cadences of New Poetry. He criticized Hu Shi for writing in the preface to the second edition of Experiments that he was satisfied with the cadences of his purely ‘free’ verse. Wen wrote: ‘Hu’s so-called “natural cadences” are predomi50

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is where the problem lay: the marks of classical poetry in Yu’s work are extremely obvious. For Hu Shi, who was enthusiastically advocating vernacular poetry, this was undoubtedly a major shortcoming. Yu himself was in fact not unaware of all this. In his ‘Some Experiences of Writing Poetry’ he rejoiced in being around at a crucial time of poetic change: ‘It allows me to cast off all restrictions, to give bare expression to the poetic “I.”’ But he followed this up with an admission: ‘It is likely that the style of the old poetry is still present in my work. It reveals itself unconsciously. I admit my 53 powerlessness in this respect.’ Furthermore, in ‘Society’s Various Attitudes towards New Poetry’ Yu Pingbo formulated four principles for writing New Poetry, the most crucial one being ‘restrict the use of the classical language,’ meaning to distance oneself as much as possible from the old poetry. Yu, who excelled at writing classical verse, ‘time and again experienced the hardship of writing in the modern vernacular.’ He complained: ‘Those who say that writing vernacular poetry is easy are outsiders who never tried their hand at it. My experience is that the greatest difficulty of vernacular poetry is its 54 freedom.’ It should be said that Yu Pingbo’s early views on vernacular poetry rarely go beyond the range of Hu Shi’s discourse. Yu merely added confirmation on the basis of his own creative practice. Although, right from the start, the poetic tastes of Hu and Yu were not very similar, there are many similarities in the way the professor and his student experienced the difficulties, the advantages and disadvantages, and the gains and losses of vernacular poetry. For instance, in his article ‘The Three Important Conditions for Vernacular Poetry,’ Yu defines poetry as ‘texts that express a sense nantly prose cadences. Prose cadences are naturally less perfected than poetry cadences. That Yu can blend the cadences of ci and qu into his poetry is completely in line with artistic principles, and completely natural. If you use Chinese words, and you write poetry, and moreover you are intent on writing good poetry, poetry with sounds that resonate, how could you not obtain such an effect? If we completely refuse to accept cadences that are reminiscent of ci and qu as beautiful, then there are only two ways to go: either to settle for writing bad poetry, i.e., poetry without cadence, or writing poetry in a foreign language.’ 53 Yu Pingbo, ‘Zuo shi de yidian jingyan’ 做诗的一点经验 (Some Experiences of Writing Poetry), XQN 8, no. 4 (1920). 54 Yu Pingbo, ‘Shehui shang duiyu xin shi de gezhong xinli guan’ 社会上对于新 诗的各种心理观 (Society’s Various Attitudes towards New Poetry), Xinchao 2, no. 1 (1919).

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of beauty,’ adding that ‘when writing poetry in the vernacular and expressing the beauty of human life, there is admittedly no need for ornamentation, but it is still not the same as opening your mouth and 55 just talking.’ When this article appeared in Volume 6, No. 3 of New Youth, Hu Shi had added an editor’s comment, expressing total agreement with Yu’s three proposals and especially endorsing his motto ‘ornamentation is stale, polishing is fresh’ (diaozhuo shi chenfu de, xiushi shi xinxian de 雕琢是陈腐的，修饰是新鲜的). Since the professor and the student knew each other quite well, Hu Shi’s criticism also contains a measure of introspection. Whether or not vernacular poetry needed to be ‘difficult and hard to understand’ was ultimately a matter of individual taste. That New Poetry ought to be concrete and not wallow in philosophical statements was a difficulty that Hu himself was facing as well. He found Yu’s poetry ‘full of significance’ and ‘good at descriptions’ but he found Yu’s predilection for reasoning unacceptable: Pingbo is best at descriptions, but he insists on reasoning. He is capable of writing good poems, but because he also wants to be a philosopher, his words become vaguer and vaguer, so that in the end his good poetry is covered up by his reasoning.

Immediately following this quote, Hu Shi added a sentence saying: ‘This is by no means intended as ridicule. This is what I have learned 56 from a close reading of Pingbo’s poetry.’ In my view, this is not just politeness. In his article ‘On New Poetry,’ Hu ‘blew his own trumpet’ when he explained how to ‘use a concrete writing method 57 for abstract topics’ when writing poetry. Moreover when Lu Xun proposed scrapping the poem ‘Propriety!’ he defended it by saying ‘[although] it makes an argument, it does not descend into abstract 58 reasoning.’ All this demonstrates Hu’s resistance against the serious danger that abstract reasoning posed to vernacular New Poetry. The predilection for reasoning found in the poetry of the ‘New Youth’ of ‘May Fourth’ should not solely be attributed to the influence of Tagore’s philosophical poetry. Instead, we should accept the urgency 55

Yu Pingbo, ‘Baihua shi de san da tiaojian’ 白话诗的三大条件 (The Three Important Conditions for Vernacular Poetry), XQN 6, no. 3 (1919). 56 Hu Shi, ‘Yu Pingbo’s Winter Night,’ 288. 57 Hu Shi, ‘Tan xin shi’ 谈新诗 (On New Poetry), in Hu Shi wencun, vol. 1, 254. 58 See my ‘Discovery of Lu Xun’s Letter.’

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for questioning the meaning of life and reformulating value concepts during this period of huge transformations. When Yu Pingbo was invited by his professor to help him scrap poems, he only left a list of titles to be scrapped, without any further explanation. Yet with some scrutiny we can still find some clues in there. His suggestion that ‘On the River’ be scrapped showed the same opinion as Lu Xun; his proposal to keep ‘Doves’ was identical to Zhou Zuoren’s view. The former proposal was not accepted because of the author’s personal preference: ‘This made such a deep 59 impression on me at the time, that I can’t bring myself to scrap it.’ ‘Doves’ had already been crossed out in red by the author himself but was kept purely as a result of the strong preference expressed by Zhou and Yu. Two years earlier, in his article ‘On New Poetry,’ Hu has criticized himself, saying: ‘Among my own new poems, many are based on ci tunes. There is no point denying that.’ Among the 60 examples he gave was the poem ‘Doves.’ Zhou and Yu were well aware of this, but they did not dislike ‘Doves’ just because it carried a ci tune. Clearly, their aims and expectations for New Poetry were vastly divergent from those of Hu Shi. This brings us to the dividing line between New Poetry and old poetry and to the question whether or not it was possible to use classical language in vernacular poetry and draw inspiration from ci and qu. These issues were genuinely addressed not by the student Yu Pingbo, but by the theoretically more self-conscious Zhou Zuoren. The Zhou Brothers’ Views The couple Ren and Chen were old friends from the U.S., with whom Hu continued to be close after his return to China. Yu and Kang were his students at Peking University. The Zhou brothers were friends and colleagues in the New Culture Movement. For Hu to invite these people to join in the editing of his collection, so that he would have three separate, interlinked perspectives, betrays careful planning. The six people, divided into three groups, all had their own focus and their own contribution to make. Yet relatively speaking, there is no doubt that Hu Shi valued the Zhou brothers’ opinions most of all. 59 60

Hu Shi, author’s preface to the fourth revised edition of Experiments. Hu Shi, ‘On New Poetry,’ 236.

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The Zhou brothers, moreover, lived up to the expectations and provided extremely detailed and highly appropriate suggestions. Before going into any analysis, let us first turn to the newly discovered letters from the Zhou brothers to Hu Shi. The full text of Lu Xun’s letter, dated January 15, 1921, is as follows: January 15, evening, Dear Shizhi, I received your letter today. I have had a look at Experiments. These are my suggestions: ‘On the River’ should be scrapped. ‘My Son’ should be scrapped in its entirety. ‘Anniversary’ should be scrapped. It is just a kind of ‘birthday poem’ (shou shi 寿诗) ‘In the Azure Sky’ should be scrapped. ‘Exception’ can be left out. ‘Propriety!’ should be scrapped. It is better to keep ‘Disappointment’ than to keep ‘Propriety!’ Those are my suggestions. Qiming is ill. The doctor says it is pleurisy and does not want him to move about. He told me: ‘Leaving the Country is a collection of oldstyle poems, it can be left out as well.’ But I had a close look at it and I think there are quite a few good poems in it, so you might as well append it. I do not know if Qiming is going to ask anyone to take down a letter to you, or if that was all he had to say. I decided to send you mine first. Among your recent work, I think ‘Night of November 24th’ is really good. Shu

Three days later (January 18, 1921) Zhou Zuoren, from his sickbed, eventually arranged for someone to take down a letter and send it to Hu Shi, which demonstrates how much importance he attached to the matter of ‘the scrapping of the poems.’ The full text of the letter is as follows:

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January 18, Dear Shizhi, I received your letter and the manuscript of the poems. Since I am ill, I cannot read it closely, so I do not have any particular opinion to express. At first I thought that this collection would be purely vernacular poetry. It seems unnecessary to append Leaving the Country. But Yucai thinks that Leaving the Country might very well be kept, so there is no need to scrap it. I think the two poems describing sceneries, ‘Doves’ and ‘In the Azure Sky’ should both be left in. I do not think it is appropriate for poetry to engage solely in reasoning, so poems like ‘My Son’ might well be scrapped. I also have some ideas about the presentation, which I think should be given some consideration for this edition. The main text should be in number five font size; the pages should have standard layout, rather than be split in two rows. The shape of the book does not need to be a vertical rectangle. A square shape or a horizontal rectangle is also quite possible. Your recent work is very good. I especially like your two latest poems. Zhou Zuoren

Before going into the actual discussion, it is worth noting Zhou Zuoren’s proposals regarding the ‘shape’ of the book. The change to square or horizontal rectangular shape was not adopted, either because it was deemed not serious enough or because of production difficulties. The change in the page layout, however, removing the division into two horizontal rows of text, was put into practice. Why would Zhou Zuoren, from his sickbed, make a point of reminding Hu to ‘give some consideration’ to the presentation? Perhaps he sensed that this would become the ‘standard edition,’ or that it would be passed down as a ‘canonical work?’ Later events would certainly confirm Zhou Zuoren’s foresight: the ‘fourth revised edition,’ coedited by so many contemporary luminaries, was used for all editions up to the sixteenth edition of 1940, as well as for the 1982 reprint by the Shanghai shudian 上海书店, and is the edition commonly cited by scholars.

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As mentioned, Hu Shi valued the Zhou brothers’ opinions extremely highly. In Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence, we find a letter from Hu Shi to Zhou Zuoren, dated February 14, 1921, in which he passes on an invitation from Yanjing University, and then adds the following postscript: I completely agree with the selections and deletions that both of you suggested for my poems. Only the poem ‘Propriety!,’ which I feel makes an argument but does not descend into abstract reasoning, while its language is relatively clean, might be considered good enough to leave in. With all other deletions I followed your suggestions.61

In fact, Hu Shi not only disregarded Lu Xun’s opinion about ‘Propriety!’ but also his opinion about ‘On the River.’ In his author’s preface to the fourth revised edition, Hu gives the following explanation: After all of them had looked at it, I had a few more close looks at it myself, scrapped a few more poems and kept a couple that they had suggested to delete. For instance, in the case of ‘On the River,’ ‘Lu Xun’ and Pingbo both suggested scrapping it, but this made such a deep impression on me at the time, that I can’t bring myself to scrap it. As for the poem ‘Propriety!’ (which does not appear in the first two editions), ‘Lu Xun’ suggested scrapping, but I left it in because this poem does make an argument but it does not do so in an abstract manner.62

Poets are of course entitled to reserve their own independent judgment. The suggestions by the Zhou brothers and others were merely ‘for reference.’ That this particular poet saw the need to explain over and over again in his letters and prefaces why he did not follow Lu Xun’s suggestions is evidence of the extraordinarily high regard that he had for him. During the ‘May Fourth’ period, the Zhou brothers and Hu Shi were mutually supportive colleagues, but it cannot be said that they were bosom friends. Their intellectual background was different (in Chinese academic circles in the 1920s and 1930s there was something of a rift between those who had studied in Europe or the U.S. and those who had studied in Japan); their individual temperaments were hugely different (the Zhou brothers were inclined 61 62

Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 124. Hu Shi, author’s preface to the fourth edition of Experiments.

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towards scepticism, whereas Hu Shi was an incorrigible optimist); there was a considerable age difference (in 1921, Hu Shi had only just turned thirty and was already widely known, whereas Lu Xun, who was forty, and Zhou Zuoren, who was thirty-six, were much less popular). It was unlikely for Hu and the Zhou brothers to be intimately close. This has nothing to do with the various major and minor quibbles about the direction of New Youth or about which ‘ism’ was most suitable for China at the time. Scholars generally agree that the relationship between Hu Shi and the Zhou brothers changed over time. The problem is that when describing the ‘collaborations’ in the early period and the ‘contradictions’ in the later period, scholars tend to revert to exaggeration to support their arguments. At the time of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture movement, the Zhou brothers and Hu Shi certainly collaborated in some remarkable projects: the editing of New Youth; the reform of the Peking University curriculum; the promotion of New Literature; the study of the history of the novel; and the experiments with vernacular poetry. For Hu Shi, who was sociable, generous, and easy-going, the Zhou brothers were of course wonderful, like-minded friends. The Zhou brothers, however, did not necessarily share that view. In their letters to him they were very polite and they supported him in their shared areas of interest, but this was not ‘friendship’ in the real sense of the word. On August 30, 1929, Zhou Zuoren sent a letter to Hu Shi, who was living in Shanghai at the time, urging him not to fall in love with the ‘conveniences and luxuries’ of the place, to ‘mind his words so as not to stir up any trouble’ and to return to desolate Beiping to ‘teach and write books,’ so as to ‘produce something fruitful amidst the cold and the loneliness.’ In the letter Zhou confessed to having had some concerns: ‘I sensed some hesitation, fearing that you might feel that I was being more intimate than appropriate for our acquaintance 63 [jiaoqianyanshen 交浅言深].’ When Hu Shi received the letter he was very moved by it, but the last line stunned him: When you mentioned ‘being more intimate than appropriate’ it stirred up some emotions. Throughout my life I have had nothing but the most sincere respect and affection for you and your brother. Despite the distances and the changes we have all been through, these feelings 63

Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 539.

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have never changed in the slightest. Absence only makes the heart grow fonder. The earnest affection expressed in your letter is completely in line with how I always hope for it to be. Yet at the height of my happiness, I was made to feel grieved. I trust you can tell that these are my true feelings.64

In fact, the lack of ‘intimacy’ between the Zhou brothers and Hu Shi was not the result of any recent ‘distances and changes.’ For Hu, who rose to fame at a young age and had friends all over the world, it was difficult to be aware of this. I believe that the ‘earnest affection’ for the brothers that Hu expresses in his letter was sincere; yet conversely, the Zhou brothers could not be expected to harbour the same sense of ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ They each had their own individual sets of principles of how to live their lives and how to conduct themselves in society; there is no need to value one over the other. In the 1930s, the political positions of Lu Xun and Hu Shi became gradually more opposed and Lu frequently satirized Hu in his essays. Even so, according to information provided by [Hu Shi’s son] Hu Sidu 胡思杜 (19211957) to Luo Ergang 罗尔纲 (19011997), when Lu Xun returned to Beiping in November 1932 because his mother was ill, he ‘visited Hu Shi’s home and, as he walked into the study, 65 he jokingly commented: “I’ve made a comeback!”’ These facts are not recorded in Lu Xun’s diary and they are widely at odds with the 66 master narrative of Lu Xun studies. Yet judging by Hu Sidu’s 64

Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 542. Cf. Luo Ergang, Shimen wu nian ji: Hu Shi suoji 师门五年记·胡适琐记 (Five Years at the Master’s Gates: Trivial Notes on Hu Shi), enlarged edition (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1998), 144. 66 In Lu Xun bowuguan 鲁迅博物馆 (Lu Xun Museum) and Lu Xun yanjiushi 鲁 迅研究室 (Lu Xun Research Office), eds., Lu Xun nianpu 鲁迅年谱 (Chronological Biography of Lu Xun), revised and enlarged edition (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 2000), vol. 3, Lu Xun’s return to the North is narrated as follows: ‘Leftwing cultural circles and young students were tremendously encouraged, but the reactionary clique viewed his arrival with great enmity and the comprador-literati (maiban wenren 买办文人) took the opportunity to attack Lu Xun, saying he was “staging a comeback” (juantuchonglai 卷土重来)’ (351); ‘In a conversation with visitors, Lu Xun humorously commented: “After I arrived, quite a few people have taken a swipe at me. They say I am here to rob them of their livelihood, that I am staging a comeback. I really don’t want those people to get worried, so I’ll make sure to stage a goback (juantuchongqu 卷土重去) very soon.” This was a dig at people like Hu Shi.’ (355) 65

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worship of Lu Xun and Luo Ergang’s scholarly rigour, it is not very likely that this historical fact was fabricated. After Lu Xun passed away, Su Xuelin 苏雪林 (18971999) wrote a letter to Hu Shi, who had been ridiculed by Lu Xun so often, announcing that she had decided to ‘challenge the Lu Xun camp.’ She expressed the hope that Hu Shi would support her broad attack on Lu Xun, whom she considered ‘a wretched lowlife the likes of which cannot be found in any of the twenty-five histories, nor the biographies of scholars.’ In his reply, however, Hu Shi praised Lu Xun’s achievements: When we discuss a person, we must be fair. To love a person but know his vices, or to despise a person but know his beauty, that is what is fair. Lu Xun had his strong points. His early literary works and his early research in the history of fiction are all first-rate achievements. When Tongbo 通伯 67 mistakenly accepted the opinion of that petty fellow (xiaoren 小人) Zhang Fengju 张凤举 (18951986) and stated that Lu Xun’s history of fiction was plagiarized from Shionaya On 盐 谷温 (18781962), this was an insult that Lu Xun would not forget for the rest of his life. Shionaya’s history of literature has now been translated by Sun Lianggong 孙 俍 工 (18941962). It was written before Lu Xun and I carried out our research on fiction. Its section on textual research is ridiculously shallow. To say that Lu Xun plagiarized Shionaya is truly a massive affront. It is up to us to cleanse this blemish on Lu Xun’s record. It would be best if Tongbo could publish a short article to that effect, saying that it is what a ‘nauseating gentleman’68 should do. If we phrase it like that, the enemy camp will bow in respect.69

Lu Xun’s ‘depth’ and Hu Shi’s ‘tolerance’ each have their own 70 shortcomings. If we broaden our historical horizon, we should be 67

[Translator’s note] Tongbo is the courtesy name of Chen Yuan 陈源 (Xiying 西 滢, 18961970), one of Lu Xun’s nemeses. 68 [Translator’s note] In Lu Xun’s satirical essays, those aspiring to the Western ideal of gentility are often described as ‘putting on nauseating airs’ (bai chou jiazi 摆 臭架子). 69 Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence, vol. 2, 339. 70 The following description can be found in Qian Jiaju 千家驹, ‘Hai na bai chuan, you rong nai da’ 海 纳 百 川 ， 有 容 乃 大 (The Sea Holds a Hundred Streams, Greatness Lies in Tolerance), included as an Appendix in Luo Ergang, Five Year’s at the Master’s Gates: ‘Among the scholars at that time, there were two I admired most—one was Lu Xun, the other Hu Shi. Their personalities were completely opposite, Lu Xun being narrow-minded and Hu Shi open-minded. The contrast was quite stark.’ The description of Lu Xun’s character here as ‘narrow-minded’ (bianxia

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able to appreciate both. At the time, different political positions and diverging personalities did not amount to a ‘life or death’ mentality. For scholars and critics of a later era, trying to administer praise and blame, it is even more important to have some sympathy and understanding. In the 1930s, Hu Shi got along much better with Zhou Zuoren, with whom he taught together at Peking University. The best example is that in 1934, when Zhou Zuoren was widely criticized for the publication of his ‘Poem to Congratulate Myself on My Fiftieth Birthday,’ Hu Shi successively published ‘A Doggerel in Jesting 71 Reply to Zhou Qiming,’ ‘Another Doggerel in Reply to Mr Kucha,’ and ‘Mr Kucha Sent Me Another Doggerel—In Turn I Reply.’ Towards the end of the next year and the beginning of the year after, he further published ‘In Reply to Zhou Qiming’s New Year’s Poem’ and ‘A Doggerel in Reply to Zhou Qiming’s “Poem to Celebrate the New Year 1936.”’ Finally, his 1938 ‘To a Friend in Beiping’ (also 72 known as ‘To Kuyu’an’ ), sent from London, has been widely quoted for its depth of expression. When Zhou Zuoren wrote his autobiography in his later years, the political circumstances made him reluctant to mention his friendship with Hu Shi too often, but he still proved willing to devote quite some space to the fact that Hu, while far away in London, composed a poem especially to encourage ‘the old monk in the Bitter Rain Temple’ to leave occupied Beijing, 73 as well as his own ‘gratitude to the inquiry of the layman Zanghui.’ Hu Shi, in his later life, took great pains to collect Zhou Zuoren’s writings. When recalling the battles they fought together around the time of ‘May Fourth,’ he lamented that his old friend was now living

褊狭) is not meant as sarcasm, but is a reference to his ‘penetrating observation of problems’ and his ‘sharp pen.’ 71 [Translator’s note] Kucha 苦茶 (‘Bitter Tea’) was one of Zhou Zuoren’s betterknown pseudonyms. 72 [Translator’s note] Kuyu’an 苦 雨 庵 (‘Bitter Rain Temple’)—another pseudonym of Zhou Zuoren. 73 Cf. Zhou Zuoren’s Memoirs, 471–473. [Translator’s note] The quotations in this sentence are from Hu Shi’s poem and Zhou Zuoren’s response, respectively. Zanghui 藏晖 was the name by which Hu Shi referred to himself in his own poem.

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74

in loneliness. Hu’s comments not only betray the common sentiment of nostalgia, but also the sincerity of his temperament. Returning now to the scrapping of the poems: the reason why Hu Shi had such high esteem for the Zhou brothers’ comments is that he acknowledged that their literary talents were superior to his own. In his theoretical statement ‘On New Poetry,’ which was hugely influential during the ‘May Fourth’ period, Hu Shi commended Zhou Zuoren’s poem ‘Rivulet’ as follows: ‘This poem is the first masterpiece of New Poetry. Such astute observations and such complex ideals cannot possibly be expressed in the old shi forms and ci 75 tunes.’ And after having discussed the many difficulties of writing New Poetry and having confessed that neither himself, nor any of the other up-and-coming youngsters are able to write real New Poetry, he then continues: All the ‘New Poets’ that I know, with the exception of the Zhou brothers from Guiji 会稽, have modelled their work on the old-style shi, ci, and qu.’76

Hu Shi’s praise for the Zhou brothers’ new poems and his emphasis on the absence of restrictions from old shi and ci poetry is indeed quite perceptive. Lu Xun’s new poems ‘Dream,’ ‘God of Love,’ ‘Peach Blossom,’ ‘Their Garden,’ and ‘Man and Time,’ all published in New Youth in 1918, refuse to engage in straightforward reasoning and strive for depth in artistic conception. The skill of his symbolism and his control over the vernacular language bear no comparison to the semi-ci and semi-qu ‘unbound-feet-poems’ of the same period. If we further consider the series of prose poems that he published in 1919 under the title ‘Soliloquy,’ it seems very reasonable to give praise to Lu Xun’s talent as a poet. As for Zhou Zuoren’s ‘Rivulet’: Hu Shi’s view that it is the representative work of early New Poetry has since been accepted by many literary historians. Yet the Zhou brothers were only ‘guest performers’ when it came to experiments with New Poetry. They were ‘just chiming in and stirring up some noise’ (dada biangu, cou xie renao 打打边鼓，凑 74

‘Hu Shi zhi Yang Liansheng’ 胡适致杨联陞 (Hu Shi to Yang Liansheng), in Lun xue tan shi ershi nian, ed. Hu Shi jinianguan (Taibei: Lianjing chuban gongsi, 1998), 289. 75 Hu Shi, ‘Tan xin shi’ 谈新诗 (On New Poetry), Hu Shi wencun, vol. 1, 228. 76 Ibid., 235.

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些热闹). In later years, their main literary achievements were in the genres of fiction and essay. When it came to composing poems, the Zhou brothers’ strength still lay in old poetry. There is a general consensus that Lu Xun’s old-style poems are good, whereas Zhou Zuoren’s ‘Poems on Children’s Chores’ are also quite impressive. Hu Shi, who said of himself that he ‘had a mind to advocate, but not the power to create’ New Poetry, obviously became aware of his own limitations in his contact with the Zhou brothers. In his diary for March 4, 1922, Hu Shi recorded Lu Xun’s expectations and his own realizations: ‘Yucai strongly feels that there are too few people creating literature at the moment. He urges me to write more literary work. I do not have literary ambitions, only occasional literary 78 impulses.’ Six days later he finished his ‘Preface to the Fourth Edition of Experiments,’ in which he refers to Lu Xun’s views in many places. Nearly half a year later, he recorded in his diary another wholehearted appreciation of the Zhou brothers’ literary talents: 77

The Zhou brothers are lovely people and they are tremendously talented. Yucai has powers of appreciation as well as of creation. Qiming has excellent powers of appreciation but his creative works are few.79

Later events would prove Hu Shi’s instincts quite correct. The lines above could almost ‘enter literary history’ without further revision. Hu Shi earnestly considered all suggestions for scrapping poems made by the two Zhous, regardless of whether or not he adopted them. A good example is the poem ‘Propriety!’: it uses a narrative voice to ridicule the custom of judging people on the basis of propriety. The lines ‘What is this rubbish performance you are putting on? / Do you need to bring out that big label of “propriety?”/ Can’t you stop for a moment and think / whose Dad it is that lies there dead?’ undoubtedly came straight from his heart. Yet Lu Xun 77

In his ‘Foreword to Works Outside the Collections,’ Lu Xun writers: ‘Because it was quiet on the poetry scene in those days, I chimed in and stirred up some noise. As soon as people calling themselves poets emerged, I washed my hands clean of it.’ See Lu Xun quanji, vol. 7, 4. In his 1926 preface to Liu Bannong’s poetry collection Brandishing the Whip, Zhou Zuoren gives a similar description: ‘There was a time when I carried the banner and cried out in support of China’s New Poetry, but I never achieved much and I gave up writing it a long time ago.’ [See also Chapter 2.] 78 Hu Shi’s Diary, vol. 1, 276. 79 Ibid., vol. 2, 424.

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was against including this poem, based on his understanding of the nature of poetry. Hu Shi disagreed and provides a short justification in his ‘Preface.’ However, the text entitled ‘Anniversary,’ which he wrote to congratulate the Morning News with its first anniversary, 80 although composed in the vernacular, can hardly be called a poem. More importantly, Lu Xun was apprehensive of the fact that the newborn vernacular poetry might become another tool for social entertainment and commented that Hu’s work resembled the age-old 81 tradition of ‘birthday poems.’ Following Lu Xun’s suggestion, Hu Shi eventually parted with this ‘beloved’ work. There is a reason why I call it that. Two years earlier, in his ‘Preface to the Second Edition of Experiments,’ Hu Shi, anxious about being misunderstood, wrote: ‘For that reason, I shall unashamedly indicate which of my poems are disguised old shi poems, which are disguised ci or qu, and which are 82 pure vernacular new poems.’ The fourteen poems that he solemnly declared to be ‘pure vernacular new poems’ are all proudly present in the revised and enlarged fourth edition, except ‘Anniversary.’ Clearly, Lu Xun’s opinion had had its effect. Hu Shi was moved by the Zhou brothers’ willingness to edit his text; so he must have been delighted when they gave him praise. It was very unusual for Lu Xun to say something like ‘Among your recent work, I think “Night of November 24th” is really good.’ Moreover, similar words appear in Zhou Zuoren’s letter: ‘Your recent work is very good. I especially like your two latest poems.’ In New Youth, Volume 8, No. 5, dated January 1, 1921, there are three poems by Hu Shi: ‘ Dreams and Poetry,’ dated October 10, 1920, and ‘Propriety!’ and ‘Night of November 24,’ both dated November 25, 1920. His ‘two latest poems’ therefore must have been ‘Propriety!’ 80

‘Anniversary’ has three stanzas. This is the last one: ‘I raise my glass to you again / Wishing you will fight to the end / If you cannot conquer the ills / The ills will conquer you!’ 81 A year after composing ‘Anniversary,’ Hu Shi really wrote a ‘birthday poem’ for the seventieth birthday of Chen Zhongxiang’s 陈仲骧 father. However, he did not include it in any collection. Cf. Geng Yunzhi 耿云志, ed., Hu Shi yigao ji micang shuxin 胡 适 遗 稿 及 秘 藏 书 信 (Hu Shi’s Posthumous Manuscripts and Hidden Letters) (Hefei: Huangshan shushe, 1994), vol. 11. If it had not been for Lu Xun reminding him, there is no telling how many such works, purely written for social occasions, might have ended up in the later poetry collections of someone as fond of social intercourse as Hu Shi. 82 Hu Shi, ‘Preface to the Fourth Edition.’

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and ‘Night of November 24th.’ This means that part of the reason for Hu Shi to insist on including ‘Propriety!’ may have been that the Zhou brothers had different opinions about it. More important than the addition or deletion of individual poems was their readjustment of the definition of ‘New Poetry.’ From the very first edition of Experiments, the collection of old-style poetry Leaving the Country was included as an appendix. In his preface to Leaving the Country, Hu Shi touched upon the question of why oldstyle poems should be mixed with a collection of vernacular poetry. After I decided to focus all my efforts on promoting what I call a ‘living literature,’ I revised the poems I wrote in the classical language over the past six years and copied them out in this collection to preserve them. The title is Leaving the Country, meaning it starts from 1910. In the past, Tan Sitong described his collection of poetry and prose as ‘all kinds of old learning that I acquired before I turned thirty.’ This collection of mine might be described as one kind of ‘dead literature’ that I produced over the course of six years. The poems in the collection are organized chronologically, so as to keep some record of my progress in writing and the changes in my thinking.83

Based on this preface, the reason for preserving Leaving the Country was purely to leave a record of his first uncertain steps and, at the same time, to contrast this ‘dead literature’ with the overwhelming attraction of ‘living literature.’ To ensure a uniform format for the very first ‘vernacular poetry collection,’ Zhou Zuoren initially suggested to remove Leaving the Country; later he accepted his older brother’s opinion that ‘Leaving the Country might very well be kept.’ Why could Leaving the Country be kept? Zhou Zuoren did not add further explanation. Reading Lu Xun’s opinion, it is clear that the Zhou brothers’ arguments for keeping Leaving the Country in were entirely different from Hu Shi’s own. Simply put, Hu Shi was interested in ‘the vernacular,’ while the Zhou brothers valued ‘poetry.’ That is why Leaving the Country, judged to be ‘dead literature’ by Hu, was seen very differently by Lu Xun: ‘I had a close look at it and I think there are quite a few good poems in it, so you might as well append it.’ The Zhou brothers did not equate ‘classical 83

‘Qu guo ji zixu’ 《去国集》自序 (Author’s Preface to Leaving the Country), in Experiments, revised and enlarged fourth edition (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1922), 125.

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or modern’ with ‘dead or alive.’ Their literary tastes were vastly different from those of Hu, who constantly hammered on about the need for vernacular poetry to break free from the fetters of ci and qu. Let us have a closer look at the poem ‘Doves,’ which Hu Shi himself had scrapped but which was subsequently saved by Zhou Zuoren and Yu Pingbo: The clouds are thin the heavens high, beautiful autumn weather! A flock of doves, playing games in the sky. Watching them in twos and threes, Back and forth in circles, Leisurely and content, — Suddenly, they turn and face the sun, white feathers adorning the blue sky, splendidly beautiful!

In line with what Hu Shi said when he described his own shortcomings, this poem is clearly influenced by ci tunes. The problem is not that Zhou and Yu, both well-versed in classical poetry, did not understand this, but rather that they chose to ignore Hu’s own explanation and proposed for the poem to be re-included. Perhaps, in Zhou Zuoren’s view, poetry could only be good or bad and need not be artificially divided into new or old. This is not just an unfounded guess on my part. Two years later, in April 1923, when Zhou Zuoren wrote a preface for Liu Dabai’s 刘大 白(18801932) collection of new poems Old Dreams, he specifically explained how his opinions differed from those of his contemporaries who overly emphasized ways to ‘get rid of the flavour of old shi and ci’: He himself says that there is still a strong traditional flavour in his poetry, but I do not think that is the case. In my view, at least in the section ‘Old Dreams,’ he does his best to get rid of the flavour of old shi and ci. If you will allow me an unusual opinion: I think he tries too hard, with the result that the poetic flavour is inevitably diminished— although this is perhaps also due to his bringing philosophical reasoning into poetry. New poets these days are often fond of imitating the old forms, to show off their versatility. One might say they are a little bit too curious. But that Dabai, who has a rich grounding in old poetry, does not seem to make full use of it, is a bit of a shame as well. I do not particularly like new poems based on yuefu 乐府 (‘Music Bureau’) melodies or ci and qu tunes, but New Poetry is in need of skilfully-crafted lines, as long as they are used appropriately. Poetry,

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after all, does not just value meaning; and the vernacular, in the end, is still Chinese.84

From his general discussion in ‘On New Poetry’ to his selfpositioning in Experiments, and then to his discussion of Kang Baiqing’s and Yu Pingbo’s poetry in ‘A Review of New Poetry Collections,’ the development of Hu Shi’s discourse on vernacular poetry basically adhered to one single norm: how to break free from the restrictions of old-style shi and of ci and qu. He not only opposed the regular patterns of pentasyllabic and heptasyllabic verse, but even ‘the use of alliteration and vowel rhyme to aid the harmony of cadences.’ The cadences of ‘real vernacular New Poetry,’ he wrote, must be ‘close to natural.’ Realizing that his own ‘habits of old literature were deeply ingrained, making it difficult to break free 85 from the trap that is old poetry,’ Hu Shi understandably placed more and more emphasis on breaking with the ci and qu tradition. Nevertheless it is really a shortcoming for a theoretical statement and a programme for a movement not to discuss individual talent, nor to employ the rich resources of tradition, and to evade constantly the virtually omnipresent influence of old poetry. Another three years on, Zhou Zuoren wrote a preface for Liu Bannong’s collection Brandishing the Whip, in which he assessed the vernacular poets of the New Youth era as follows: ‘In those days, there were actually quite a few people writing New Poetry but, in my view, if I may be allowed to say this bluntly, there were only two people who possessed genuine poetic talent, one being [Shen] Yinmo and the other being Bannong.’ The former had a thorough grasp of classical Chinese, whereas the latter excelled at using the vernacular. They both played to their strengths and therefore they were both 86 successful. Zhou Zuoren expressly did not mention Hu Shi, the great advocate of vernacular poetry, probably because he felt that Hu

84

Zhou Zuoren, ‘Jiu meng xu’ 《旧梦》序 (Preface to Old Dreams), in Liu Dabai, Jiu meng (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1923). 85 Hu Shi, ‘Preface to the Second Edition.’ 86 This formulation is similar to one by Zhang Taiyan in his ‘Yu ren lun wen shu’ 与 人 论 文 书 (Letter Discussing Literature): ‘Among our contemporaries, Wang Kaiyun 王闿运 (1833-1916) excels at elegant writing. As for those coming after Wu Rulun 吴汝纶 (1840-1903), Ma Qichang 马其昶 (1855-1930) of the Tongcheng school excels at plain writing.’ Cf. Zhang Taiyan quanji, vol. 4, 168.

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lacked ‘genuine poetic talent.’ The lines below appear to be even more heartfelt: Among the methods for writing New Poetry, I dislike plain description, and I do not like rambling narration, let alone rambling reasoning. I accept only lyrical expression as the task of poetry. As for methods of writing, I am most interested in what is traditionally called ‘association’ (xing 兴 ), which in modern language might be called ‘symbols’ (xiangzheng 象征). […] The Literary Revolution in China was influenced by classicism (which is not the same as archaism): all the works were like glass spheres, transparent and crystal-clear, without the slightest obscurity and therefore somewhat lacking in lingering fragrance and aftertaste (yuxiang huiwei 余香回味). The proper direction is probably still that of romanticism. There is hardly any poetry that is not romanticist, and symbols are of its essence.87

Zhou Zuoren did believe that New Poetry would continue to flourish and he enjoyed the ‘freedom and grandeur’ that New Poetry had obtained through the imitation of Western poetry. Yet he emphasized that ‘amidst freedom there is restraint and inside grandeur there lies austerity. One should use foreign influences to enhance the beauty of Chinese literature’s inherent characteristics. It is not just a case of putting on an extra jacket.’ He ascribes the lack of ‘lingering fragrance and aftertaste’ in New Poetry to the use of ‘rambling’ language, but the core problem is ‘freedom’ without restraints. The poetry scene of 1926 had long ceased to be the domain of people like Hu Shi. New Poems that were much more ‘difficult and hard to understand’ than those of Yu Pingbo were gaining rapid ground, and the poetic debate was no longer restricted to questions of tradition and Europeanization. Moreover, the substitution of ‘symbols’ for ‘plain description’ had already become a definite trend. The target of Zhou Zuoren’s critical comments about New Poetry being ‘transparent and crystal-clear’ was not the Crescent Moon group, represented by poets like Wen Yiduo and Xu Zhimo 徐志摩 (18971931), who flaunted the pursuit of ‘emotion restrained by reason’ and ‘formalism in New Poetry’; nor was it Wang Duqing’s 王独清 (18981940) emphasis on ‘sensations’ or Mu Mutian’s 穆木 天 (19001971) proposals for ‘pure poetry’; and it was definitely not the symbolist style of Li Jinfa 李 金 发 (19001976) and Dai Wangshu 戴 望 舒 (19051950), which was just starting to gain 87

Zhuo Zuoren, ‘Preface to Brandishing the Whip.’

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visibility. Zhou Zuoren was not pointing out the future of New Poetry; he was writing the ‘epitaph’ for a whole generation of ‘May Fourth’ poets, including himself. And among all of those, the one most in need of serious self-examining was their literary figurehead: Hu Shi. Hu Shi’s Self-Adjustments If we say that for the Zhou brothers ‘poetry’ came first and ‘the vernacular’ second, then for Hu Shi, the earliest positive advocate of vernacular poetry (this is a more appropriate formulation than rhetorical titles such as ‘the father of New Poetry’), ‘the vernacular’ definitely came before ‘poetry.’ This was forced upon him by the situation at the time and was beyond his control—why was it always Hu Shi who needed to carry the banner of the ‘Literary Revolution?’ At first, when he exclaimed ‘The Revolution of Writing cannot be in doubt! I shall raise its banner and be a valiant fighter,’ he was merely expressing his determination and ambition not to look back. However, as soon as the Literary Revolution had become an unstoppable force, its earliest advocate Hu Shi achieved great fame overnight, giving him little further opportunities to adjust his proposals. In terms of his individual temperament, Hu Shi was more a gentle and cultivated scholar, not a stalwart and resolute revolutionary. In his Autobiography at Forty, published in the 1930s, as well as in his Spoken Autobiography of the 1950s, he mentioned that the staunch support from Chen Duxiu and Qian Xuantong constituted the basic guarantee for the success of the Literary Revolution. His ‘modest proposals,’ jotted down in his study, may have been splendid, but all by themselves they would never have had a major impact. It was explosive slogans such as ‘the Three Big Principles,’ ‘the Eighteen Demons,’ ‘the scoundrels of the Tongcheng school and the demons of the Wenxuan school,’ as well as subjective statements such as ‘we must not allow our opponents any space for debate,’ that managed to create a major uproar and consequently pushed the Literary Revo88 lution rapidly forward. Having ‘steadfast revolutionaries’ like Chen and Qian as ‘propagandists and promoters’ was of course Hu Shi’s good fortune. Taking into consideration the apathy of the masses and 88

Cf. Hu Shi, ‘Driven to Revolt,’ as well as Chapter 7 of Hu Shi’s Spoken Autobiography.

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the inevitable concessions that arise from conflict, revolutionaries tend to use shocking language, pushing issues to the extreme on purpose in order to alert their audiences, while at the same time keeping room for retreats and compromises. In his ‘Voiceless China,’ Lu Xun discusses the way of thinking of such revolutionaries: Chinese people are by nature inclined to reconcile and compromise. If you say that it is too dark in the room and you should make a window, then nobody will let you. But if you propose to take off the roof, then they will come up with a compromise and they will be willing to make a window. As long as there are no more radical proposals, they will be unwilling to carry out even the most moderate of reforms. The reason why the vernacular was accepted at the time is that there were discussions about abolishing the Chinese script and introducing the Roman alphabet.89

The radical suggestion to abolish the Chinese script had come from Qian Xuantong, who has been referred to as an ‘extreme’ thinker, whose ‘suggestions often involved two extremes,’ and who always 90 ‘said more than necessary.’ Extreme thinking has its advantages as a campaign strategy, but excessive strategizing and the pursuit of maximum ‘live impact’ tends to overlook to some extent the consistency and comprehensiveness of the theory. If a revolution is not successful, its ‘uncompromising stance’ might still contain high aesthetic value; but if a revolution does succeed, the question of how to fulfil one’s past promises becomes a difficult one indeed. The clever ones transform themselves while the movement develops, gradually revising their stance and changing their roles, so that they can still play a part in the new phase of construction. As for those who maintain their position, rigidly adhering to their original strategic manifestos, unwilling to make the necessary compromises and adjustments, they might be praised for their ‘consistency,’ but they rarely manage to bring about any further breakthroughs.

89

Lu Xun, ‘Voiceless China.’ [See also Chapter 2.] Zhou Zuoren wrote that ‘Qian Xuantong’s suggestions often involve two extremes,’ that this kind of thinking was ‘extreme’ and that ‘he himself admits to it.’ Cf. Zhou Zuoren, ‘Qian Xuantong’s Restoration of the Past and His AntiRestoration.’ According to Li Jinxi’s reminiscence, ‘Lu Xun once criticized him, saying that half a word should be enough, but that Xuantong always wanted to say more than necessary.’ Cf. Cao Shujing, Chronological Biography of Qian Xuantong, 173. 90

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Hu Shi used classical Chinese and the vernacular as yardsticks for the life and death of literature. As a slogan in a literary revolution, it was clear and simple, and extremely effective. However, such a crude and arbitrary theoretical design is intrinsically highly problematic. Hu Shi was aware of this and made various attempts at revision, such as continuously widening the connotations of the term 91 ‘vernacular,’ yet he never dared to blur the ‘overall direction of struggle.’ When looking at Hu Shi’s discussions of vernacular poetry, it is very surprising to find that there were no changes over the course of several decades and that he basically preserved the ideals of his younger years. On closer scrutiny, however, it is possible to discover that Hu Shi did waver a few times, upon which Qian Xuantong, with his more revolutionary nature, would send him a warning and he marched ahead once more. When he discovered signs of retreat in Hu Shi’s recent work, Qian Xuantong sent him a letter on October 31, 1917, earnestly reminding him: ‘We are now entering the initial stage of reform. We must write as much as possible in the vernacular. If we harbour even the slightest misgivings and if we do not excise the “classical” parts completely, then we will undoubtedly preserve some of the old blemishes, obstructing our progress.’ When Hu Shi received the letter, he quickly repented and he replied on November 20, admitting to his own anxiety and distress: You say that in my recent vernacular poems I have been ‘unable to shake off completely the classical stereotypes.’ I seldom receive such forthright admonitions. When I wrote vernacular poems in the Summer and Autumn of last year (1916), I did my very best to reject the classical language and not to mingle in even a single word. Poems such as ‘Friends,’ ‘He,’ and ‘Experiment’ are like that. Later I suddenly changed my aims, thinking that there are many words in the classical language that can be imported into vernacular poems. That is why the poems I wrote this year often do not avoid the classical. […] But what you say in your letter of October 31 makes a lot of sense. […] Therefore I do not use classical language in the vernacular poems I have written since arriving in Beijing.92 91

See his reply letter to Qian Xuantong of November 20, 1917 (in Hu Shi wencun, vol. 1). See also his ‘Baihua wenxue shi zixu’ 《白话文学史》自序 (Author’s Introduction to History of Vernacular Literature), in Baihua wenxue shi (Shanghai: Xin yue shudian, 1928). 92 Reply letter to Qian Xuantong, in Hu Shi wencun, vol. 1, 54–55.

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Having gone through some twists and turns, from doing his best to ‘reject’ the classical language, to ‘not avoiding’ the classical, to ‘not using’ classical language, Hu Shi finally confirmed his aim of writing solely in the vernacular. Nevertheless, in the preface he wrote for Experiments, Qian Xuantong still criticizes Hu Shi quite frankly for continuing to be restricted by the old shi and ci: However, I am dissatisfied with one aspect of Hu Shi’s poetry: that there are some poems still using the ci tunes, and some other poems that do not fit the language, because they are constrained by fivesyllable line length. As for the words that he uses, in some cases I think they are still too classical.93

Hu Shi was completely convinced by his friend’s strict criticism. In the introduction to the first edition of Experiments he made special mention of the fact, adding an earnest self-criticism, calling his own new poems half-old and half-new: ‘The greatest shortcoming of these poems is that they still use pentasyllabic and heptasyllabic lines. If the organization of the lines is too strict, they will not conform to the natural flow of language. Inevitably, the problem of balancing shortage with abundance will occur. From time-to-time, I had to sacrifice the vernacular word in the vernacular grammar in order to accommodate the five-syllable or seven-syllable line.’ The discussion of the Great Liberation of Poetic Form that follows these lines has had a tremendous impact on the shaping of New Poetry and is worth serious attention: Therefore, the poems that I wrote after I arrived in Beijing are based on one firm conviction: if you want to write true vernacular poetry, if you want to make full use of vernacular words, vernacular grammar, and the natural cadences of the vernacular language, then you must write vernacular poems with irregular line length. This proposal might be called the ‘Great Liberation of Poetic Form.’ The Great Liberation of Poetic Form means to smash all the shackles and chains that fettered our freedom in the past. Say what you have to say, and say it the way you say it. Only in this way can there be true vernacular poetry and can expression be given to the literary potential of the vernacular language.94

These words are rhetorically very convincing, but that is exactly why they are so flawed. Anyone with a bit of general knowledge about 93 94

Qian Xuantong, ‘Preface to Experiments,’ in the fourth edition of Experiments. Hu Shi, ‘Author’s Preface to Experiments.’

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literature knows that even in prose you cannot ‘say it the way you say it,’ let alone in poetry, a genre renowned for its terseness of language. Intoxicated by satisfaction about his ‘Great Liberation’ and not overly hampered by ‘poetic talent,’ Hu Shi from then on clutched to the idea of casting off the fetters of shi and ci as the only measure for New Poetry. In his 1919 essay ‘On New Poetry’ he writes: ‘Then there are the poets from the Renaissance Society—Fu Sinian, Yu Pingbo, Kang Baiqing—who also came out of the ci and qu tradition, so that their early new poems all contained overtones and cadences 95 from ci and qu. Clearly he seemed to feel that this was regretful. By 1922, when Hu Shi wrote reviews or introductions for three collections of New Poetry, he further elaborated on his ideal New Poetry. The basic line of thinking is that it does not matter if the ‘Great Liberation of Poetic Form,’ i.e. the casting off of the influence of old poetry, results in slipping into naivety, directness, and bluntness. Measured by this standard, Kang Baiqing is better than Yu Pingbo, while the later poet Wang Jingzhi 汪 静 之 (19021996) represents yet another step towards improvement. The reason is simple: ‘Baiqing has received little influence from old poetry, therefore he has less of the poison in him.’ Wang Jingzhi and other youngsters have gone one step further: ‘The influence they received from old poetry is even weaker, therefore they are more thoroughly 96 liberated.’ Taking exorcizing ‘the devils of old poetry’ as the single norm for assessing the quality of New Poetry would seem somewhat ridiculous in the eyes of later poets and historians. For Hu Shi, however, who was focused on a way out for New Poetry, the crucial issue was ‘vernacular’ versus ‘classical’ language, and therefore ‘naivety is much better than apathy’ and ‘simplicity is much better 97 than obscurity.’ In his research on fiction Hu Shi had firm views, but when he discussed New Poetry, his persistent adherence to the ‘Great Liberation of Poetic Form’ and his firm belief in an evolutionary concept of literature often weakened his grasp. His aesthetic judgment was part of the problem, but another reason was that Hu Shi’s 95

Hu Shi, ‘On New Poetry,’ 238. Cf. ‘A Review of New Poetry Collections’ and ‘Hui de feng xu’ 《蕙的风》序 (Preface to Orchid Wind), in Hu Shi wencun erji, vol. 4, 295–308. 97 Hu Shi, ‘Preface to Orchid Wind.’ 96

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experiments with New Poetry were to a large extent not founded on the urge to create poetry, but subservient to conscious literary propositions: My private view is that the classical language is definitely not a good enough instrument for the future literature of our nation. The likes of Shi Nai’an and Cao Xueqin 曹雪芹 (17151764) already proved that the right instrument for fiction is the vernacular. Now we need people who will carry out practical experiments to see if the vernacular can be the right instrument for verse.98

Based on his conviction that the vernacular was the right instrument for future literature, Hu Shi single-handedly advanced his mission to ‘create a new colony for literature.’ His constant reminders that his poems were merely ‘experiments’ were definitely not modesty. Seen from this angle, Hu Shi would not have been too disappointed if his Experiments had been discarded for its lack of poeticality, as long as the vernacular writing movement would be successful. Because the starting point was ‘writing’ and the focus was ‘vernacular,’ ‘vernacular poetry’ was only the final position that needed to be conquered. For a very long time, Hu Shi’s enthusiasm remained focused on how to cast off ‘classical Chinese’ and ‘old poetry.’ Rarely did he inquire into the artistic mood (yijing 意境) of a poem. Only in his 1924 ‘Preface to Hu Siyong’s Posthumous Poems’ and in his 1936 ‘About the “Hu Shi Style” of Poetry’ did he bring together linguistic expression and creative construction. As soon as the ‘vernacular’ ceased to be the sole standard for assessing New Poetry, the deep-seated impact of traditional poetry inevitably surfaced. It is likely that his correspondence with the Zhou brothers, as well as with Liang Qichao, played a crucial role in Hu’s reconsideration of the way he pictured New Poetry. Lu Xun said that Leaving the Country had ‘quite a few good poems in it,’ and Zhou Zuoren criticized Liu Dabai, whose traditional roots went very deep, for trying to ‘get rid of the flavour of old shi and ci. These ‘different opinions’ must have had a profound effect on Hu Shi, who was always criticizing himself for the remnants of ci melodies in his vernacular poems. His debate about vernacular poetry with Liang Qichao, however, and the investigation into the possi98

Hu Shi, Hu Shi’s Overseas Diary (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1947), vol. 4, 996.

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bility to use the xiaoling 小令 genre to write New Poetry, also had some effect on Hu Shi’s adjustment to his way of thinking. Liang Qichao and Hu Shi had differing opinions about vernacular poetry and they engaged in a direct debate. Unfortunately, most of the relevant materials were lost, so that historians have not been able 100 to provide much detail. On October 18, 1920, Liang Qichao wrote a letter to Hu Shi, asking Hu to read his Overview of Qing Scholarship and telling him that he was planning to write a review of Hu’s Outline History of Chinese Philosophy. Then he added: ‘I have some opinions on the issue of vernacular poetry and am busy writing an article. It should be finished in a couple of days and I should like to 101 discuss it with you.’ In a letter to Chen Duxiu from late 1920 or early 1921, collected in the first volume of his Selected Correspondence, Hu touches upon this matter: 99

Liang Rengong 梁任公 [i.e. Liang Qichao] has an article in which he severely criticizes vernacular poetry. It is not yet published, but he has shown me the manuscript. I refuted every single point and sent it back to him, telling him: ‘All of these questions have already been discussed in the past three years. I really do not want them to be raised again, because this is bound to lead to lots of meaningless paper battles.’ He then agreed not to publish it.102

Liang Qichao was ‘a lovely, amiable man, with no shrewdness at all, very much child-like,’ who when faced with Hu Shi’s sudden rise to 103 fame ‘sometimes seemed to want to gain the upper-hand’ over him. With a temperament like that, it seems unlikely that Liang would have concealed his views because he was rebutted by a member of 99

[Translator’s note] The xiaoling is a short lyric (ci) genre. Zhang Pengyuan 张朋园 discusses three aspects of the relationship between Liang and Hu: their political contact, their scholarly views, and their personal friendship. He also touches upon their debate about vernacular poetry. Cf. Zhang Pengyuan, ‘Hu Shi yu Liang Qichao – liang dai zhishi fenzi de qinhe yu paiju’ 胡适 与梁启超——两代知识分子的亲和与排拒 (Hu Shi and Liang Qichao: Affinity and Rejection between Two Generations of Intellectuals), in Hu Shi yu ta de pengyou, ed. Li Youning (New York: Tianwai chubanshe, 1990), vol. 1. 101 Ding Wenjiang 丁文江 and Zhao Fengtian 赵丰田, eds., Liang Qichao nianpu changbian 梁启超年谱长编 (Preliminary Chronological Biography of Liang Qichao) (Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe, 1983), 922. 102 Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 119–120. 103 The quoted phrases were recorded by Hu Shi in his diary on January 20, 1929, after he had attended Liang Qichao’s funeral. See Hu Shi’s Diary [Manuscript Edition], vol. 8. 100

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the younger generation. In the diary of Zhang Yuanji 张 元 济 (18671959), it is recorded that he went to visit Liang Qichao on October 21, 1920 and that Liang ‘said he was working on a manuscript about contemporary poetics that was almost ready for 104 submission.’ Xia Xiaohong 夏晓虹 has verified that Liang’s letter to Hu Shi and the entry in Zhang’s diary both refer to the same text, namely Liang Qichao’s introduction to his selection of poetry by the late Qing poets Jin He 金和 (18181885) and Huang Zunxian. The editing of the book was never completed, nor was the introduction ever finalized, but it does appear as ‘Preface to the Poetry of Two Late Qing Poetic Masters’ in Liang’s Collected Works from the Ice105 Drinker’s Studio. It is of great help to our understanding of this debate, which has been concealed within the depths of history. Liang Qichao’s basic point was that ‘poetry is a craft, a craft of beauty.’ Therefore ‘one can do without prosody, but one must pay great attention to phrasing and cadence.’ Liang stated that he was ‘certainly not opposed to vernacular poetry,’ but while criticising the conservative ‘old gentlemen,’ saying that they should not ignore the ‘significant successes’ already achieved by vernacular poetry, he simultaneously took a swipe at ‘extreme theories’ that completely reject the classical language: As for the extreme theories of those progressive youth who advocate the vernacular as the only new literature and who radically reject the classical language, they are no better than those old gentlemen. In terms of substance, if one has a truly good artistic mood and good materials, then a good poem can be made with the vernacular, as well as with the classical language. If this is not the case, then the classical poem will be revolting, but the vernacular will be doubly revolting.

Naturally, Hu Shi and the other innovators were not about to accept this argument, which seemed to punish the innocent together with the guilty. There is currently no iron-clad evidence to prove that Liang did not publish his article because of Hu Shi’s retort. However, Liang’s delay in finalizing the manuscript shows that at least he realized that his views were of great import and needed to be 104

Zhang Yuanji, Zhang Yuanji riji 张元济日记 (Zhang Yuanji’s Diary) (Beijing: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1981), vol. 2, 771. 105 Cf. Xia Xiaohong, Shisao chuantong yu wenxue gailiang 诗骚传统与文学改 良 (The Poetic Tradition and Literary Reform) (Hangzhou: Zhejiang wenyi chubanshe, 1998), 293.

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carefully considered. The idea that the vernacular lacked refinement and that it was difficult to use it to express complex emotions and thoughts was often raised during the ‘May Fourth’ period by those who were opposed to the abolishment of the classical language. Liang Qichao merely restricted this argument to the writing of New Poetry: ‘I feel that a ‘purely vernacular poetry’ is in fact impossible. If it were to be forcibly advocated, it would push the literature of the future into a direction of generalization and shallowness. Indeed a very bad omen.’ This is still a defensive statement, but in what follows, Liang goes on the offensive: I, too, have read Hu Shi’s Experiments. On the whole it is quite good. However I feel that those poems which he composed in accordance with the old ci poets’ tunes for the xiaoling genre are exceptionally good. Why? Because the great ci poets of the Five Dynasties and the Song were almost all experts in music. The tunes they created were composed with the help of musical instruments. If we follow those tunes, all we need is a new artistic mood and new words, and then both sound and substance will be beautiful. Of course there is nothing stopping us from creating new cadences. However, since we are not experts in music, our good intentions would come to naught. Moreover, in the pure vernacular style there is one mistake that is most easily made, namely using too many superfluous words, constantly harming the poem’s spirit. In classical poems, grammatical particles like zhi hu zhe ye 之乎者也 are hardly ever used. Why? Because they harm the spirit, and obstruct the cadence. Nowadays, the vernacular poets have particles like de me le li 的么了哩 all over the page, so where do there good cadences have to come from? […] If one does not refine one’s phrases and if one uses lots of hackneyed particles, the result will be a ‘new eight-legged style’ (xin bagu qiang 新八股腔) for poetry.106

The criticism of New Poems with de me le li all over the page was a direct reference to the famous ‘experiments.’ Naturally, Hu Shi was unable to accept such a harsh assessment. He was probably also not too happy about Liang’s compliment that ‘those poems which he composed in accordance with the old ci poets’ tunes for the xiaoling genre are exceptionally good.’ After all, his inability to rid himself completely of the influence of ci tunes was what he criticized himself for repeatedly in the three prefaces to Experiments. 106

Liang Qichao, ‘Wan Qing liang dajia shichao tici’ 晚清两大家诗抄题词 (Preface to the Poetry of Two Late Qing Poetic Masters), in Yinbing shi heji: wenji (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1936), juan 43.

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Liang Qichao, on the other hand, did not intend his views to come across as sarcasm or ridicule. In later years, he was even tempted by the success of Hu’s ‘experiments’ and began to write short ci poems with line-breaks and punctuation marks. He made comments such as ‘recently I am really into ci’ and ‘these days writing ci is my favourite pastime,’ and added ‘there is new territory to be opened up 107 here.’ On June 22, 1925, Liang wrote a letter to Hu Shi to which he added a short ci, saying ‘I wrote this in your writing style, for your perusal. Please tell me if you think it is passable.’ On the 26th of the same month, he sent two further poems, to the tunes of ‘A Happy Event Draws Near’ and ‘West River Moon.’ Apparently Hu Shi responded with two poems of his own, because in another letter, dated July 3, Liang Qichao not only added three more poems, but also gave some comments on poems by Hu: Both your poems are most wonderful. They might be called ‘free lyrics’ (ziyou de ci 自由的词). The poem ‘After Copying a Verse by Stone Lake’ might be even more wonderful if the first and third lines would rhyme, the first in an oblique tone, the third in a level tone. The words ‘moon’ (yue 月) and ‘night’ (ye 夜) in the poem ‘Last August’ might be said to rhyme in the Beijing dialect, but in southern speech they are not in harmony (even less so in Cantonese). When I read it, it sounds awkward. So although each of the two lines are fine in isolation, when recited together their appeal diminishes. These are my personal feelings. What do you think? Although I would not dare to say that poetry without rhyme cannot become established, I still feel that it does not affect me emotionally. Of course, the rhymes need not be as strictly determined as in the Poetry Rhymes of the Peiwen Studio or the Correct Rhymes of the Collected Lyrics, but they should sound in harmony when read aloud in common speech (putonghua 普通话). If rhymes could be inserted in the middle of the line that would be ideal, but at least there should be end-rhyme (of course, not at the end of each line, but every three lines or so). And if the last word in a line is a grammatical particle, then the rhyme should shift to the previous word (as in fei bao ye, yong yi wei hao ye 匪报也，永以为好也).108 I hope that New Poetry will develop along these lines. 107

See Liang Qichao’s letters to Lin Zhijun 林志钧 and Liang Qixun 梁启勋, in Ding and Zhao, eds., Preliminary Chronological Biography, 1042–1043. 108 [Translator’s note] These lines come from the poem ‘Mugua’ 木瓜 (Papaya) in the Book of Odes and are translated by James Legge as ‘Not as a return for it, / But

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In my lyrics to the tune ‘Spring in the Garden of Qin’ I have tried to rewrite the transition between the first and the second lyric in accordance with your suggestions (repetition). When the inspiration comes, I shall work on it more, but I already find it very difficult. I am also copying three lyrics I wrote for my sons for you to comment on (please be critical). I hope you will not laugh at my parental affection!’109

The emphasis on the need for New Poetry to pay attention to its cadences and preferably to rhyme was similar to the opinions of 110 Zhang Taiyan and his student Lu Xun. As New Poetry was searching for its breakthrough, liberation was its appeal and the only fear was to be restricted by the old shi, ci, and qu. Thirty years later, however, Zhu Ziqing discovered that rhyme was the only thing that New Poetry had inherited from the past: ‘It is clear that Chinese poetry still needs rhyme. One might say that Chinese poetry will 111 always need rhyme.’ This opinion has not been accepted by all poets and historians, and the question if New Poetry needs rhyme continues to be a hotly-debated issue. As for the two poems considered ‘most wonderful’ by Liang Qichao, one appears as ‘Flowers in a Vase’ in Hu Shi’s collection Later Experiments, while the other, entitled ‘Night of August Fourth’ was not published during Hu’s lifetime. Liang’s praise is insightful. These are two rare good love poems by Hu, normally known for his calm and reason. The that our friendship might be lasting.’ Cf. The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, pt. 1 (Hong Kong: Lane Crawford & Co; London: Trübner & Co., 1871), 107. 109 Ding and Zhao, eds., Preliminary Chronological Biography, 1044–1045. Various mistakes and omissions in that text were corrected in the Preliminary Chronological Biography published by Shijie shuju in Taibei in 1959. Also, on September 20, 1961, Hu Shi remarked to his secretary that Liang Qichao ‘wrote me many letters, including a long letter talking about ci lyrics.’ This must be a reference to this letter. See Hu Songping, ed., A Record of Conversations, 220. 110 Zhang Taiyan held that: ‘All that is called poetry must have rhyme, for only in rhyme can one communicate emotions. The vernacular poems of today do not use rhyme and although they have aesthetic feeling, they should be classified as prose. There is no need to regard them as poetry.’ See Cao Juren, ‘Guanyu Zhang Taiyan xiansheng de huiyi’ 关于章太炎先生的回忆 (Reminiscences about Zhang Taiyan), in Wen si (Beijing: Beixin shuju, 1937). Lu Xun wrote in a letter to Dou Yinfu 窦隐 夫: ‘I believe that, regardless of content, New Poetry should first of all have a rhythmic tune (jiediao 节调) and it should more or less rhyme, so that people can memorize it easily, read it smoothly, and sing it out.’ See Lu Xun quanji, vol. 12, 556. 111 Zhu Ziqing, ‘Xin shi zahua: shiyun’ 新诗杂话·诗韵 (Random Talk on New Poetry: Poetry Rhyme), in Zhu Ziqing quanji (Nanjing: Jiangsu jiaoyu chubanshe, 1988), vol. 2, 402.

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latter of the two features an ingenious genre shift, by ending with a line from a short ci to the tune ‘Passes and Rivers’ by Zhou Bangyan 周 邦 彦 (1056–1121): ‘I have sobered up already, how do I get 112 through this long night?’ The former carries the poem ‘Flowers in a Vase’ by Fan Chengda 范成大 (also known as ‘Stone Lake’; 1126– 1193) as an introduction, unmistakeably highlighting its poetic origins. Both poems are in the vernacular, but the marks of tradition are very clear, which is why Liang Qichao instantly categorized them as ‘free lyrics.’ If it had been a few years earlier, Hu Shi would have been very unhappy with such a review. But things had changed: prompted by the Zhou brothers and by Liang Qichao and having had the experience of writing his History of Vernacular Literature and editing the Selected Song Lyrics, Hu Shi had obtained a new understanding of the question of mixing ci tunes into ‘vernacular poetry.’ In his June 1928 ‘Introduction to History of Vernacular Literature,’ he reiterated his understanding of the ‘three meanings’ of 113 the term ‘vernacular,’ on the basis of which ‘vernacular literature’ must ‘include those works of old literature that are clear and easy to understand and close to spoken language.’ In this way, there was much vernacular even in the Records of the Grand Historian and the History of the Former Han, while genres like yuefu and geci 歌辞 112

The whole poem was published in Xiandai pinglun 2, no. 46 (1925) and reads as follows: I am counting on a night of heavy rain Covering all the stars and the moon in the sky; I am counting on getting myself into a drunken stupor, Wiping out my memories and my longings. Quiet are the people, Deep is the night, All the clouds have scattered,— A desolate bright moon still lights my way home,— And I have long since sobered up from my drunkenness. I have sobered up already, How do I get through this long night? 113

In his reply letter to Qian Xuantong of November 20, 1917, Hu Shi had greatly expanded the connotations of the term ‘vernacular,’ in order to refute criticism from his opponents.

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(song texts) and the translations of Buddhist texts were basically all vernacular. Moreover, ‘among the poetry of the Tang—especially yuefu and jueju (quatrain)—there are also many vernacular works.’ As for ci poetry, especially the shorter works by Su Dongpo 苏东坡 (1037–1101) and Xin Qiji 辛弃疾 (1140–1207), they also lived up to the three main characteristics of the vernacular, i.e. ‘can be read out and understood,’ ‘has not been embellished,’ and ‘is clear and fluent.’ So obviously they should also count as ‘vernacular literature.’ The definitive edition of History of Vernacular Literature only goes up to the Tang dynasty, but the earlier ‘History of Literature in the National Language’ has two chapters (Chapters 4 and 5 of Part 3) discussing ‘vernacular ci’ from the Song dynasty. ‘These ci use the language of the common people of the day and they write about the emotional life of the day, therefore they represent the vernacular literature of the Song dynasty.’ Based on this judgment, Hu Shi gave high praise to the ‘short vernacular ci’ by Ouyang Xiu 欧 阳 修 (1007–1072), Liu Yong 柳永 (ca. 987–ca. 1053), Li Qingzhao 李清 照 (1084–ca. 1151), Xin Qiji, and Lu You 陆游 (1125–1210). He wrote that they had created ‘truly exquisite language’ and that they did not deserve to be ‘mentioned in the same breath as sub-inferior classical works (xia xia pin 下下品)’ by poets like Wu Wenying 吴 114 文英 (ca. 1200–ca. 1260). In 1927, the Commercial Press in Shanghai published Selected 115 Song Lyrics, edited by Hu Shi. It opens with an introduction by Hu, in which he divides the history of the ci genre into three stages: ‘Prior to Su Dongpo, there were the ci written by musical professionals and sung by courtesans and prostitutes; from Su Dongpo to Xin Qiji and Liu Kezhuang 刘克庄 (1187–1269), there were the ci written by poets; and from Jiang Kui 姜夔 (1155?–1221) onwards until the Song-Yuan transition, there were the ci written by ci hacks (cijiang 词匠).’ Hu was most appreciative of the ‘ci written by poets’: ‘These authors were all naturally talented poets. They were not interested in 114

Hu Shi, ‘Guoyu wenxue shi’ 国 语 文 学 史 (History of Literature in the Vernacular Language), in Hu Shi wenji, vol. 8, 92–115. 115 When Duzhe shudian 读者书店 in Taibei reprinted this work in 1958, it was re-titled Selected Vernacular Song Lyrics. The change of title may not have been suggested by Hu himself, but Hu Shi’s writings at least give the impression that he might have done so.

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singing or in musical harmony, they were using the ci form to write New Poetry. These ‘poets’ lyrics’ started to flourish with Wang Anshi 王安石 (1021–1086), Su Dongpo, and Xin Qiji.’ In narrating the historical evolution of the ci genre, Hu Shi emphasized that ‘the function of ci was expanded, its contents became more complex, and the ci poets’ individuality became more pronounced.’ He was 116 especially prone to praising ‘outstanding short ci.’ For instance, when talking about Xin Qiji, he wrote: ‘Many of his xiaoling are wonderful works. His expression of emotion, his depiction of scenery, his description of yearnings, and his conveying of thoughts are all beautiful and subtle. Therein lies the excellence, and the lasting value, 117 of Xin’s work.’ Hu Shi had long since been interested in the shi poetry of Bai Juyi 白居易 (772–846) and the short ci poetry of Xin Qiji. He wrote about them at length in Hu Shi’s Overseas Diary, and he also discusses them in his ‘Autobiography at Forty.’ In view of the requirements for promoting vernacular poetry, Hu Shi had suppressed that taste and tried hard to discard the influence of ‘old poetry.’ The ‘poem-scrapping incident’ marks the beginning of Hu’s adjustment to his reading and writing attitudes. On the one hand, vernacular poetry by then already had a firm footing, making it no longer necessary to insist on avoiding the infiltration from classical Chinese and song lyric tunes; on the other hand, Hu Shi had started to read ‘old poetry’ because of the demands of teaching as well as shifts in his interests. It remains hard to determine how significant the impact of the letters from the Zhou brothers was on this transition. Liang Qichao’s opinion, however, was clearly respected, as can be gathered from Hu’s ‘Letter to Li Bake 李拔可 (18761953) after Reading Song Lyrics from the Double Magnolia Mansion’ of March 9, 1928. In it, he asks the recipient of the letter if he noticed that one of his short poems ‘has strong overtones of ci,’ and the poem he copies is precisely the one entitled ‘Flowers in a Vase,’ described by Liang Qichao as a ‘free lyric.’ This is the complete opposite of the way in which, in previous years, Hu incessantly criticized himself for being unable to shake off the influence of ci tunes. Even more important is the following passage: 116

Hu Shi, ‘Ci xuan zixu’ 《词选》自序 (Editor’s Preface to Selected Song Lyrics), in Hu Shi wencun san ji, vol. 8, 997–1005. 117 Cf. the section on Xin Qiji in Hu Shi, Ci xuan 词选 (Selected Song Lyrics) (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1927).

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In recent years I have been selecting ci poems, copying them out and reciting them, and this influenced me a lot, so that when I wrote vernacular poems, they often used ci tunes. It seemed to be beneficial for my cadences, so I did not try to force myself to get rid of it.118

I should like to add that it was not just because he had been ‘selecting ci poems’ that Hu Shi ‘often used ci tunes.’ In December 1935, the literary historian Chen Zizhan 陈子展 (18981990) published an article entitled ‘A Brief Discussion of the “Hu Shi Style,”’ in which he analysed the difference between Hu’s recent poem ‘In Praise of Flying’ and the poems in Experiments: With his old direction he was unable to discard the remnants of imitation of old poetry, like a tightly-bound foot that has been released. In his new direction, he has accepted the influence old poetry, or rather, he has metamorphosed from old poetry, like a silkworm who has turned into a moth. For instance, the poem ‘In Praise of Flying’ has cadences that are very much like the xiaoling by Xin Qiji, yet it does not appear to be the result of conscious imitation.119

Two months later, Hu Shi responded with ‘About the “Hu Shi Style” of Poetry,’ in which he openly discussed his experiences with writing New Poetry using ci tunes. Moreover, he emphasized that this was not a ‘new direction’ but rather a very familiar ‘old direction’ that he had long since been used to following. The following passage sets out extremely clearly how he transformed rhymes, relaxed the rules of level and oblique tones, and adjusted line sentence-types in order to obtain more freedom: In fact, ‘In Praise of Flying’ is also based on the tune ‘A Happy Event Draws Near.’ However, according to ci convention, the two stanzas should use the same rhyme, whereas I changed the rhyme sounds. In recent years I have been fond of writing short poems on this tune, because it is most irregular and comes very close to natural speech. Moreover, this tune is very concise, so you have to use very terse lines. There is no room for any odds and ends or fancy phrases, which is the best possible exercise for writing poetry. I have always liked this tune, and from time to time I used its structure as a framework for the organization of my short poems. I do not bother about level or oblique 118

Hu Shi, ‘Du Shuang xinyi lou ci zhi Li Bake’ 读《双辛夷楼词》致李拔可 (Letter to Li Bake after Reading Song Lyrics from the Double Magnolia Mansion), Dongfang zazhi 26, no. 6 (1928). 119 Chen Zizhan, ‘Lüe lun “Hu Shizhi ti”’ 略论“胡适之体” (A Brief Discussion of the ‘Hu Shi Style’), Shen bao, December 12, 1935, Wenyi zhoukan section, 6.

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tones, nor am I worried about changing the rhyme sounds, and sometimes I do not restrict the line-lengths either, so it all feels very free. At least I feel that this is much freer than trying to force a poem into a fourteen-line sonnet form!120

At this point it would seem that the new poet Hu Shi has completed his difficult self-adjustment. Faced with the vitality, as well as the shortcomings, of the ‘Hu Shi Style,’ he frankly declared that ‘these days I just write my own poems.’ No longer did he persist in performing the ill-suited role of ‘pathfinder.’ As an advocate of New Poetry, Hu Shi always continued to adhere to the dividing line between classical language and vernacular. This is understandable, for it was the basis of his life’s work and the course he had vowed to adhere to. Hu was always quite conscious of protecting his own scholarly contributions. Starting from the early ‘Author’s Preface to Experiments,’ up to his Spoken Autobiography later in life, whenever New Poetry was mentioned, Hu Shi would regurgitate the two keywords: ‘vernacular’ and ‘experiment.’ From the mid-1920s onwards, he became gradually more relaxed about discarding the influence of ci tunes, which he argued over a lot in his early years. By the time he came out and explained how he used xiaoling in order to create New Poetry, people were pretty familiar with the characteristics and direction of the ‘Hu Shi Style.’ Hu Shi was never a great poet and the value of Experiments lies mainly in its ‘experimentation.’ Nevertheless, the clarity of his language and the simplicity of his artistic moods, as well as the continuity of his work with the Chinese past, such as the verse of Yuan Zhen 元稹 (779– 831) and Bai Juyi and the short ci of Su Dongpo and Xin Qiji, still deserves a place and ought not be completely dismissed by later 121 generations. 120

Hu Shi, ‘About the “Hu Shi Style” of Poetry.’ In his ‘Lun Hu Shi de shi’ 论胡适的诗 (On Hu Shi’s Poetry) (see the Appendix to Random Memories of Hu Shi), Zhou Cezong, who was Hu Shi’s poetry friend in his later years, wrote that Hu enjoyed Yuan Zhen, Bai Juyi, as well as Yuan Mei 袁枚 (1716–1797), and that he liked reading fiction: ‘This is the reason why his early attempts at New Poetry were often unable to discard the atmosphere of genres like the simple jueju and gexing 歌行, as well as xiaoling, the zhongdiao 中调 favoured by Su Dongpo and Xin Qiji, and also doggerel verse. […] I feel that the good aspects of Hu Shi’s poetry are the fluency and clarity of his language and the occasional spark of wisdom. His best poems are often quite refined (yiqu 逸趣) or poised (yunzhi 韵致). […] Liang Qichao said that he especially liked Hu Shi’s short ci, and that makes a lot of sense.’ 121

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Establishing a Canonical Position Experiments is a ‘canonical work’ in the history of modern Chinese literature. It appeared out of thin air and initially it was brilliantly successful, but soon it met with some serious challenges. Over the years it had its ups and downs, until it finally overcame some giant obstacles (both artistic and ideological) and took its place in the literary prize gallery at the end of the twentieth century (assuming that inclusion into the ‘one hundred outstanding publications of one hundred years of Chinese literature’ is a kind of prize). For Hu Shi, who was not blessed with artistic talent, this is nothing short of a miracle. At first, even his good friends, like Chen Xiying, were not very flattering about Hu Shi’s vernacular poetry. In his ‘Ten Works from the Movement for a New Literature,’ Chen recommends Hu Shi’s Collected Prose, but not his Experiments, for the following reason: I am not listing Experiments because I do not believe that Hu is a gifted poet, even though some of his short verses are quite charming. The reason why he cannot possibly excel at poetry can be gathered from his statements such as: ‘In writing, there are three conditions: firstly, being clear and understandable; secondly, being powerful and emotive; thirdly, beauty.’ And also: ‘Beauty is the natural result of adding together ‘intelligibility’ (being understandable) and ‘forcefulness’ (being powerful).’ These statements also explain why he does excel at reasoning and at textual research.122

It truly is unimaginable that someone like Hu Shi, who was ‘not a gifted poet’ could enter the ranks of ‘canonical authors’ on the basis of a collection, Experiments, containing only a handful of ‘short verses’ that were ‘quite charming.’ Upon closer scrutiny, however, it is possible to find out that the trajectory towards success for Experiments was by no means accidental. It included the shaping of a ‘definitive edition’ through the ‘scrapping of poems’ in the 1920s, followed by the formation of a particular ‘style’ through ‘genre discussions’ in the 1930s, and finally the shaping of a ‘canon’ through ‘criticism and rehabilitation’ in the period from the 1950s to the 1970s. The latent abilities of the work itself and the raging thought tides of the eras in question were 122

Chen Xiying, Xiying xianhua 西滢闲话 (Idle Talk by Xiying) (Shanghai: Xinyue shudian, 1931).

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important factors in this process, but the open support by the Zhou brothers also played a considerably positive role. When Experiments was first published, its staunchest advocate was Hu’s new friend Qian Xuantong. In his ‘Preface to Experiments,’ the man famous for his ‘doubting of antiquity’ heaps ample praise on the first collection of New Poetry authored by a single individual: The vernacular poems in the first part of Shizhi’s Experiments are expressions of Shizhi’s own thoughts and feelings in modern vernacular language. He uses no classical language, nor does he imitate language used in the poems of his predecessors. I feel that it is worthy of the name ‘New Literature.’123

The historian shows startling foresight here, by focusing his article on the ‘expressions of Shizhi’s own thoughts and feelings in modern vernacular language.’ Even nowadays, Qian’s appraisal still holds true. Because it was ‘the first,’ the publication of Experiments also attracted much criticism. Most prominent was the debate between ‘the three Hus.’ First of all there was Hu Huaichen 胡 怀 琛 (18861938), who described himself as having ‘sought to make a living in poetry every year in the past two decades.’ He came out with strong criticism of Experiments and he voluntarily rewrote a number of Hu Shi’s lines. In his view, the kind of New Poetry written by Hu Shi possessed ‘two fundamental flaws’: 1. It cannot be sung. It can only be called vernacular prose. It does not count as poetry. 2. It is too dainty. It can only be called ci or qu. It cannot count as New Poetry.124

There is criticism, blow. A Shanghai 123

nothing constructive about this kind of hot-tempered which seems to want to kill off vernacular poetry in one year later, however, the Taidong publishing house in published a collection of articles related to the debate,

Qian Xuantong, ‘Preface to Experiments’. Hu Huaichen, ‘Hu Shizhi pai xin shi genben de quedian’ 胡适之派新诗根本 的缺点 (The Fundamental Flaws of the Hu Shi School of New Poetry), Shishi xin bao, January 11, 1921, Xue deng section. [Translator’s note] Based on a traditional understanding of the word shi 诗, Hu Huaichen takes ‘New Poetry’ (xin shi 新诗) to refer to new-style writing in the shi genre, as distinct from ci and qu. For Hu Shi and his supporters, on the other hand, shi was the new general term for poetry in all genres. 124

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edited by Hu Huaichen, under the title Criticism and Debate about Experiments, which was quite different from the later one-sided ‘criticism collections’ (pipan ji 批判集). The collection contains two articles by Zhu Zhixin 朱执信 (18851920), originally published in Weekly Review, entitled ‘The Cadences of Poetry’ and ‘Response to Hu Huaichen.’ Zhu strongly repudiates Hu Huaichen’s criticism of the cadences of New Poetry in his article ‘Reading Hu Shi’s Experiments.’ Zhu emphasized that ‘all writing must let the pitch and length of its words be determined by the transitions and changes in its meaning’ and that ‘cadence is definitely not something that can be 125 rigidly determined by rules.’ Zhu’s article ridicules Hu Huaichen’s fundamental misunderstanding of the cadences of New Poetry and criticizes and refutes each and every one of his corrections of lines in Experiments. If Hu Huaichen’s flaw was that he indiscriminately adhered to classical things (shigubuhua 食古不化), then one might say that Hu Xiansu (the third Hu) indiscriminately adopted foreign ideas (shiyangbuhua 食 洋 不 化 ). His lengthy and verbose article ‘A Critique of Experiments,’ published in instalments in the first two issues of Critical Review, featured countless references to Western thinkers as well as a large number of English words scattered throughout the text, all to make the single point that ‘the value and effect of Experiments are negative’ and to make people understand that ‘this road leads nowhere.’ In his concrete discussion, his criticism of Hu’s poetry is largely overstated and inappropriate, using terms such as ‘dry and bland moralism,’ ‘shallow symbolism,’ ‘dainty romanticism,’ and ‘carnal imagism.’ Even more difficult to understand is his statement that the best poems in the collection are 126 ‘Newlywed Random Poems’ and ‘Seeing Off Shuyong to Sichuan.’ Needless to say this style of writing attracted sarcastic responses. The 127 article ‘Errata for “A Critique of Experiments,”’ by Shifen 式芬, published in the literary supplement of the Morning News, beats Hu Xiansu at his own game by pointing out four mistaken under125

Zhu Zhixin, ‘Shi de yinjie’ 诗的音节 (The Cadences of Poetry), Xingqi pinglun 51 (1920). 126 Hu Xiansu, ‘Ping Changshi ji’ 评《尝试集》(A Critique of Experiments), Xueheng 1, 2 (1922). 127 [Translator’s note] ‘Shifen’ is a pseudonym of Zhou Zuoren.

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standings of foreign literature in his article and providing ‘some 128 corrections.’ It also reproaches Hu for his lack of ‘scholarly spirit.’ As for Hu Shi himself, he felt that Hu Huaichen (‘that man trying to teach me poetry for free’) was ridiculous and did not enter into a serious discussion with him. In May and in September 1920, he published letters to Zhang Dongsun 张东荪 (18861973) and Hu Huaichen in the Light of Learning supplement of the China Times, in which he defends himself somewhat. At first he stays polite: ‘I am happy for people to criticize my poetry conscientiously, but I am not 129 happy for people to rewrite my poems.’ But in the passage below, he sounds somewhat arrogant: In my (already published) preface to the second edition of Experiments, I have discussed some of the views that you put forward in your review of Experiments, such as that Hu Shi was deceived by Qian Xuantong and that everybody else is being deceived by Hu Shi. Those views I believe are still worth discussing. But I am afraid I shall refrain from any response to your later ‘four corrections.’130

Not disdaining to enter into a discussion with Hu Huaichen, Hu merely dismissed this ‘conservative critic’ in his preface to the second edition of Experiments, without even mentioning his name. Relatively speaking, Hu Shi paid more attention to the criticism from the Western-educated Hu Xiansu. In his preface to the fourth edition of Experiments, he did not respond directly to any concrete views in ‘A Critique of Experiments,’ but he dismissed him in a roundabout way, with the following witty but perhaps overly light-hearted lines: ‘As for Professor Hu Xiansu’s generous suggestion that I should perish and wither in the company of Dostoyevsky, I am of course not worthy of such great honour.’ Perhaps Hu Shi had become complacent after selling more than ten thousand copies in two years and having been called ‘highly talented’ in positive reviews by the Zhou brothers and others. Although Hu Shi was very modest about his poetry collection going into a second edition, saying that it might ‘make people realize 128

Shifen, ‘“Ping Changshi ji” kuangmiu’ 〈评《尝试集》〉匡谬 (Errata for ‘A Critique of Experiments’), Chen bao fujuan, February 4, 1922. 129 Hu Shi, ‘Zhi Zhang Dongsun’ 致张东荪 (Letter to Zhang Dongsun), Shishi xin bao, May 12, 1920, Xue deng section. 130 Hu Shi, ‘Da Hu Huaichen’ 答胡怀琛 (Reply to Hu Huaichen), Shishi xin bao, September 12, 1920, Xue deng section.

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the pain involved in releasing feet that were once bound,’ it is clear from the way in which he widely solicited his friends’ opinions and from the extensive revisions that he made, that he did have aesthetic pursuits. One might even call him smug: he clearly had confidence in his Experiments and wanted its success to endure, and that is why he needed to polish it so much. A few days before he wrote his preface to the fourth edition, he completed his article ‘Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years,’ in which he describes the Literary Revolution as follows: I am not afraid to say that the Literary Revolution has already passed the stage of discussion. The opposition party is already bankrupt. From now on, it is well and true the era of creation of New Literature.131

It is exactly because of this assessment that Hu Shi did not disdain to enter into a discussion with Hu Huaichen and that he did not seriously respond to Hu Xiansu’s criticism. However, the ‘bankruptcy’ of the ‘party’ opposing ‘vernacular poetry’ did not mean Experiments was exempt from criticism. The later criticism from new poets who basically belonged to the same camp made things even more difficult for Hu Shi. On the Chinese poetry scene of 1923, two powerful articles appeared that seemed to want to ‘sweep away all enemies, like 132 rolling up a mat.’ The first was Zhou Lingjun’s 周灵均 ‘Scrapping Poems,’ in which eight collections of New Poetry, including Hu Shi’s Experiments, Guo Moruo’s Goddesses, Kang Baiqing’s Grass, and Yu Pingbo’s Winter Night, are taken to task with accusations, such as ‘this is not poetry at all’ and ‘this is immature work.’ Lu Xun was very unhappy with the way in which this critic, for his own ‘pleasure,’ ‘picked up his massacring pen to wipe away all the weeds 133 on the literary scene.’ Compared to this, Cheng Fangwu’s 成仿吾 (18971984) article ‘A Defence of Poetry’ has more theoretical significance. He, too, targets Experiments, Grass, Winter Night, and others, and his tone is as sharp, but he does make sense. His article was published in the first issue of Creation Weekly. Its objects of 131

Hu Shi, ‘Wushi nian lai Zhongguo zhi wenxue’ 五 十 年 来 中 国 之 文 学 (Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years), Hu Shi wencun er ji, vol. 2, 211. 132 [Translator’s note] Here the author quotes a famous line from Mao Zedong’s poem ‘Against the Second Encirclement Campaign.’ 133 Lu Xun, ‘“Shuobuchu”’ “说不出” (‘Unspeakable’), Lu Xun quanji, vol. 7, 39.

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criticism did not include Guo Moruo, but instead included Zhou 134 Zuoren, so that there is a clear suspicion of ‘factionalism.’ Yet his point that, having discarded ci tunes and freed up the vernacular, there was no need for New Poetry to go into the direction of ‘small poetry’ and ‘philosophical poetry,’ is very insightful. General criticism of vernacular poetry, no matter how harshly phrased, was of little significance to Hu Shi. In 1926, however, the situation changed when the superbly-talented new poet Zhu Xiang arrived on the scene. In his article ‘A Critique of Wen Yiduo’s Poetry’ Zhu Xiang lays down the following principle of criticism, in order to avoid having friends showering praise on each other and having people ‘encourage each other more in their learning the more they are familiar with each other’: I prefer to err on the side of harshness, rather than on the side of excessive praise.

Zhu applied this strategy not only to his review of Wen Yiduo’s poetry, but also to poetry collections by Hu Shi, Kang Baiqing, and Guo Moruo. For instance, although he enjoyed Guo Moruo’s romantic passion and magnificent imagery, he criticized him for ‘not paying enough attention to art, so that one really cannot help but laugh at his coarseness.’ When it came to Kang Baiqing, he was even less polite, saying that his efforts to create ‘a rebellious spirit and monotonous lines’ had ‘utterly failed.’ While criticizing Kang, he also ridiculed Yu Pingbo, ‘who is in the same business as Mr Kang.’ Zhu Xiang’s assessment of Xu Zhimo was even more venomous: Mr Xu does not have the inspiration of a Wang Jingzhi, he does not have the boldness of a Guo Moruo, he does not have the subtlety of a Wen Yiduo, nor does he have the delicacy of a Liu Mengwei 刘梦苇 (19001926). The only thing that Mr Xu has is—in the words used by one of Mr Xu’s friends to describe Mr Xu—shallowness.135

134

[Translator’s note] Guo Moruo was the leading poet of the Creation Society, to which Cheng Fangwu also belonged. The poets he criticizes in his article were all members of, or associated with, the Chinese Literary Association. The ‘factionalism’ involved in the debates between members of these two societies has been widely studied. See also Chapter 2. 135 Zhu Xiang, Zhong shu ji 中书集 (Book-struck) (Shanghai: Shenghuo shudian, 1934), 328, 376, 382, 397.

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A critic with this kind of temperament and this kind of insight, when confronted with Experiments, would of course not be very tolerant. The article ‘Reviews of New Poetry (1): Experiments,’ published in the literary supplement to the Morning News of April 1, 1926, summed up its verdict in one sentence: I have four words to spare for Experiments: ‘shallow content, naive art.’

This ‘post-mortem verdict’ was based on the following judgments: real new poems in Experiments are few; old poems and variations on old poems are in the majority; talking about ‘-isms’ in poetry is ridiculous—‘Mr Hu even appeals for empiricism in poetry’; ‘all of Mr Hu’s poems are mediocre’; ‘Mr Hu uses the particle le far too often as the rhyme-word,’ which proved how weak his artistic 136 powers were. Zhu’s criticism tends towards being blunt, but his insights are clear and received much attention. When Zhu Ziqing taught his class in ‘New Literature Research,’ he specifically cited Zhu Xiang’s criticism of the over-use of the rhyme-sound le in 137 Experiments. And when Caochuan Weiyu 草川未雨 (i.e. Zhang Xiuzhong 张秀中, 19051944) wrote about Experiments in his Past, Present, and Future of China’s New Poetry Scene that there was ‘not a single poem in it that can be called a completely new poem, and 138 therefore not a single poem that satisfies,’ he was basically copying Zhu Xiang’s opinion. Zhu Xiang’s heroic charge announced the rise of a new generation of poets. In the ten years that followed, Hu Shi the poet basically remained hidden in the depths of history. Not only Hu Shi, but all the early advocates of vernacular poetry had gone into retreat by that time and seldom showed themselves on the poetry scene. When, in 1932, Liu Bannong published Manuscripts of Early Vernacular Poetry, he lamented that the changes in literary circles had ‘changed those of us who were the first to strive for literary reform into

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Zhu Xiang, ‘Reviews of New Poetry (1): Experiments.’ Zhu Ziqing quanji, vol. 8, 88. 138 Caochuan Weiyu, Zhongguo xin shitan de zuori jinri he mingri 中国新诗坛的 昨日今日和明日 (Past, Present, and Future of China’s New Poetry Scene) (Beiping: Haiyin shuju, 1929). 137

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ancients from many generations ago.’ If it had not been for the debate generated by the literary historian Chen Zizhan’s description of the ‘Hu Shi Style,’ Hu Shi and the poets that followed him might very well have been forgotten altogether. On December 6, 1935, Chen Zizhan’s ‘A Brief Discussion of the “Hu Shi Style”’ appeared in the literature and art supplement to the Shun Pao. It argued that: ‘The movement for a New Poetry is still far from having succeeded. There are many roads leading to New Poetry, 140 and it may well be that different roads lead to the same goal.’ Chen’s suggestion that the ‘Hu Shi Style’ also represented one new road for the development of New Poetry gave rise to much debate. A month later, in the same newspaper supplement, a certain Zimo 子模 published ‘The Way Out for New Poetry and the “Hu Shi Style.”’ Zimo criticizes Hu Shi for ‘turning summersaults on the skeletons of old poems’ and for embodying ‘the ideology of “comfort” of the leisurely classes’ and he categorically asserts that ‘the time for the liberated-feet-like “Hu Shi Style” has long since past.’ The way out for New Poetry was rich social content and fluent colloquial language. The conclusion to the article is very explicit: ‘In this day and age, to come up with the “Hu Shi Style” as a possible road for New Poetry, 141 can be nothing more than a “dead-end street.”’ Hu Shi was not surprised that, in this debate, there were more people who opposed Chen’s views than there were those who agreed with them. Hu was 142 moved, however, by Chen’s eager expectations. Therefore, he followed up with ‘About the “Hu Shi Style” of Poetry,’ taking the opportunity to state his three restraints of writing poetry (about which more below) and to express his regret that critics had ignored some of the really good poems in Experiments. This was at least the third time that Hu Shi wrote about himself as representative of a ‘style’ or ‘school’ of early New Poetry. The first two times his statements were not very significant and received little 139

Liu Bannong, ‘Preface and Contents of Manuscripts of Early Vernacular Poems,’ in Chuqi baihua shigao. 140 Chen Zizhan, ‘A Brief Discussion of the “Hu Shi Style.”’ 141 Zimo, ‘Xin shi de chulu yu “Hu Shizhi ti”’ 新诗的出路与胡适之体 (The Way Out for New Poetry and the ‘Hu Shi Style’), Shen bao, January 17, 1936, Wenyi zhoukan section, 16. 142 The final lines of Chen’s article read: ‘Mr Hu! Don’t say you only have “a mind to advocate, not the power to create.” I very much hope that you will apply your pioneer spirit to create a “Hu Shi Style” of New Poetry.’

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attention. This time, however, it was a question of life or death. In 1920, Hu wrote an afterword to his 1915 poem ‘Ballad of the Old Tree,’ mentioning how when he wrote this poem during his studies in the U.S., it had sparked his friends’ ridicule, and how they had 143 ‘started to imitate the “Hu Shi Style” and make fun of it.’ In his 1924 preface to Hu Siyong’s Posthumous Poems, he wrote: ‘His poetry is first of all clear and intelligible, secondly it emphasizes artistic mood, thirdly it is well-trimmed, and fourthly, it is wellorganized and patterned. If there really is a Hu Shi School in New 144 Poetry, then this should belong to it.’ In ‘About the “Hu Shi School” of Poetry,’ he states that ‘I apply the following restraints when writing poetry: firstly, what I say must be clear and intelligible; secondly, the material I use must be trimmed; thirdly, the artistic mood must be simple and natural (pingshi 平实).’ The critic Liang Shiqiu 梁实秋 (19031987) missed the point completely when he commented on these three items saying that ‘Hu’s advocacy of clarity and intelligibility must be given special attention,’ and followed that with a sweeping statement about how ‘the term “vernacular poetry” must be understood as “clear and intelligible poetry,” therefore “clarity and intelligibility” ought to be the common characteristics of all vernacular poetry and not just the sole characteristics of the “Hu Shi Style.”’ This can only be understood as Liang Shiqiu beating his 145 own drum. Hu Shi, on the other hand, was quite conscious of what was at stake and emphasized repeatedly that the three restraints were applicable only to ‘my own poetry’ and that they possessed neither universal, nor absolute value. The novelty and importance of Hu Shi’s article lies in its organic fusion of ‘clarity and intelligibility’ in style with ‘simplicity and subtlety’ (danyuan 淡远) in artistic mood, by which the ‘Hu Shi Style’ was quite nicely positioned. ‘Among the various artistic moods of poetry, I have always found that those involving simple, implicit 143

Experiments, fourth edition, 171. Hu Shi, ‘Hu Siyong de yishi xu’ 《 胡 思 永 的 遗 诗 》 序 (Preface to Hu Siyong’s Posthumous Poems), in Hu Siyong de yishi, by Hu Siyong (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1924). 145 Liang’s article also emphasized that ‘New Poetry these days is for the large part becoming ever more obscure,’ because poets ‘imitate some degenerate Western literature, especially the so-called “symbolist” poetry.’ Liang Shiqiu, ‘Wo ye tantan “Hu Shizhi ti” de shi’ 我也谈谈“胡适之体”的诗 (My Comments on the ‘Hu Shi Style’ of Poetry), Ziyou pinglun 12 (1936). 144

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(hanxu 含蓄), or subtle poetic states (jingjie 境界) were most able to 146 provide enduring contemplation and enjoyment.’ Looking back at his career so far, Hu felt that the best example to represent this direction and to recommend to his readers was the poem ‘Night of November 24th,’ written on November 25, 1920, and published in New Youth, Volume 8, No. 5: The shadow of the old locust tree, Shaking on the moonlit ground; A few dry leaves left on the jujube tree, Occasionally making a feeble sound. Autumn colours in the Western Mountains beckoned me Alas my illness held me here. They say I’ll soon be better now. That dark-bright autumn has long since passed.

After quoting the entire poem, Hu Shi lamented: ‘The artistic mood of this poem comes close to those simple and subtle moods that I admire. For the past fifteen years, this mood does not appear to have 147 been recognized by the majority of literary critics.’ Here, the ‘majority’ of literary critics does not include the two Zhou brothers, since this poem is exactly the one that Lu Xun and Zhou Zuoren singled out for praise in their letters about the scrapping of the poems. After this process of self-adjustment and self-promotion, the position of the ‘Hu Shi Style’ was fixed. For its historical significance to be given prominence, however, it needed to be shaped by the modern education system and modern literary historiography. One of the accomplishments of the New Culture Movement, apart from the spread of ‘Mr Science’ and ‘Mr Democracy,’ is the huge change to the university curriculum: previously unacceptable topics such as ‘fiction’ and ‘drama’ became compulsory subjects; Chinese people’s tendency to revere the past was transformed and ‘modern 146

[Translator’s note] Hu’s terminology here, with its emphasis on the mastery of yijing (here translated as ‘artistic mood’) and jingjie (‘poetic state’), is heavily indebted to traditional Chinese poetics and its modern elaboration by Wang Guowei. The correct understanding of the two key terms and their proper translation into English has been widely, and inconclusively, discussed by many scholars and critics. My choice of translation was partly inspired by the discussion in Chung-Ying Cheng and Nicholas Bunnin, eds., Contemporary Chinese Philosophy (Malden, Mass. and Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 2002), 4446. 147 Hu Shi, ‘About the “Hu Shi Style” of Poetry.’

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literature’ came into the academic field of vision; the teaching of 148 ‘Western literature’ was given attention, and so on. When Hu Shi wrote ‘Chinese Literature of the Past Fifty Years’ in 1922, he described the recently concluded ‘Literary Revolution’ as ‘a glorious ending.’ However, when Zhu Ziqing starting lecturing ‘China’s New Literature Research’ at Tsinghua University in 1929, the field had gained a much higher status. As soon as New Literature became an object of tuition in university and even secondary school curricula, the pioneering contribution of Experiments inevitably started to figure prominently in the outlook of a whole generation of students. Related to this, the writing of literary history began to delve into the origins of ‘New Literature’ and could not possibly leave out Hu Shi’s contribution. Both the curricula and the textbooks for ‘China’s New Literature,’ as forms of knowledge transmission, emphasized first and foremost the ‘historical significance’ of the works, and only after that the already transformed ‘aesthetic standards.’ Readers were no longer confronted with an individual poetic work in isolation. Instead they considered the historical development trajectory of New Literature as a whole. As a result of this, the already ‘side-lined’ collection Experiments was given a second lease of life. When Zhu Ziqing, who did not hold early vernacular poetry in 149 very high regard, edited the poetry volume of the Compendium he seemed consciously to neglect its founder Hu Shi. He selected as few as nine of his poems, as opposed to twenty-nine by Wen Yiduo, twenty-six by Xu Zhimo, and twenty-five by Guo Moruo. Based on the number of poems selected, other poets ranked higher than Hu Shi were, in descending order: Li Jinfa, Bing Xin, Yu Pingbo, Liu Dabai, Wang Jingzhi, Kang Baiqing, Zhu Ziqing, He Zhisan 何 植 三 (18991977), Feng Zhi 冯 至 (19051993), Pan Mohua 潘 漠 华 (19021934), Zhu Xiang, Xu Yunuo 徐玉诺 (18941958), and [Yao 姚] Pengzi 蓬子 (19061969). However, when he taught his course 148

See my ‘Xin jiaoyu yu xin wenxue’ 新教育与新文学 (New Education and New Literature), in Beida jingshen ji qita (Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 2000), 246277. 149 In his editor’s notes in the poetry volume of the Compendium, Zhu writes: ‘We have brought together these poems from the first period mainly out of historical interest: we wanted to see remnants of the efforts by the poets of the enlightening period, to see how they liberated themselves from the old shackles, how they learned a new language, and searched for a new world. […] They provide only “historical interest.” They cannot be a model for anything.’

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in ‘China’s New Literature Research,’ he could not but place Hu Shi in first position in the sections on ‘early poetics’ and ‘early creations.’ Similarly, when Wang Zhefu 王哲甫 wrote his History of the Movement for China’s New Literature, he judged that Hu Shi ‘was not very successful in the creation of New Poetry,’ but he still acknowledged that ‘he carried out practical experiments in the field of New Poetry, acting as its most aggressive advocate, and his 150 achievements must be considered considerable.’ Chen Zizhan, who had such high praise for the ‘Hu Shi Style,’ provides a similarly appropriate assessment of Hu’s poetry in his History of Chinese Literature of the Past Thirty Years: ‘In fact, the true value of Experiments is not that it sets a standard for New Poetry, nor that it provides its readers with the pleasure of being engulfed by appreciation, but that it provides them with the courage to engage in 151 daring creation.’ On the eve of the War of Resistance, scholarly views on the historical position of the poet Hu Shi were in fact already converging. If it had not been for the violent outburst of the anti-Hu campaign in the 1950s, this story would have ended here. Interestingly, however, this sudden change in the situation and the subsequent twenty-yearlong ‘freeze’ earned Experiments the sympathy of large numbers of upright scholars. When it resurfaced in the late 1970s, it instantly received a lot of unexpected praise. One might even say that the effortless inclusion of Experiments into the ‘one hundred outstanding publications of one hundred years of Chinese literature,’ based on votes cast by Chinese scholars in the late twentieth century, was not unrelated to the ‘suffering’ it had gone through while being put in limbo for two decades. After the founding of the New China, a course outline for History of China’s New Literature was drawn up in order to unify opinions and standardize the curriculum. In the second section of the first part of the first lecture, entitled ‘The Theory of Literary Revolution and Its Struggles,’ Hu Shi’s name would be most likely to pop up. 150

Wang Zhefu, Zhongguo xin wenxue yundong shi 中国新文学运动史 (History of the Movement for China’s New Literature) (Beiping: Jiecheng yinshuju, 1933), 100. 151 Chen Zizhan, Zuijin sanshi nian Zhongguo wenxue shi 最近三十年中国文学 史 (History of Chinese Literature of the Past Thirty Years) (Shanghai: Taiping yang shudian, 1937), 227.

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However, the opening sub-heading is ‘Critique of Hu Shi’s 152 Proposals.’ This more or less announced Hu Shi’s fate in Mainland China’s academic circles for the next thirty years. In Wang Yao’s 王 瑶 (19141989) 1951 Draft History of China’s New Literature, Hu Shi’s ‘formalist attitude’ during the ‘May Fourth’ period is criticized, but the opening lines of the second chapter, entitled ‘Songs of Awakening,’ clearly states that ‘Hu Shi’s Experiments, published in 1920, is China’s first collection of New Poetry.’ As the political situation became ever tenser, Hu Shi’s position in the history of New Literature was ever more endangered and he was increasingly cast in a negative role. In 1955, the Writers Publishing House distributed Ding Yi’s 丁 易 (19131954) Brief History of Modern Chinese Literature. Since the author had recently passed away and thus been unable to revise, this work still contained some appreciation for Hu Shi’s ‘expression of sympathy with the working people’ in his poem 153 ‘The Rickshaw Runner.’ Soon thereafter, Zhang Bilai’s 张毕来 (19141991) Outline History of New Literature and Liu Shousong’s 刘绶松 (19121969) First Draft History of China’s New Literature both described Experiments as ‘containing nothing new in its thoughts and feelings, and hardly any new elements at all in its methods of expression.’ As for Hu Shi’s participation in the New Culture Movement, this was because ‘as a spokesman for U.S. imperialism, he had opportunistic designs, aimed at achieving his 154 own wild ambitions as well as his reactionary political goals.’ Interestingly, when the ‘Criticize Hu Shi Thought’ campaign swept

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Lao She 老舍, Cai Yi 蔡仪, Wang Yao, and Li Helin 李何林, ‘Zhongguo xin wenxue shi jiaoxue dagang’ 《 中 国 新 文 学 史 》 教 学 大 纲 (Course Outline of History of China’s New Literature), Xin jianshe 4, no. 4 (1951). 153 Ding Yi, Zhongguo xiandai wenxue shilüe 中国现代文学史略 (Brief History of Modern Chinese Literature) (Beijing: Zuojia chubanshe, 1955), 249. Hu’s poem ‘The Rickshaw Runner’ was published in XQN 4, no. 1 It was praised by Zhu Ziqing in his foreword to the poetry volume of the Compendium and, as a result, it has often been cited by all kinds of histories of modern Chinese literature and has been quite influential. In fact, this is not one of Hu Shi’s ‘representative works.’ Hu scrapped it while compiling the fourth edition of Experiments and neither Lu Xun, nor any of the others disagreed. 154 Zhang Bilai, Xin wenxue shigang 新 文 学 史 纲 (Outline History of New Literature) (Beiing: Zuojia chubanshe, 1955), vol. 1, 86; Liu Shousong, Zhongguo xin wenxue shi chugao 中国新文学史初稿 (First Draft History of China’s New Literature) (Beijing: Zuojia chubanshe, 1956), vol. 1, 41.

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the nation in 1955, Experiments was only rarely targeted. The only publication specifically critiquing it is an article by Lin Yan 林彦, published in Southwest Literature and Art in February 1955, entitled ‘A Critique of Hu Shi’s Experiments.’ The main target of the criticism campaign was Hu Shi’s ‘reactionary political thought,’ not his talents as a poet. Lin’s article therefore takes pains to argue that Hu’s poetry ‘directly serves the bourgeoisie and imperialism.’ Such a biased perspective left much space for later rehabilitation: as long as the political situation changed, Experiments could be effortlessly reentered into literary history. The rest of the story is very dramatic. After the third plenum of the eleventh central committee of the Chinese Communist Party affirmed the policies of reform and opening up, like a breath of fresh air a whole range of articles containing positive evaluations of Hu Shi appeared in Mainland Chinese newspapers. During the previous twenty years, there had only been some decent research publications appearing in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Japan. And the earliest concentrated calls for ‘rehabilitation’ were heard in the research on Experiments. In 1979 only, Lan Dizhi 蓝棣之, Qin Jiaqi 秦家琪, Wen Zhenting 文振庭, Gong Jimin 龚济民, Zhou Xiaoming 周晓明, Zhu Defa 朱 德 发 , and Yi Jian 亦 监 all published articles ‘re156 evaluating’ Experiments. On top of that there were various articles discussing Hu Shi at the time of the ‘May Fourth’ Literary Revolution or the New Culture Movement. The article by Yi Jian, 155

Cf. the eight-volume Hu Shi sixiang pipan 胡适思想批判 (Critique of Hu Shi’s Thought) (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1955–56). 156 Lan Dizhi, ‘Zhongguo xin shi de kaibu: chongping Hu Shi de Changshi ji he ta de shilun’ 中国新诗的开步 – 重评胡适的《尝试集》和他的诗论 (The Start of China’s New Poetry: A Re-evaluation of Hu Shi’s Experiments and of His Poetic Views), Sichuan shiyuan xuebao, no. 2 (1979); Qin Jiaqi, ‘Chongping Hu Shi de Changshi ji’ 重评胡适的《尝试集》(A Re-evaluation of Hu Shi’s Experiments), Nanjing shiyuan xuebao, no. 3 (1979); Wen Zhenting, ‘Hu Shi Changshi ji chongyi’ 胡适《尝试集》重议 (Reconsidering Hu Shi’s Experiments), Jianghan luntan, no. 3 (1979); Gong Jimin, ‘Ping Hu Shi de Changshi ji’ 评胡适的《尝试集》(An Evaluation of Hu Shi’s Experiments), Liaoning daxue xuebao, no. 3 (1979); Zhou Xiaoming, ‘Chongxin pingjia Hu Shi de Changshi ji’ 重新评价胡适的《尝试集》 (Re-evaluating Hu Shi’s Experiments), Po yu li, no. 5 (1979); Zhu Defa, ‘Lun Hu Shi zaoqi de baihua shi zhuzhang yu xiezuo’ 论胡适早期的白话诗主张与写作 (Hu Shi’s Early Proposals for and Writing of Vernacular Poetry), Shandong shiyuan xuebao, no. 5 (1979); Yi Jian, ‘Cong Lu Xun wei Hu Shi shan shi shuoqi’ 从鲁迅为 胡 适 删 诗 说 起 (Starting from How Lu Xun Helped Hu Shi to Scrap Poems), Shanghai shida xuebao, no. 2 (1979).

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entitled ‘Starting from How Lu Xun Helped Hu Shi to Scrap Poems’ is only five hundred characters long, but it is worth considering more closely. Based on the description in Hu Shi’s preface to the fourth edition of Experiments, the article points out that ‘the mere fact that during the “May Fourth” period Lu Xun helped Hu Shi to scrap poems’ suffices to explain that there was a special relationship between Lu Xun and Hu Shi. To use Lu Xun’s exalted status in order to provide justification for the re-appearance of Hu Shi is really a very clever move. A few other articles also refer in their discussion to this highly mysterious anecdote. During the twenty years that followed, as the teaching and writing of modern Chinese literary history became ever more mature, Hu Shi’s contributions as one of the pioneers of New Poetry were fully 157 affirmed and Experiments became ‘basic knowledge’ for anyone receiving higher education. As long as vernacular poetry is not completely rejected, this so-called ‘old ancestor of New Poetry’ cannot possibly be dismissed. Even those poets who were more talented than Hu, such as Zhu Xiang, will never be able to take his place. In this sense, Experiments has well and truly become a ‘canonical work.’ In his What Is a Classic?, the poet and critic T. S. Eliot divides canonical works into ‘absolute’ and ‘relative’ classics, based on the work’s fascination and its time and place of existence. The first type he calls the ‘universal’ classic, not restricted by its own time or place and forever appreciated by humanity; the second type are those works that are classics in relation to other literary works in their own language, or according to the worldview of a particular period. The creation of universal classics depends not only on individual talent, but also on the ‘maturity’ of culture, language, literature, mind, and 157

In the 1990s, Hu Shi’s works were republished on a large scale. The most influential publications were the following: the series Hu Shi xueshu wenji 胡适学术 文集 (Hu Shi’s Collected Scholarly Writings), published by Zhonghua shuju in Shanghai; Hu Shi’s Posthumous Manuscripts and Hidden Letters, published by Huangshan shushe in Hefei in 1994, 42 vols.; Hu Shi shuxin ji 胡适书信集 (Hu Shi’s Letters) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1996), 3 vols.; Hu Shi wenji 胡适 文集 (Hu Shi’s Writings) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998), 12 vols.; Hu Shi jingpin ji 胡适精品集 (Hu Shi’s Best Works) (Beijing: Guangming ribao chubanshe, 1998), 16 vols.; Hu Shi wenji 胡适文集 (Hu Shi’s Writings) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1998), 7 vols.; Hu Shi zhu yi jingpin xuan 胡适著译精品选 (Hu Shi’s Best Works and Translations) (Hefei: Anhui jiaoyu chubanshe, 1999), 19 vols.

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manners. Within such a discursive framework, the production of a classic is clearly determined by political ecology and cultural hegemony. For instance, in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, which occupy a dominant position in European and American culture, the imagination and expression of Chinese authors was unable to possess ‘universality,’ according to many critics, because of the lack of ‘maturity’ of their civilization, language, mind, and manners. The U.S. scholar Harold Bloom imagines the road towards canonization to be completely unrelated to political interests, a purely aesthetic 159 competition. At a time when there are still huge discrepancies between Eastern and Western culture, and between Northern and Southern economies, this is not very realistic. Even if we limit the discussion to a single cultural tradition, the promotion of a canonical work can still not completely discard the permeation of political power and the agitation of contemporary ideologies. Especially when those involved themselves start discussing ‘the canon,’ they actually end up confusing their own ‘taste in reading’ with their ‘cultural memory.’ Many well-known writers and works never entered the reading sphere of their contemporaries; while the works that are enjoyed by contemporary readers often never gain critical respectability. This relative discrepancy between ‘historical’ and ‘aesthetic’ views is to some extent understandable, because they each have different aims. It takes a long period of dialogue and adjustment before the two views will basically overlap. If, by that time, there are still discrepancies between experts’ tastes and those of common readers, then that is a different issue. Prior to that, when a work is too close to us and its lasting influence is still having an impact on today’s literary creation, those critics looking for the origins of a particular literary phenomenon, school, style, or form will easily single out such a work for praise or blame, as ‘originator’ or as ‘chief offender.’ With literary historians adding fuel to the flames, what we are faced with are not simple literary 158

Ailüete 艾略特 [T. S. Eliot], ‘Shenme shi jingdian zuopin?’ 什么是经典作品 (What Is a Classic?), trans. Wang Enzhong 王恩衷, in Ailüete shixue wenji (Beijing: Guoji wenhua chuban gongsi, 1989), 188205. [Translator’s note] The English original is Thomas Stearns Eliot, What Is a Classic? An Address Delivered before the Virgil Society on the 16th of October, 1944 (London: Faber & Faber, 1945). 159 Cf. Harold Bloom, The Western Canon (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1993), 1541.

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works, but works which have been packaged in various ways and which, as a result, come with bright halos or deep shadows. In this chapter, I have argued that the fame of Experiments as a ‘canonical work’ of modern Chinese literary history was not produced by Hu Shi’s individual talent, but by the conflicts and dialogues between ‘reform and conservation,’ ‘classical and vernacular,’ and ‘poetry and society.’ In the eyes of the historian, the history of literary reception is as important as literary production. Readers’ tastes and the fate of individual works are determined by, among other things, the independent judgment and active support of powerful individuals (such as the Zhou brothers accepting the invitation to help edit the collection) and the dissemination of knowledge through the university system (such as the establishment 160 of courses in ‘China’s New Literature’). As for the ideological struggles that will cause an individual work to ‘perish suddenly’ or to ‘be swiftly revived,’ these are what makes the history of literary reception in twentieth-century China seem so extraordinarily complicated, but also all the more dramatic and worthy of pursuit and contemplation. Finally, there is one more thing that we should consider: in the process of canon formation, the authors themselves are certainly not powerless. The way in which Hu Shi employed methods such as selfperfection (constantly revising his works), self-interpretation (writing three prefaces to Experiments), and self-positioning (the discourse about the ‘Hu Shi Style’) effectively influenced readers’ reading habits as well as historians’ assessments. Hu Shi was not the first, and certainly also not the last person in literary history to employ these methods. Therefore, when we discuss literary production, literary reception, and textual interpretation, we sometimes discover to our surprise that ‘the author,’ supposedly long ‘dead,’ continues to live on stubbornly, and forces historians never to underestimate his existence.

160

Cf. John Guillory, ‘Canon,’ in Critical Terms for Literary Study, ed. Frank Lentricchia and Thomas McLaughlin (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1995), 233-249.

CHAPTER SIX

WRITINGS IN THE MARGINS OF ‘NEW CULTURE’: NEW DISCOVERIES FROM AMONG HEAPS OF OLD PAPERS When discussing ‘May Fourth’ ‘New Culture,’ some like to attack the subject head-on while others prefer to proceed with care and consideration. To each his own, you may say. Because the former are interested in the great forces of history, they cannot but use a little more theoretical speculation, whereas the latter value the search for and analysis of historical materials, only writing about things for which there is concrete evidence. Declaring myself to be writing in ‘the margins,’ I am under no obligation to take on the difficult task of discussing ‘New Culture’ in its entirety. Instead, I am hoping that the detailed textual research that I love so much will bring me closer to my object of study. This is the meaning that ought to be contained in the phrase ‘touches of history.’ ‘New discoveries from among heaps of old papers,’ such as Fu Sinian’s comments written in a copy of Zhang Taiyan’s Balanced Inquiries, old Peking University textbooks, including Wu Mei’s Zhongguo wenxue shi 中国文学史 (History of Chinese Literature), stored in the library of the Institute of Chinese Advanced Studies of the Collège de France, and Liang Qichao’s manuscripts on language teaching in middle schools, partly subvert or revise our original conception of literary and cultural history. Since this is just some trivial textual research, I might as well adopt a more casual writing style. I shall also inadvertently reveal some small secrets about the state of mind behind the piles of paper, including my perspective on the history of scholarship and my present-day concerns. When a modern person discusses May Fourth, he is not only involved in a dialogue with past history. The ‘National Heritage’ That Ended up Abroad In the Summer of 2001, while visiting the University of London, I was delighted to discover several rare and interesting books in the Library of the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS). Some of these are amusing to read but of little scholarly significance;

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however, others are of great consequence and merit a proper introduction to the world of academia. A particular annotated copy of Balanced Inquiries, which, according to my research, was once in Fu Sinian’s possession, is of the latter kind. I actually discovered it by chance. When I first entered the library I did what I always do: without further ado I took a little stroll around the place to see if there was anything unusual, before looking for key points of attack. It was during this initial ‘leisurely tour of the sea of learning’ that I encountered a copy of Balanced Inquiries, published in 1915 by Youwenshe 右文社 in Shanghai as part of a series of books by Zhang Taiyan. This was not due to any extraordinary powers of mine, but because I was annoyed by the ugly sight of some thread-bound books, which ought to lie flat, interspersed among some standing. Thinking I would help by tidying up, I picked one up and found that it was Zhang’s Balanced Inquiries. There was nothing remarkable about that. However, this work had clearly consisted of three volumes, so how was it that only the middle volume was left, the beginning and the end missing? As I opened the book I found the following words written on the title page: One day Jiegang told me: the people that Taiyan attacks the most are also the people from whom he has learned the most: Zhaoming 昭明 [i.e. Xiao Tong 萧统 (501–531)], Shizhai 实斋 [i.e. Zhang Xuecheng], Yuntai 芸台 [i.e. Ruan Yuan 阮元 (1764–1849)], and Dingan 定庵 [i.e. Gong Zizhen 龚自珍 (1792–1841)]. The more I think about it, the more I believe this to be true.

Considering the prominent positions of Zhang Taiyan and Gu Jiegang in the history of modern Chinese scholarship, it was not hard to guess that the person who wrote the comment was someone with connections. Finding out about the provenance of this volume would be a charming episode in the history of learning. In London, in January, I would spend my days going to museums and my nights randomly reading a variety of books, thoroughly enjoying this carefree existence. As the day of departure drew nearer, my wife asked me: ‘How about that rare book you borrowed when we first came, did you not say that you could find out who wrote the comments in it? How did it go?’ There was no signature or ex libris anywhere in the book which could provide evidence. It is very hard to identify someone through handwriting alone, unless the writer is a famous calligrapher, or just happens to be the person you are a

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specialist on. According to the library computer, the library only possessed this companionless second volume of Balanced Inquiries. There was also no clue as to how the book had ended up in the library, whether it had been donated by a friend or purchased in China. A specialist work such as this, with rather initiated comments, did not appear to be the sort of book a Chinese student in Britain would read in his spare time. On the other hand, if the University of London had purchased the book in China, they would not have bought an incomplete set. I thought it over again and again but could not come up with an explanation. However, I would not admit defeat lest my wife would laugh at me. When the return to China was imminent I, at last, had to give up. I packed a backpack full of library books and set off to return them. On the way, I felt very remorseful and annoyed with myself. Passing through Russell Square, I stopped, and as a kind of ‘farewell performance’ I spent a little while reading in the shade of the trees. Although it is situated in the city center, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of traffic, the park was actually very peaceful. People of all descriptions were sitting on the benches or lying in the grass, reading their own books, minding their own business. I quickly gathered my thoughts and once again leafed through the Balanced Inquiries which I was about to return to the library. When I got to the chapter ‘Bian shi’ 辨诗 (Analysis of poetry), I saw two comments: ‘In the unrevised edition of this book, the word “all” originally followed upon the word “rhyming.” Corrected by Nian 年,’ and ‘The following should not be a separate section. Corrected by Nian.’ An imposing name immediately flashed through my mind: Fu Sinian. It had to be him! I had searched for clues near and far, but I had overlooked the words ‘corrected by Nian’ which had been there all along, right in front of my eyes. Once I had come to this realization, all the facts which had previously puzzled me suddenly came alive. The ‘one day, Jiegang told me’ comment on the title page [together with] a comment at the end of the book: ‘I read this book between March 30 and April 1, 1916’ meant that this was a relic from the time when Fu Sinian was attending the preparatory course at Peking University, and the commentaries tally with what is known about Fu Sinian’s thought and education at this particular time. In the Summer of 1919, Fu Sinian graduated from the Chinese Department of Peking University,

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and in early Spring the following year, he received a government grant to study experimental psychology at University College in the University of London, and so it was that this book followed its owner across the seas. In June 1923, when its owner left for Germany to study and research modern physics and comparative linguistics at the University of Berlin, the book did not accompany him on the trip but was left stranded in a foreign land. Luckily, it came to live in the School of Oriental and African Studies, another part of the University of London, a place where it is very much at home. The first part of these research findings can be proved without a doubt, the second half is conjecture, but very plausible nevertheless. Let us leave aside for the moment the question of how Balanced Inquiries was lost, and instead talk about how this annotated copy can help us understand ‘the early history of Fu Sinian.’ A large number of documents, recording every single detail about Fu Sinian after his return to China, are stored in the Institute of History and Philology of the Academia Sinica in Taiwan and, with the aid of this ‘Fu Sinian file,’ scholars such as Du Zhengsheng 杜正胜 and Wang Fansen 王汎森 have successfully constructed the image of Fu Sinian in the history of learning, the history of ideas, and the history of everyday life. He was a rising star of the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture Movement, publishing 51 articles in New Youth and The Renaissance, seven of which were included in the Foundational Theory volume of the Compendium: ‘Proposals for Literary Reform,’ ‘Draft Proposal for Uniting Writing and Speech,’ ‘A Preliminary Discussion of the Conversion to Phonetic Script for Chinese,’ ‘Vernacular Literature and Psychological Reform,’ ‘How to Write in the Vernacular,’ ‘A Comprehensive View on Improving Drama’ [see Chapter 2] and ‘On the Construction of Dramatic Works.’ Fu Sinian’s contributions were noted early on by literary historians. Wang Fansen is correct in stating that: ‘When reconstructing Fu Sinian’s biography, the most difficult periods are his youth and the seven years he spent in Britain and Germany.’1 However, a few notebooks and a large number of books from his time abroad have                                                              1

Wang Fansen, Zhongguo jindai sixiang yu xueshu de xipu 中国近代思想与学 术的系谱 (Genealogy of Thought and Scholarship in Modern China) (Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu chubanshe, 2001), 312.

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been preserved. Only his youth remains largely unknown, apart from a few reminiscences by his friends. I would like to take Wang’s line of reasoning a bit further and argue that the time in Fu Sinian’s life for which information is most lacking is not the time when he entered an old-style private school (sishu 私塾) aged five, nor his experience studying in Tianjin 天津 aged 12, but the years from the Summer of 1913, when he was accepted onto the preparatory course of Peking University, to 1918, the year when the New Culture Movement developed. The impact Fu Sinian’s six years at Peking University had upon his knowledge, thinking, and interests is no small matter. During the last two years, when he was writing for New Youth, edited the Renaissance magazine, and acted as commander-in-chief of the student demonstration on May Fourth, 1919, he was in the public eye, and he also left behind his own writings. What about the four previous years? In the ‘Chronological Biography of Fu Mengzhen 傅 孟 真 [i.e. Fu Sinian],’ compiled by Fu Yuecheng 傅乐成 (19221984), no other sources pertaining to the life of 18–22-year-old Fu Sinian are cited apart from recollections by his fellow students Mao Zishui, Luo Jialun, and Wu Ti 伍俶 (Wu Tee, 18971966).2 However, with the help of these three articles, originally published as Record of Funeral Elegies for the Late Principal Fu,3 with the addition of Gu Jiegang’s ‘Author’s Preface to Volume One of Disputing Antiquity,’4 we may begin to understand something of Fu’s mindset during his time at Peking University. If we compare the recollections of these four fellow students of Fu’s with the annotated copy of Balanced Inquiries, we will no doubt make further discoveries. In 1917, before Hu Shi returned to China to teach, the debate over jinwen 今文 (New Text) and guwen 古文 (Old Text) within classical studies and the related opposition between Kang Youwei and Zhang Taiyan was still a central concern of academic circles in China, and attracted the attention of a great number of scholars of literature and                                                              2

Cf. Fu Yuecheng, ‘Fu Mengzhen xiansheng nianpu’ 傅 孟 真 先 生 年 谱 (Chronological Biography of Fu Mengzhen), in Fu Sinian quanji (Taipei: Lianjing chuban gongsi, 1980), vol. 7. 3 Fu gu xiaozhang aiwan lu 傅故校长哀挽录 (Record of Funeral Elegies for the Late Principal Fu) (internal publication, Taiwan University, 1951). 4 Gu Jiegang, ‘Gu shi bian di-yi ce zixu’ 《古史辨》第一册自序 (Editor’s Preface to Volume One of Disputing Antiquity), in Gu shi bian, vol. 1.

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history. When the 1911 revolution proved successful, Zhang Taiyan’s disciples flocked to the capital and took over the forum for debate at Peking University. In addition, Zhang Taiyan himself ‘in dangerous times, arriving in the capital sword in hand,’ 5 first lectured on National Learning at the Republican Party headquarters, and was later imprisoned on account of his opposition to Yuan Shikai, something which made his reputation soar and made the students of Peking University take pride in reading Balanced Inquiries and his other works. In ‘Author’s Introduction to Volume One of Disputing Antiquity,’ Gu Jiegang emphasizes the importance of his accompanying Mao Zishui to Zhang Taiyan’s lectures on National Learning in December 1913 for the development of his own conception of scholarship. Of course, as a consequence of his scepticism towards ancient history and his achievements in detecting forgeries, Gu finally in 1915 managed to approach Kang Youwei, and came to understand that the New Text scholars’ position was not as shallow and trivial as Zhang Taiyan made it out to be in his criticism. On the contrary he felt that ‘the Old Text scholars slander the New Text scholars solely out of factionalism, and in so doing they act like teachers of the classics, rather than scholars’ and thus his admiration for Zhang Taiyan decreased.6 Gu Jiegang stated that because all of his teachers of Chinese and of philology were disciples of Zhang Taiyan, and also because of the practical instruction he had received through Zhang’s lectures, ‘I picked for myself eight books to read aloud, while marking out important passages, one after another in accordance to a time schedule.’ These eight books were: Records of the Grand Historian, The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons [by Liu Xie 刘勰                                                              5

Zhang Taiyan, ‘Shi wei si shou’ 时危四首 (Dangerous Times: Four Poems), originally published in Yayan 11 (1914), reprinted in Taiyan wenlu chubian 太炎文 录初编 (Taiyan’s Prose: First Collection) (Shanghai: Youwen, 1915). One of the poems reads as follows: ‘In dangerous times, arriving in the capital sword in hand / Let’s wait and see the blood run five feet far / Who says that Xu Qisheng from the South / Can’t be allowed to sleep where others are snoring?’ [Translator’s note] The poem references the story of Tang Ju 唐雎 from Intrigues of the Warring States, in which Tang dissuades the King of Qin from invading his homeland by threatening him with assassination. This is contrasted with the story of the seventh-century Xu Xuan 徐铉 (Xu Qisheng 徐骑省), who attempted peacefully to dissuade the Emperor of the Northern Song from invading the Southern Tang, only to be dismissed with the famous words: ‘I shall not allow others to sleep by my bed!’ 6 Cf. Gu Jiegang, ‘Editor’s Preface,’ 23–26.

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(466?539?), Perspectives on History [by Liu Zhiji 刘 知 几 (661721)], General Meaning of Literature and History [by Zhang Xuecheng], Textbook of Chinese History [by Xia Zengyou 夏曾佑 (18631924)], Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning, the Treatise on the Rise of the Mahayana Faith, and the Old and New Testaments.7 The first four of these come as no surprise, whereas the latter four reveal Gu Jiegang’s particular taste in books. He read the Treatise on the Rise of the Mahayana Faith because Zhang Taiyan had especially recommended it in his lectures, and his interest in the Bible began when Xia Zengyou ‘made frequent comparisons with the Old Testament when lecturing on ancient Chinese history.’ In other words, the last two of these books ended up on the ‘reading aloud and marking out schedule’ as an extension of the same train of thought which had led Gu to picking Balanced Inquiries and Textbook of Chinese History. Tao Xisheng, who was two years below Gu Jiegang when he began the preparatory course at Peking University in 1915, states in his article ‘The Preparatory School of Peking University,’ that the teacher of Chinese, Shen Yinmo, ‘told me to buy Mr Zhang Taiyan’s Balanced Inquiries to read,’ and instructed him in reading Lord Lü’s Spring and Autumn Annals [3rd century BCE], the Huainanzi [2nd century BCE], ‘The Essential Ideas of the Six Schools’ [by Sima Tan 司马谈(?110 BCE)], The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, Perspectives on History, Record of Knowledge Gained Day by Day [by Gu Yanwu], Record of SelfRenewal from the Ten Yokes Studio [by Qian Daxin 钱大昕 (17821804)], General Meaning of Literature and History, and Balanced Inquiries.8 Gu differs from Tao in that his reading habits were not only indebted to Zhang Taiyan, but also very much influenced by Xia Zengyou. According to Zhou Yutong, the latter’s main achievement was to ‘take on board the revelations of recent literature, and write

                                                             7

Ibid., 27. See also Gu Chao 顾 潮 , Gu Jiegang nianpu 顾 颉 刚 年 谱 (Chronological Biography of Gu Jiegang) (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1993), 36. 8 Tao Xisheng, ‘Beijing daxue yuke’ 北京大学预科 (The Preparatory School of Peking University), Zhuanji wenxue 3, no. 4 (1963).

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and edit ordinary history textbooks, thus popularizing among young people the new historiography of this transitional time.’9 Gu Jiegang writes: ‘I always like to note down my own opinions in the book I am reading. Not even authors whom I greatly admire, such as Zhang Taiyan, escape my criticism,’ 10 and he goes on to criticize at length the chapter ‘Outline of Literature’ in Balanced Inquiries. His equally talented friend Fu Sinian shared this habit. Fu’s old school friend Wu Ti reminisces in ‘Remembering Mengzhen’11 how in the second half of 1916, on the Peking University campus, a fat and eccentric student used to gather a crowd of students around him and engage in lively debate. ‘Because I liked his style very much, I went over to his desk and had a look. There lay a few copies of [Zhang Taiyan’s] Investigative Essays with annotations in red ink. I did not take a closer look, however.’ The notes on Investigative Essays have not been discovered to this date. However, the copy of Balanced Inquiries that I saw with my own eyes also had ‘annotations in red ink.’ When weighed up carefully, they show that, like Gu Jiegang, Fu Sinian ‘greatly admired’ Zhang Taiyan but also criticized him. Moreover, he clearly assessed Old Text scholar Zhang Taiyan’s exposition from the perspective of the New Text scholars. Those of Fu Sinian’s comments on Balanced Inquiries which remain mostly fall into two categories, those concerning wen 文 (literature) and those concerning the classics. Let us first look at the former. In ‘Outline of Literature,’ Zhang Taiyan writes: ‘The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons states: “In common parlance these days, a distinction is made between wen and bi 笔.”’ 12 Fu Sinian comments as follows: Yanhe 彦和 [i.e. Liu Xie] marks the distinction between wen and bi, not only preserving the public opinion of the time [i.e. that wen was

                                                             9

See Zhou Yutong jingxueshi lunzhu xuanji 周予同经学史论著选集 (Selection of Zhou Yutong’s Works on the History of the Study of the Classics) (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1996), 530. 10 See Gu Jiegang, ‘Editor’s Preface,’ 27–28. 11 Wu Ti, ‘Yi Mengzhen’ 忆 孟 真 (Remembering Mengzhen), in Record of Funeral Elegies…, 62–64. 12 [Translator’s note] The English translation of the quote from The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons is taken from Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, 273.

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rhymed and bi unrhymed], but also arguing against it. Therefore he says that ‘the principle of having “pattern (wen) adequate for words (yan 言 )” is present both in the [rhymed] Book of Songs and [unrhymed] Book of Documents; to view them as belonging to two separate categories is a recent phenomenon.’13 In the remainder of the text [Liu Xie] criticizes Yan Yannian’s 颜延年 [Yanzhi 延之] (384456) error in using wen and bi to distinguish between classics (jing 经) and commentaries (zhuan 传), and further states his own view that the difference between yan 言 and han 翰 is one between the spoken (koushe 口舌) and the written (bimo 笔墨). To start with, this can never be replaced by a division between rhymed and unrhymed, and it is even less possible to use this distinction to distinguish jing from zhuan and judge their relative merits. The reader may easily understand that this lies at the root of Taiyan’s thesis.

In the same chapter, there is a comment on the sentence: ‘There cannot be only one eye or only one ear, but neither can there be two chests or two stomachs’: This is Li Shenqi’s 李申耆 (Zhaoluo 兆洛, 1769-1841) idea of not distinguishing between parallel and unregulated prose.

‘Lun shi’ 论式 (On Standards) is covered in little red circles, making it plain to see that this chapter must have been a favourite of the commentator’s. There is a comment on the sentence ‘Elegance without substance, close to reading out numbers, these were the shortcomings of the people of the Han’: The meaning of the whole essay is profound.

In the same essay, there is a comment on the sentence: ‘On the whole, those who prefer expositions (lun 论) derive their style from the Logicians and those who prefer poetry derive it from the Political Stategists’: This is Zhang Shizhai’s theory. For a full account see the section on teaching the Book of Odes in General Meaning of Literature and History. However, Liu Zihou 柳子厚 [Zongyuan 宗元] (773-819) argued that ‘there are two ways of writing, namely composition (zhuzuo 著作) and suggestion (bixing 比兴).’ He was the true pioneer when it comes to distinguishing between expositions and poetry.

                                                             13

[Translator’s note] English translation from Owen, loc. cit.

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There is a comment on the phrase ‘Linking words to origins, adding clever embellishment’14 in ‘Analysis of Poetry’: This defect was especially grave in the Six Dynasties, even to the extent that the names of the ancients were changed [and given new meanings]. It was highly unusual in the Tang and Song. For instance ‘Ji Dan’ 姬旦 [the personal name of the Duke of Zhou] could take on the meaning ‘strange tale’ (qitan 奇谈).

The three comments above are basically reading notes, none of them very elaborate. In comparison, the comments to the chapter ‘Yuan jing’ 原经 (On the Classics) are of greater significance, because they touch upon the intellectual trends of the early Republic, and can at the very least further our understanding of the New Text/Old Text debate within Peking University. There is a general comment right at the beginning of this chapter, which shows that, at the time when Fu Sinian was about to graduate from preparatory classes, his perspective had already begun to shift from Old Text classical studies to New Text classical studies. The following three pieces contain many passages that deeply depreciate the New Text [school]. When I study the Classics, I certainly do not only trust the Old Text [school], and lately I prefer the sayings of the Gongyang School. The two should be incompatible. However, the principles of scholarship cannot be fathomed by those of shallow learning. Distinguishing where Zhang is right or wrong will have to wait until the day I have completed my education.

There is a comment on the sentence containing the words ‘The conventions of Yin Jifu 尹吉甫 and the Scribe Zhou’: Du Zhengnan 杜征南 (Yu 预, 222-285) says the writing of Spring and Autumn Annals originated in the constitutions of the Duke of Zhou, citing the words of Han Qi 韩起 in Zuozhuan, Zhao 2, as evidence. The reference to Yin Jifu and Scribe Zhou [as possible first practitioners of the genre] appears to be pure conjecture, there is no such suggestion in any of the ancient books and records. 15

                                                             14

[Translator’s note] The context is a discussion of the creation of new words. Zhang Taiyan prefers coining new terms, rather than using old terms in wrong contexts. 15 [Translator’s note] Yin Jifu was a high official at the court of King Xuan 宣 of the Zhou dynasty. He has been identified as the author of two poems in the Shijing

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The comment on the sentence ‘We now consider The Spring and Autumn Annals a classic, rather than a history’ states: Many New Text scholars in the Qing dynasty held that The Spring and Autumn Annals is a classic, not a history, the earliest among them being Kong Zhongzhong 孔众仲 (Guangsen 广森, 1752-1786).

There is also a comment on the phrase ‘The reason why the Spring and Autumn Annals are the only [historical annals] considered of high value.’ No New Text scholar admired [Zuo] Qiuming 左丘明 16 more than Gong Dingan did. His veneration for history was similar to Taiyan’s.

A comment on the sentence ‘Therefore the Six Classics were all intentionally created by Confucius’ reads: Kang Changsu 康长素 [i.e. Kang Youwei] is a forceful advocate of this opinion. In the first few volumes of On Confucius as a Reformer he argues that the late Zhou philosophers (zhuzi 诸子) rely on antiquity, and remote antiquity is unverifiable. His theory is for the most part implausible, and even New Text scholars have contradicted it. Two things should be noted however: first, Confucians did indeed effect institutional reform. Mencius: ‘Our own ancestral rulers never observed this; neither did the ancestral rulers of the eldest branch of our house in Lu.’ This is clear evidence that the mourning period of three years originated with Confucius. The rest can probably also considered to be correct. Moreover, it is said [by Zhuangzi] that ‘the Way and the methods of the ancients lay in these things.’17 We must

                                                                                                                               

诗经 (Book of Songs). Cf. Mark Edward Lewis, Writing and Authority in Early China (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999), 153. Shi Zhou 史籀 (Scribe Zhou) was another official at the court of King Xuan, credited, among other things, with the invention of the Small Seal Script, and with the authorship of a now lost lexicographic work. Cf. Kang-i Sun Chang and Stephen Owen, eds., The Cambridge History of Chinese Literature (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), vol. 1, 114. In Zuozhuan, Zhao 2, Han Qi visits the state of Lu 鲁 and is shown the Spring and Autumn Annals of Lu, upon which he comments: ‘The institutes of Zhou are all in Lu. Now, indeed, I know the virtue of the duke of Zhou, and how it was that [the house of] Zhou attained to the royal dignity.’ See James Legge, The Chinese Classics, vol. 5 (London: Henry Frowde, 1872), pt. 2, 583. 16 [Translator’s note] Zuo Qiuming lived in the fifth century BCE and is considered the author of the Zuozhuan (the Zuo commentary to the Spring and Autumn Annals). 17 [Translator’s note] The English translation of the Zhuangzi passage, which comments on the Mohist tradition, is cited from Ian Johnston’s introduction to his The Mozi: A Complete Translation (Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press, 2010), lxxiii.

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not assume that all this is based on empty words (which is the worst argument of the New Text scholars). For details, see reading notes.

Although On Confucius as a Reformer quotes this short passage about funeral rites from Mencius’ conversation with Duke Wen 文 of Teng 滕 on two occasions, in Volumes 10 and 13, it is both times rendered as ‘The ancestral rulers of the eldest branch of our house in Lu never observed this; neither did our own ancestral rulers’18 which shows that Fu Sinian was not copying this book, but rather relying on his own knowledge of the text. Fu Sinian, who ‘did not exclusively trust the Old Text [school]’ referred to the opinions of New Text scholars repeatedly in his comments on Balanced Inquiries, but although Fu himself claimed that he ‘preferred the Gongyang School,’ he routinely criticized ‘the worst theory of the New Text scholars.’ It is a pity that the ‘reading notes’ which would have given a detailed account of Fu Sinian’s thoughts at the start of his career have not been preserved. I cannot elaborate on this or I will be ridiculed for overinterpreting. However, it is clearly evident that the basic position of Fu Sinian as a third year student of the preparatory school of Peking University was not to adhere exclusively to either of the New Text or Old Text schools. Perhaps this was a fundamental feature of the Humanities Faculty of Peking University in those early days. Shen Dehong 沈 德 鸿 (Yanbing 雁冰), later to become the famous writer Mao Dun, who entered the preparatory course at Peking University the same year as Fu Sinian, mentions in his memoirs The Road I Travelled that his teacher of Chinese Chen Hanzhang 陈汉章 (Botao 伯弢, 18631938) wrote an essay in response to the students’ questions about the Old Text/New Text debate: It was a piece of parallel prose, and he had added his own explicatory notes to every sentence. I don’t remember the essay very clearly but the main thrust of it was that he recommended Zheng Kangcheng 郑康 成 (Xuan 玄, 127-200) and argued that it was difficult to follow the scholarly traditions of either the Old Text or the New Text schools, and that one ought instead to select the best parts from the theories of

                                                             18

Kang Youwei, Kongzi gaizhi kao 孔子改制考 (On Confucius as a Reformer) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958), 272, 307. [Translator’s note] The English translation of the Mencius passage comes from D.C. Lau, trans., Mencius: A Bilingual Edition (Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press, revised edition, 2003), 103.

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both schools. He was very dissatisfied with Kang Youwei’s Examination of the Forged Classics of Xin Dynasty Scholarship.19

The Peking University teachers of that time all had their distinctive scholarly tendencies. However, they no longer adhered strictly to the New Text or Old Text schools, but even used the rift between New Text and Old Text as a means of displaying their own views on scholarship. The most typical example was Qian Xuantong, a disciple of Zhang’s but also influenced by Cui Shi 崔适 (18521924). He is said to have given Gu Jiegang the following advice: We should, at this time, use the Old Text scholars’ words to criticize the New Text scholars, and the New Text scholars’ words to criticize the Old Text scholars. Only if we tear off their masks can we expose their true nature. There is a story in Liaozhai’s Records of the Strange [by Pu Songling 蒲松龄 (16401715)] about a scholar called Sang 桑, who takes in two homeless girls. Soon enough Lotus Fragrance accuses Maiden Li of being a ghost, and Maiden Li accuses Lotus Fragrance of being a fox. At first, Sang suspects that the two are attacking each other out of jealousy, but through a lengthy investigation, he proves that Lotus Fragrance really is a fox, and Maiden Li really is a ghost. Today, we should draw our conclusions about the Old Text and New Text schools based upon their criticism of each other.20

Qian’s point about ‘tearing off each others’ masks’ is well-founded. Moreover, this method of reading is an ingenious technique. For noone is as enthusiastic in studying someone’s works, and identifying all the mistakes therein, as that person’s opponent in a debate. It is possible that it was precisely by analysing the New Text/Old Text debate that the students at the Humanities Faculty at Peking University in the early Republic found room for independent thought, and fostered some degree of critical thinking. For example, Fu Sinian’s article ‘Inconsistencies in the Records of the Grand Historian by Liang Yusheng of the Qing dynasty,’ published in the first issue of The Renaissance, derives from the tradition of Qing scholarship the conclusions that ‘the point of scholarship is to begin with doubt and arrive at conviction, without doubts there can be no                                                              19

Mao Dun, Wo zouguo de daolu 我走过的道路 (The Road I Travelled) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1981), vol. 1, 94. 20 See the author’s preface to Gu Jiegang, Qin Han de fangshi yu rusheng 秦汉的 方 士 与 儒 生 (Wizards and Scholars of the Han and Qin) (Shanghai: Qunlian chubanshe, 1955).

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conviction,’ and that ‘it is better to err on the side of doubt than to err on the side of conviction.’21 This sceptical attitude was directed towards the New Text and Old Text schools, and also towards famous scholars whom they had previously idolized. The change from enthusiastic endorsement of Zhang Taiyan’s theories, to questioning and challenging them, was evident already at the time when Fu wrote his comments on Balanced Inquiries. Two months later, Fu Sinian graduated from the preparatory course with top marks, and enrolled in the National Language Department (which would later be renamed the Department of Chinese Literature). As his field of vision broadened day by day, and what with the change of atmosphere brought on by Hu Shi’s return to China, Fu Sinian was no longer content with keeping within the boundaries of the scholarly tradition founded by Zhang Taiyan, or inheriting the legacy of any school of thought. In Luo Jialun’s ‘The Vigorous Fu Mengzhen’ 22 there is a rather dramatic flight of the imagination: The true masters of National Learning at that time, such as Liu Shenshu 刘申叔 [i.e. Liu Shipei], Huang Jigang [i.e. Huang Kan], and Chen Botao [i.e. Chen Hanzhang], also very much appreciated Mengzhen. Using the concept of ‘passing on the tradition’ [typical of] old Confucians, they wanted him to inherit the Yizheng 仪征 tradition or take up the mantle of Zhang Taiyan. Mengzhen had all the quailfications of someone likely to hesitate at the crossroads. However, the revolutionary Mengzhen, with his modern mindset, never hesitated, but joined the revolutionary camp instead.

There is actually no concrete evidence to show that Liu Shipei23 ever intended to pass on the mantle to Fu Sinian. Just because Fu had earned a reputation among his fellow students for being well-versed in classical studies, Luo Jialun assumed he had ‘the qualifications’ to inherit the mantle. Within the framework of Luo’s discussion, ‘new’                                                              21

Mengzhen, ‘Qing Liang Yusheng zhu Shiji zhiyi’ 清梁玉绳著《史记志疑》 (Inconsistencies in Records of the Grand Historian by Liang Yusheng of the Qing dynasty), Xinchao 1, no. 1 (1919). 22 Luo Jialun, ‘Yuanqilinli de Fu Mengzhen’ 元气淋漓的傅孟真 (The Vigorous Fu Mengzhen), in Record of Funeral Elegies…, 41–46. 23 [Translator’s note] Liu Shipei hailed from Yizheng in Jiangsu. Yizheng is in the Yangzhou area and the Yizheng tradition is more commonly considered part of the Yangzhou School (Yangzhou xuepai 扬州学派) of traditional learning, of which Liu Shipei is said to have been the last famous exponent.

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and ‘old’ are diametrically opposed, and to inherit Taiyan’s mantle means to hesitate at the crossroads, the reverse of being ‘revolutionary’ and having a ‘modern mindset.’ This line of reasoning overly emphasizes the ideological significance of this action, and although it is typical of the long and broad view of a politician, it cannot but stretch the truth somewhat. I believe Fu’s old school friend Mao Zishui’s analysis in ‘A Brief Biography of Fu Mengzhen’24 comes closer to explaining the real reason why, from that time on, Fu Sinian seldom discussed Zhang Taiyan or his theories. The reading practices of the students of the Humanities Faculty at Peking University at the time were greatly influenced by Zhang Taiyan’s theories. Fu was initially among Zhang’s followers. Because of his outstanding credentials, he soon escaped the confines of Zhang’s theories, and when he later mentioned Zhang, it was sometimes in a contemptuous tone of voice. This was not so much because he was ungrateful to the one who had enlightened him, but rather because he had made a particular effort to study this school of thought, and therefore was very clear as to its shortcomings, which is why his distaste for it was relatively great.

This explanation is another way of saying the same thing as the words by Gu Jiegang which Fu Sinian noted down on the title page of that copy of Balanced Inquiries. At the time when Gu, Mao, and Fu were intimate friends, one of the topics these friends talked about might have been how ‘the people Taiyan attacks the most are also the people he learned the most from.’ Some decades later, when the time came for the old friends to write obituaries, Mao Zishui gave us what I believe to be a reasonable explanation as to why Fu did not like to talk about Zhang Taiyan. It was not due to that eternal, but in modern times especially common, vice of ingratitude, and neither can it be accurately described by using the fashionable concept of ‘anxiety of influence.’ 25 I agree with Mao Zishui that it was because he had studied this school of thought particularly hard, and was so familiar with its faults as well as its merits, that he was unable to believe in it blindly.                                                              24

Mao Zishui, ‘Fu Mengzhen xiansheng zhuanlüe’ 傅孟真先生传略 (A Brief Biography of Fu Mengzhen), in Record of Funeral Elegies…, 1–3. 25 See Harold Bloom, Yingxiang de jiaolü 影 响 的 焦 虑 (The Anxiety of Influence), trans. Xu Wenbo 徐文博 (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1989).

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Related to this is Fu Sinian’s criticism of his education in the Humanities Faculty of Peking University. On August 1, 1920, Fu Sinian, who had recently enrolled in the University of London to study psychology, wrote in a letter to Hu Shi ‘when I think about how I have wasted my six years at university, first in preparatory school, then in the Humanities Faculty’s National Language department, I cannot but sigh.’ 26 These oft-quoted lines are quite shocking. But when they are read in their context, the problem does not appear as serious. Away from Beijing, this centre of political activity, Fu Sinian began applying himself to his studies: ‘Lately I have not had the inclination to write articles,’ ‘I am interested in science, and I am ashamed of articles full of empty talk.’ About his choice of psychology as his main direction, he declared that ‘it would be interesting to devote one’s entire life to it,’ something which necessarily entailed a radical shift in the scope and methods of his studies. Once this is understood, the complaints below seem less abrupt. ‘Recently I have been revising chemistry, physics, and mathematics. I am keenly interested. When I think about how I have wasted my six years at university, first in preparatory school, then in the Humanities Faculty’s National Language Department, I cannot but sigh.’ This explanation does not address the cause of Fu Sinian’s criticism of his education in the Humanities Faculty of Peking University. It may be that the discussion of the humanities in this letter was largely provoked by Yu Pingbo’s sudden departure. In January 1920, Fu Sinian and Yu Pingbo were among the same group of students who left Shanghai by boat and went on their way to study in Britain. After almost two months at sea, they finally arrived in Liverpool, where they took the train to London the following day. But after less than two months in Britain, Yu Pingbo, unable to adapt to life as a foreign student, quietly got on a ship headed back to China. When Fu heard the news, he hurriedly got on a train and tried to catch up with Yu in Marseille, but unfortunately he was too late. Otherwise a fierce battle may have ensued between the hot-blooded Fu and the stubborn Yu.                                                              26

‘Letter from Fu Sinian to Hu Shi,’ in Hu Shi’s Selected Correspondence, vol. 1, 102–106.

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Fu Sinian was very upset by Yu Pingbo’s giving up halfway, although he admitted that Yu’s return to China was ‘not necessarily a complete failure,’ and that ‘although he [Yu] had missed the opportunity to “absorb new knowledge,” he still had the opportunity to “reorganize the national heritage.”’ One year before he went abroad, Fu Sinian wrote in the ‘Foreword to New Reviews of Old Books,’ published in The Renaissance, that ‘we should first study Western systematic science, and once we have the command of scientific methods, we may devote some of our spare energy to the reading of old books.’ 27 According to this line of reasoning, Yu Pingbo’s giving up on his studies abroad really was a manifestation of uselessness. Actually, it may not have been the best option for a person of Yu Pingbo’s temperament to brave the difficulties of obtaining a Ph.D. degree studying in a foreign country. From the perspective of a generation of ‘May Fourth’ youths, however, study abroad was the one and only way of receiving enlightenment from the West. Yu’s retreat appeared unwise indeed. Fu Sinian, filled with a sense of responsibility, therefore kept pondering over the reasons for Yu Pingbo’s failure to study abroad. Yu Pingbo is an extremely honest person, of the most sincere disposition, and he is also very clever. Yet he also has his flaws. One is to do with domestic matters: he became a ‘spoiled rich kid’ (da shaoye 大 少 爷 ) and never looked back. The other is to do with National Language studies: he became a ‘man of letters’ (wenren 文 人), detached himself from the real world, and entered a world of dreams. I ask myself wether my own disposition has not become somewhat distorted through my deep involvement with National Language studies. In Pingbo’s case, it is even more deplorable. Hopefully, this phenomenon will no longer occur among future young students.28

Fu Sinian wrote this long letter on August 1, 1920 in order to report to his teachers on his studies and his life, as well as to do his best to sort out his own thoughts and try to make out his own mission in life. During his seven years in Europe, Fu Sinian tried his hand at a number of different disciplines, from psychology to physics to philology, until at the final stage he eventually turned to history, in                                                              27

Fu Sinian, ‘Gushu xinping: xiao yin’ 古 书 新 评· 小 引 (Foreword to New Reviews of Old Books), Xinchao 1, no. 4 (1919). 28 ‘Letter from Fu Sinian to Hu Shi,’ 103.

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which he was to become a master. When he left London for Berlin, Fu most likely had no premonition that he would once more come into contact with the humanities and so it is not strange that he did not take his annotated copy of Balanced Inquiries with him. I guess, however, that even if he had begun by studying linguistics or history at the University of London, someone with Fu Sinian’s talent and ambition would still have left behind the ‘Traditional Learning’ represented by Zhang Taiyan. That was determined by the cultural atmosphere and intellectual trends of the era, and would have been very hard for any individual to keep aloof of. Upon his return to China, when Fu Sinian once again returned to the areas of literature and history, his perspective and interests were entirely different from before he went abroad. And when he founded, entirely without precedent, the Institute of History and Philology of the Academia Sinica, he was painstakingly drawing a clear line of demarcation between his Institute on the one hand, and ‘National Heritage’ and ‘National Learning’ on the other.29 Drawing up a letter of appointment for a research fellow on behalf of the institute’s president, Fu, with his usual forthright determination, expressed his discontent with ‘National Learning’ as follows: The Institute of History and Philology of the Academia Sinica was not established in order to cherish the outmoded and preserve the outworn, by promoting so-called ‘National Learning.’ We want to make real efforts to gather new materials constantly and to work with them using the tools given to us by the natural sciences, in the hope of gaining new knowledge. Materials are not restricted by nationality, methods do not adhere to a territory. We will seek out the rich learning of the sages as well as partake of the wealth of foreign academic attainments.30

This kind of international perspective on learning is truly radically different from that of Zhang Taiyan and the ‘masters of National Learning’ of his generation. However, Fu’s superstitious belief in the use of scientific method in historical studies, as well as his ridicule of                                                              29

See ‘Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo gongzuo zhi zhiqu’ 历史语言研究所工作之旨趣 (The Objectives of the Work of the Institute of History and Philology), Guoli zhongyang yanjiu yuan lishi yuyan yanjiusuo jikan 1, no. 1 (1928). 30 Quoted in Du Zhengsheng, ‘Wuzhongshengyou de zhiye: Fu Sinian de shixue geming yu shiyusuo de chuangli’ 无中生有的志业——傅斯年的史学革命与史语 所的创立 (An Ambition That Came out of Nothing: Fu Sinian’s Historiographical Revolution and the Establishment of the Institute of History and Philology), Gujin lunheng 1 (1998).

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the National Learning scholars’ ‘cherishing the outmoded and preserving the outworn,’ are open to debate. Leaving aside the National Heritage and embracing Western learning—including the foreign sinology which is part of Western learning—was a natural course of action for a student abroad. However, how to understand and care for traditional China and its learning became the homework assignment which he had to do again and again upon his return. If the scholars of Fu Sinian’s generation mentioned Zhang Taiyan ‘in a contemptuous tone of voice,’ it was not a major problem because they had after all gone through a phase when they worshipped Balanced Inquiries and put great effort into studying it, unlike those who will not take the trouble of understanding traditional China but content themselves with ‘partaking of the wealth of foreign academic achievements,’ not to mention those who are likely to make an exhibition of themselves when talking about China. These things considered, not every foreign student had the ‘qualifications’ to do as Fu Sinian did, and resolutely leave their ‘National Heritage’ behind in a foreign land. At first, it was only as a competition, because of the bet with my wife, that I started looking for this needle in a haystack. I had the good luck of finding out who the commentator was, and then I gave free reins to my imagination and began filling in the gaps, providing the academic world with an ‘early history of Fu Sinian.’ Then my train of thought took a different turn, and became an inquiry into why Fu Sinian had left his book in London, and whether this act had any symbolic significance. After letting my mind travel through all the twists and turns of these lines of inquiry, I felt as satisfied as if I had read an exciting detective novel. However, I did not find it as easy committing the story to paper. An Unexpected Encounter with ‘Old PKU’ in Paris The greatest joy of looking for books abroad is those unexpected ‘close encounters’ that occasionally take place. Such unforeseen pleasant surprises can only happen if you enter the library stacks. At Harvard University I found Liang Qichao’s Lectures on Reading Methods; at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London, I read the Canton vernacular translation of John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s

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Progress in the 1871 Huishi litang 惠 师 礼 堂 edition from Yangcheng 羊 城 ; at Columbia University I learned of the Yisen huabao 益森画报 (Yisen Pictorial), published in Beijing from 1907; at Heidelberg University I used a large number of Late Qing newspapers and periodicals. This condition is not in place in France, because according to regulations not even professors are allowed to freely enter the library stacks. Borrowing books by browsing the card catalogue produces entirely different results from strolling at leisure through the stack rooms. The only way of experiencing a really pleasant surprise is when, while surveying dense forests of bookshelves, you all of a sudden chance upon a publication that you have only heard about, or did not even know existed. My criticism of these outmoded conventions of the French was passed on by sympathetic friends until it reached the ears of M. Pierre Etienne Will, Director of the Institute of Chinese Advanced Studies of the Collège de France. And then a miracle occurred—the Institute, with its copious book collection, made an exception and allowed me to come and read inside the library stack rooms. The Institute of Chinese Advanced Studies, established in 1927 by Paul Pelliot and Marcel Granet, has been a part of the Collège de France since 1972. Its library has become a stronghold among European collections of sinological literature, and the quality of the collection was particularly improved in 1951 when it took over the book collection of the Centre Franco-Chinois d’Etudes Sinologiques, previously housed in Beijing. I was relatively familiar with the special characteristics and the provenance of the books in this library through the Catalogue of Rare Chinese Books in the Institute of Chinese Advanced Studies of the Collège de France, published by Zhonghua shuju 中华书局 in 2002 with a foreword by Pierre Etienne Will. Following its directions, I excitedly leafed through block printed editions such as Su Jun’s 苏郡 Collected Works of Chen Meigong from 1615, a 1633 Mohuizhai 墨绘斋 printing of Record of Famous Mountains and Scenic Spots in the Realm, and a 1773 Hongshulou 红树楼 printing of Poetry by Famous Ladies through the Ages. However, what really filled me with admiration were some other rare books, unattractive to book collectors. The valuable books of the Institute of Chinese Advanced Studies I would be able to read at Peking University as well, although I might not obtain them as effortlessly as here. The value of a rare book varies from person to

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person. For example, textbooks from Old PKU are of little importance to other people, but to me they are priceless treasures. A few years back when I was writing ‘New Education and New Literature: From Imperial University to Peking University,’ 31 I probed the ‘literary general knowledge’ of the new generation of scholars, by looking at the changes in subjects, courses, and teaching materials of the new-style academies. All sorts of complications and difficulties well worth writing volumes about occurred between the change in ‘literary general knowledge’ and the birth of the ‘Literary Revolution,’ but I believe that what first set the wheels in motion were those curricula and lectures which appear so uninteresting to later generations. My only regret when it came to making this case in concrete terms, was that most of the teaching materials from Old PKU which I used had been edited and published long afterwards and were not the originals. Textbooks would no doubt reflect the atmosphere of Old PKU even more than did curricula or specialist publications. Unfortunately, not even the PKU School History Archive kept very many of the textbooks which were handed out to students in those days. How miraculous then, that in this far-away college in France, scores of such early Peking University textbooks were being kept, as unbeknown to the world as the cloistered maidens of old. They all had the same format, some were mimeographed and others printed, on the cover was the title of the course and the name of the lecturer, although the main text occasionally differed from what was written on the cover. Prior to this, a few academic studies have been made of the textbooks handed out by Lu Xun in 1920 when he was lecturing on the history of fiction at Peking University,32 and the moment I saw these yellowed, somewhat worn-out threadbound books I understood                                                              31

This article was first published in Xueren 14 (1998), and later included in my The PKU Spirit and Other Matters and in my Ten Talks on Chinese Universities. 32 See Lu Gong 路 工 , ‘Cong Zhongguo xiaoshuoshi dalüe dao Zhongguo xiaoshuo shilüe’ 从《中国小说史大略》到《中国小说史略》 (From An Outline of the History of Chinese Fiction to A Brief Outline of the History of Chinese Fiction), in Fangshu jianwen lu (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985), 214– 217; Shan Yanyi 单演义, ‘Guanyu zui zao youyinben Xiaoshuoshi dalüe jiangyi de shuoming’ 关于最早油印本《小说史大略》讲义的说明 (An Explanation about the Mimeographed Lecture Notes Entitled An Outline of the History of Chinese Fiction), in Lu Xun xiaoshuoshi dalüe (Xi’an: Shaanxi renmin chubanshe, 1981), 119–128.

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that they were indeed the textbooks from Peking University at the time of the ‘New Culture’ movement which I had been searching for so long. There is no need to be emotional about it, so let me instead aqcuaint you with the textbooks. There were seven mimeographed textbooks in 12 volumes: Qian Xuantong’s Study of the Shuowen, volumes 1 and 2 (inside title: Notes on the Duan Commentary to the Shuowen); Zhu Zonglai’s Etymology; Huang Kan’s Chinese Literature (inside title: Writings on Literature); Huang Kan’s Models of Writing; Wu Mei’s Lectures on Verse for Singing; Wu Mei’s Chinese Literature (inside title: Lectures on Verse for Singing); Wu Mei’s Selection of Song Lyrics [ci 词] (inside title: Selection of Song Lyrics [shiyu 诗余]); and Wu Mei’s History of Chinese Literature, volumes 1–3. There were five printed textbooks in 14 volumes: Qian Xuantong’s Etymology (inside: Lectures on Etymology); Liu Shipei’s History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period (inside: Lectures on the History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period); Shen (Yinmo)’s Compendium of Scholarship; Ye Haowu’s History of Learning (inside: History of Chinese Learning); and Chen Hanzhang’s General History of China, which comprised ten volumes in all, four volumes for the History Department’s first year, four for the second year, and two for the third year. The time of their publication or use was indicated in the printed volumes, for example, Liu Shipei’s History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period was printed in June 1920 by the Peking University Publishing Department, and Chen Hanzhang’s General History of China was a textbook used from ‘October 1919 until June 1920.’ In the mimeographed volumes there was only written, on the fold between two pages, in what year of study the students had been using it. For example, Zhu Zonglai’s Etymology was used by second year courses on grammar in the preparatory school and Huang Kan’s Models of Writing was used by first to third year students of Chinese literature. According to The University Daily, March 15, 1918, the University had decided that because of the increase in the number of publications, the distribution office would be changed into a publishing department, which would still sort under the Library. 33                                                              33

See Wang Xuezhen 王学珍 et al., eds., Beijing daxue jishi 北京大学纪事 (Chronicles of Peking University) (Beijing: Beijng daxue chubanshe, 1998), 46.

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Those of the Publishing Departments’ textbooks which were more academically advanced could be circulated outside the University and therefore carried a set price. 34 The mimeographed volumes were printed as they were written, were only given out to students, and even the University did not keep any copies of them. Therefore, it is still possible to get hold of the likes of Liu Shipei’s History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period and Chen Hanzhang’s General History of China in the Peking University Library and in the Chinese National Library, whereas I had never heard about Huang Kan’s Models of Writing and Wu Mei’s History of Chinese Literature. The reason why Wu Mei’s History of Chinese Literature ‘ought not to be forgotten’ will be explained in the next section of this chapter. First, I will briefly introduce the textbooks by the other renowned scholars. Considering that these gentlemen were all famous in their day, we would end up with a long series of anecdotes about Old PKU if I started talking about them as I please. Hence, I will strictly stick to my topic and concentrate on their teaching careers. Tang Lan 唐兰 has said the following about the scope of Chinese etymology: ‘In 1917, two scholars shared the responsibility for etymology at Peking University. Zhu Zonglai wrote a set of lecture notes called Etymology: Forms and Meanings and Qian Xuantong wrote Etymology: Sounds. Afterwards, many scholars followed this method and only discussed the forms and meanings of Chinese characters, avoiding phonology, in which they were less proficient.35 Because of his great achievements in the New Culture movement, Qian Xuantong’s name is widely known. Besides his uninhibited, impassioned critical essays, which sometimes used unorthodox means to get results, his true achievements lay in etymology. Li Jinxi mentions in his ‘Biography of Qian Xuantong’36 that, starting from                                                              34

See ‘Beijing daxue chubanbu chuban shumu’ 北京大学出版部出版书目 (Catalogue of Books Published by Peking University Publishing Department), in Beijing daxue shiliao, ed. Wang Xuezhen et al. (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2000), vol. 2, 2068–2071. 35 See the preface to Tang Lan, Zhongguo wenzi xue 中国文字学 (Chinese Etymology) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1979). 36 Li Jinxi, ‘Biography of Qian Xuantong,’ written in Chenggu, Shaanxi, in 1939. The original printed edition had a very small circulation. As mentioned in Chapter 4, the text is included as an appendix in Cao Shujing, Chronological Biography of Qian Xuantong.

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1917, Qian Xuantong taught the phonology (yinyunxue 音 韵 学 ) course at Peking University. ‘From the start he was unhappy with the two large volumes of Lectures in Phonology he had put together, which compared old theories and added some brief comments. Later he abbreviated them, turning them into Etymology: Sounds (printed by Peking University). Soon he was dissatisfied with that, too, and often said he was going to change it completely before properly publishing it, but in the end he never got around to it.’37 Zhu Zonglai, sobriquet Pengxian 蓬仙, from Haining 海宁 in Zhejiang, attended Zhang Taiyan’s lectures in Tokyo in 1908 together with Qian Xuantong, Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren, Xu Shoushang, Zhu Xizu and others. This little class of only eight students, held weekly at the Minpao Magazine office, was later to become legendary in the history of modern scholarship [see Chapter 4]. Etymology: Forms and Meanings, printed by the Peking University Publishing Department in 1918, reached an especially large circulation, and can be found in many domestic and foreign libraries. The Chinese National Library keeps 13 volumes by Zhu, which are all different editions of this book. Apparently this gentleman believed in ‘onebook-ism.’38 Shen Yinmo, from Wuxing 吴兴 in Zhejiang, also called Junmo 君默, later famous for his calligraphy and his writings on calligraphy, was in those days teaching on the preparatory course in the Humanities Faculty. For Compendium of Scholarship, the author’s name was only given as ‘Shen,’ the Yinmo I have added myself. The table of contents of this book differs greatly from the actual text, and the layout is irregular. It was probably written and printed at the last moment and put together ad hoc over the course of his teaching. This anthology includes ‘Brief Discussion of Literature’ by Zhang Taiyan, ‘Illustrious Schools’ from the Han Feizi [3rd century BCE], ‘The                                                              37

See Cao Shujing, Chronological Biography of Qian Xuantong, 187. When I searched the internet a few days ago, I discovered that someone had put up ‘two volumes of early Peking University thread-bound textbooks,’ i.e. Qian Xuantong’s and Zhu Zonglai’s philology textbooks, for sale on the Kongfuzi auction website (http://www.kongfz.com). Unfortunately, I do not know how to use these sites and was unable to participate in the auction, so I have no idea where those two little volumes ended up. [Translator’s note] Zhu Zonglai’s lack of scholarly productivity is more likely to have resulted from the fact that he died in 1919. At the time of writing, the author was not aware of this, as evidenced by the fact that he gives his dates as ‘(1881-?).’ 38

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Conveyance of Rites’ from the Book of Rites, the ‘Rhapsody on Literature’ by Lu Ji 陆机 (261-303), ‘Imitation’ from Perspectives on History, ‘Letter to my Nephews from Prison’ by Fan Ye 范晔 (398445), ‘Teaching the Book of Odes’ by Zhang Xuecheng, ‘All Under Heaven’ from Zhuangzi, ‘Biographies of Knights Errants’ from Records of the Grand Historian, ‘Doctrine of the Mean’ from the Book of Rites, ‘Discourse on Literature’ from Authoritative Discourses [by Cao Pi 曹丕 (187-226)], ‘Men of Letters’ Bad Habit of Emulating the Ancient’ from [Gu Yanwu’s] Record of Knowledge Gained Day by Day, ‘Confucian Knights’ from [Zhang Taiyan’s] Investigative Essays, and ‘The Hereditary House of Confucius’ [by Sima Qian]. Such an anthology betrays strong influence from Zhang Taiyan. And no wonder, many of the teachers in the Peking University Humanities Faculty in the early Republic were Zhang’s disciples. Shen Yinmo, in ‘PKU and I,’ tells us that although he never received instruction from Zhang Taiyan, he had been mistaken for a disciple of Zhang’s because his younger brother Jianshi followed Zhang’s teachings [see Chapter 4] and he himself had been studying in Japan. This reputation of being a pupil of Zhang’s followed him when he entered PKU. 39 In Tao Xisheng’s reminiscences from later years he mentions that Shen Yinmo and Shen Jianshi both taught National Learning in the preparatory school and ‘were both disciples of Zhang Taiyan.’ ‘Yinmo provided me with many insights. He instructed us to read the following books: Master Lü’s Spring and Autumn Annals, the Huainanzi, Sima Tan’s ‘On the Essential Ideas of the Six Schools,’ Liu Xie’s The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, Liu Zhiji’s Perspectives on History, Gu Tinglin’s Record of Knowledge Gained Day by Day, Qian Daxin’s Record of Self-Renewal from the Ten Yokes Studio, Zhang Shizhai’s General Meaning of Literature and History, and Zhang Taiyan’s Balanced Inquiries. This short list of books displays the origins and transformations of China’s literature and history.’ In the second and third years of preparatory school, ‘Shen Yinmo continued to teach National Learning. He first lectured on Lu Ji’s “Rhapsody on Literature,” then selected various essays from works on literature and history, to serve as footnotes to each passage, or even to each line in                                                              39

Shen Yinmo, ‘Wo he Beida’ 我和北大 (PKU and I), in Beida jiushi, ed. Chen Pingyuan and Xia Xiaohong, 163–178.

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the “Rhapsody.” This teaching method has been of great advantage to me.’ 40 Looking back over the decades, concrete details may have gone amiss, but we may still get a general understanding of what Shen Yinmo’s teaching was like, and we may also say with certainty that the Compendium of Scholarship was indeed his textbook from Peking University Preparatory School. Those acquainted with the history of Old PKU are most likely familiar with two old professors of the humanities from those days, Ye Haowu and Chen Hanzhang. Ye Han, styled Haowu, was from Renhe 仁和 in Zhejiang (now part of Hangzhou 杭州). Politically active in his youth, he was a member of the Aiguo xueshe 爱国学社 (Patriotic Study Society) and the Xingzhong hui 兴中会 (Rejuvenate China Society). He lectured at Peking University and later at Zhejiang University, and is the author of A History of Chinese Art, General History of China and Extensive History of Chinese Scholarship.41 Chen Hanzhang, styled Botao, from Xiangshan 象山 in Zhejiang, was a juren, taught at Peking University, and later became prefect of the Department of History at National Central University (Zhongyang daxue 中央大学). He was a prolific writer. His works include Comprehensive Discussion of Classical Studies, Secrets of Liao History, Additions to the Commentary on Su Dongpo’s Poetry, Annotations to Biographies of Eminent Women, and Investigations into the History of Chariot Warfare. When talking about ‘stories of Old PKU’ it is impossible not to touch upon this erudite old gentleman with his great love of antiquity. Shen Yinmo mentions that the year he began teaching preparatory classes at Peking University he ‘encountered a famous mature student who would graduate the following year: Chen Hanzhang.’ Chen had originally been asked to come and teach, but he preferred to be a student instead, because ‘my one regret in life is never to have entered the Hanlin Academy’ and ‘People used to say at the time that the graduates of Imperial University could be called “the Western                                                              40

See Tao Xisheng, ‘The Preparatory School of Peking University.’ Several years ago, I was told that Ye Han’s (Haowu’s) Wan xuelu conggao 晚 学庐丛稿 (Collected Manuscripts from the Evening Study Hut) was being edited by a scholarly institution, unfortunately it has yet to be published. [Translator’s note] The author might have been referring to the inclusion of Ye Haowu’s work in the second volume of Mozi daquan 墨子大全 (Mozi: Complete Collection), published by the National Library of China Publishing House in 2003. 41

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style Hanlin” since they were from a new style academy and were also the disciples of the Son of Heaven.’ What a shame then that when at last he graduated, the Republic had been established and the Imperial University transformed into Peking University, destroying Chen’s Hanlin dreams. Fortunately, Peking University kept its earlier promise and employed him as a history teacher.42 The ten volumes of General History of China are textbooks from his time as teacher at Peking University. The achievements of middle-aged professors Liu Shipei, Huang Kan, and Wu Mei are well-known because of the discord between them and the ‘May Fourth’ New Culture Movement. Here, I will only present some research which has to do with their teaching. In the Autumn of 1914, Huang Kan accepted an offer of a position at Peking University, where he taught Chinese literature, rather than his foremost speciality, traditional phonology (wenzi yinyun zhi xue 文字音韵之学). In the Spring of 1919, he acknowledged his old friend Liu Shipei, only two years his senior, as his teacher. In October of the same year, Huang Kan made up his mind to return to his home because his mother was getting on in years and also because of collegial problems at the university, and so he accepted an offer of a position at the Advanced Normal School of Wuchang 武昌 (today’s Wuhan 武汉 University). Huang Chao 黄焯 (19021984) writes about this year in his Chronological Biography of Huang Jigang: ‘The diary from his time in Beijing cannot be found today. During those years he continuously added annotations to the Shuowen, Erya, and Guangyun dictionaries. He wrote several hundreds of poems, in particular many shi lyrics. Writings such as Additional Commentary to [Ruan Ji’s] Singing My Feelings, Explication of [Zhong Hong’s] Categories of Poets (the complete text of this work is no longer extant), and Reading Notes on The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, were all compiled for the purpose of teaching.’43 His student Liu Ze 刘赜 (18911978) provides some collateral evidence concerning Jigang’s teaching at Peking University.                                                              42

See Shen Yinmo, ‘PKU and I,’ 167. See the entry for the year 1919 in Huang Chao, ‘Huang Jigang xiansheng nianpu’ 黄季刚先生年谱 (Chronological Biography of Huang Jigang), in Qichun Huang shi wencun, by Huang Kan and Huang Chao (Wuhan: Wuhan daxue chubanshe, 1993), 154. 43

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He would teach very intensive sessions at his home, not resting even when the evening came. Often when the sound of the watchman’s clapper could be heard from all directions, and my dorm was locked, my late teacher would have a room prepared for me and give me something to eat, looking after me as if I were his family. On fine days he would lead a group of us on excursions, and track down just about every scenic spot in the capital. On one (such) occasion, he put together some lines from Song poetry to form this couplet: ‘Travellers’ traces in fragrant grass and a writing brush like the wind of Spring / Inner moods like falling blossoms and years passing by like flowing water.’ One can imagine the good cheer of such moments. […] He once said: ‘For studying you need three things: talent, hard work, and a teacher. But the teacher can only help you to obtain inspiration, not to attain knowledge. As for classroom lecture notes, these are the least likely places for knowledge to reside. Those should be the first things that you pick up and burn, as you search for wisdom on your own.’44

Famous for scolding people in the classroom (and especially for scolding his former classmate Qian Xuantong), in private he was nevertheless very serious about teaching and reading. This had to do with Jigang’s romantic scholarly temperament, but also touches upon his view of the new-style academies. In 1932, when Yang Bojun 杨 伯峻 (19091992) wanted formally to become his student, he was instructed by his uncle Yang Shuda 杨树达 (18851956) to present Huang Kan with a red envelope containing ten silver dollars and then prostrate himself on the floor and kowtow, or else he would not be considered ‘a true disciple.’ Yang Bojun’s account of what Huang Kan had to say about the difference between ‘students’ and ‘disciples,’ and about how he himself had had to kowtow in order to gain his knowledge are really very interesting.45 Some of these lowly classroom textbooks are of great academic significance. For example, Huang Kan’s Reading Notes on The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, from when he was teaching The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons at Peking University, is a work worth preserving for posterity. As for the other                                                              44

Liu Ze, ‘Shimen yiyu’ 师门忆语 (Recollections of My Master’s Teaching), in Liang shou lu xueji, ed. Cheng Qianfan and Tang Wen (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1985), 114. 45 Yang Bojun, ‘Huang Jigang xiansheng zayi’ 黄季刚先生杂忆 (Miscellaneous Recollections of Huang Jigang), in Liang shou lu xueji, 161–165. (Originally published in Xuelin manlu 学林漫录 (Random Records of the World of Learning), vol. 2, 1981.)

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two textbooks, they really show the casualness of their editor. At the end of the table of contents of Chinese literature (Or Writings on Literature), there is this sentence: ‘Of the 135 pieces listed above, I have not reproduced all those that can be found in the Selections of Refined Literature [by Xiao Tong]. Although this outline is organized chronologically, the texts will be discussed in the lectures in whatever order is the most convenient.’ Models of Writing includes rhapsodies and eulogies (fusong 赋颂), exposition and argumentation (lunshuo 论说), communications (gaoyu 告语), and records (jizhi 记 志). Although it is large in scope, it is still no more than a selection of texts. After the table of contents it says again: ‘Pieces included in Selections of Refined Literature are not reproduced. The order in which texts are discussed in the lectures depends on what is convenient.’ Writings on Literature, Models of Writing, and Reading Notes on The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons are all about the appreciation, enjoyment, and indeed imitation of ‘Chinese literature,’ rather than about the historical changes occurring in ‘Chinese literary history.’ In 1917, Liu Shipei accepted an offer to come and teach at the Humanities Faculty of Peking University, and on November 20, 1919, at the age of 36, he died from an illness at the Peace Hospital in Beijing. During the last two or three years of his life, Liu Shipei had originally intended to devote himself to teaching and writing, but was unintentionally drawn into the political turmoil. When the National Heritage Monthly Society was established in January 1919, Liu Shipei and Huang Kan were chosen as editors. Cai Yuanpei had approved the Society’s regulations, the publishing costs were paid for by Peking University, and The University Daily gave it positive coverage. Nevertheless, an article in Gongyan bao 公言报 (Public Voice) in March of the same year straight away placed Liu Shipei at the centre of controversy. After commending New Youth’s and Renaissance’s promotion of New Culture, it went on to say that ‘their opponents, meanwhile, are the supporters of Old Literature. The leader of the Old Literature faction is Liu Shipei. Others like Huang Kan and Ma Xulun 马叙伦 (18851970) have teamed up with Mr Liu, giving each other moral support. The students have also split up into a New Faction and an Old Faction, each promoting the views of their teachers. The journals of the two factions, well-matched in strength, are involved in a debate. This is of course beneficial to

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culture.’46 Even if the writer had meant no harm, readers interpreted this article in a different way. Liu Shipei, apprehensive because of past experiences, immediately stepped forth and refuted the claims made in the article: ‘Although I have a position at Peking University, I have been in poor health for over a year and have had to decline visitors. I rarely have any business with the teachers in the school, so it can hardly be the case that we have ‘teamed up.’ Also, National Heritage was founded with money from the Humanities Faculty, and although its main aim is to preserve the national heritage, it is not embroiled in any debates with Renaissance and the other journals.’47 This refutation may not be entirely accurate. However, it is clear from the extent to which Liu Shipei objected to being branded ‘Old Faction,’ that his position at Peking University at this time was a difficult one. His contemporaries took offence at the blemishes on his personal record. 48 His colleague Huang Jie 黄节 (18731935), for one, wrote a letter to the university’s president saying that ‘Time and time again, Shenshu behaves shamelessly,’ and ‘Appointing him as a teacher was inappropriate, he will bring shame upon the school.’49 Lu Xun, in a letter to Qian Xuantong, was even more sarcastic concerning this ‘literary spy who used to trade in human flesh.’ 50 Luckily, Cai Yuanpei valued talent, and the students respected his knowledge, otherwise it would have been hard for him to carry on. Liu Shipei was responsible for convening the greatest number of courses in the National Language Department of the Humanitites Research School, including ‘Classical studies,’ ‘Histories and commentaries,’ ‘History of Medieval Literature,’ and ‘The Late Zhou Philosophers.’ The courses which he himself taught were ‘Middle                                                             46

‘Qing kan Beijing xuejie sichao bianqian zhi jinzhuang’ 请看北京学界思潮变 迁之近状 (Have a Look at Recent Changes in Intellectual Trends in the Educational Circles of Beijing), Gongyan bao, March 18, 1919. 47 ‘Liu Shipei zhi Gongyan bao han’ 刘师培致公言报函 (Letter from Liu Shipei to Public Voice), Beijing daxue rikan, April 24, 1919. 48  [Translator’s note] Liu Shipei had originally been an anti-Manchu revolutionary and ally of Zhang Taiyan, but towards the end of the Qing he had changed his loyalties to the ruling dynasty. After the 1911 Revolution he further discredited himself by supporting Yuan Shikai’s attempts to install himself as Emperor in 19151916. 49 See Wan Shiguo 万 仕 国, Liu Shipei nianpu 刘师培年谱 (Chronological Biography of Liu Shipei) (Yangzhou: Guangling shushe, 2003), 263–264. 50 See Lu Xun quanji, vol. 11, 351.

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Period Literature’ and ‘Chinese Literature.’ A famous work at the time, Liu Shipei’s History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period consistently received high praise in academic circles. Even Lu Xun, who despised its author’s conduct, praised this book. On February 24, 1928, when asked which books on literary history he considered best, Lu Xun replied: ‘None of the published books I have read are any good. Only Liu Shenshu’s History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period can be considered good, although it is a shame that it contains so many incorrect characters.’ 51 The year before, when he gave a lecture on ‘Wei-Jin Period Demeanour and Writing, and Its Connection to Medicine and Alcohol’ in Guangzhou, he referred to this book several times. In addition to the well-known History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period, Liu’s textbooks from his time at Peking University include Research into the Distinctive Masters of Prose of the Han, Wei, and Six Dynasties, which has been recorded and edited by Luo Changpei 罗 常 培 (18991958). This book was published in Chongqing during the later stage of the War of Resistance, and is now included in the New Century Universal book series of Liaoning jiaoyu chubanshe 辽宁教 育出版社, in a volume entitled Three Works on Literature of the Middle Period. Reading the two books at the same time and comparing them you may observe Liu Shipei’s way of thinking and also the characteristics of the teaching that went on at Old PKU. You may gain a general understanding of the special characteristics of Research into the Distinctive Masters of Prose of the Han, Wei, and Six Dynasties, just by looking at the chapter divisions. ‘The Four Taboos of Textual Studies,’ ‘The Art of Planning a Composition,’ ‘On Transitions and Connections in Literary Works,’ ‘On the Sound and Rhythm of Literary Works,’ and ‘On Whether There Is a Difference between Living and Dead Writing.’ A quotation from the seventh chapter (‘On Whether There Is a Difference between Living and Dead Writing’) will give you an idea about the style of this book: It is obvious that there is a difference between ‘dead’ and ‘living’ literature. That which has a lively spirit is living, that which lacks such a spirit is dead. There is no writing livelier than the ‘first three

                                                             51

Ibid., 609–610.

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histories.’52 […]. In general, what makes records of events either alive or dead depends on writing skill: Skilled writers are good at depicting expressions, therefore the style is lively. If the writer lacks such skill, the writing becomes dull and lacking in energy, and is no different from mere copying.53

The ease with which he is writing here is clearly different from his careful and precise argumentation in History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period. And this difference corresponds to the fundamental difference between the two courses, on ‘literature’ and ‘literary history’ respectively, which Liu Shipei taught at Peking University. Among the textbooks kept at the Collège de France, those compiled by Wu Mei are the most numerous. Although the three volumes of History of Chinese Literature are a new discovery, and therefore worth examining, they do not measure up to Lectures on Verse for Singing when it comes to academic quality. Lectures on Verse for Singing, which was provided for first to third year students of the Department of Literature, Humanities Faculty, was later revised into Qu xue tonglun 曲学通论 (General Survey of Dramatic Lyrics), published in 1935 by the Commercial Press. It reached a large readership and exerted great influence. In Selection of Song Lyrics, compiled for first to third year students of the Humanities Faculty, there is a short introduction above the table of contents: To adhere to the principle of song lyrics is to be subtle and indirect. During the Five Dynasties and in the Northern Song, literary brilliance reigned supreme. Jiang Kui, Zhang Yan 张炎 (1248-1320), and Wang Yisun 王沂孙 (late 13th century) strongly inspired standardization. From the Yuan and Ming onwards, the principles of song lyric writing went into decline. The poets of the Qing dynasty followed in the footsteps of the Northern and Southern Song, but since the music scores had been lost, they had no way to arrange their rhythms (anpai 按拍). Talented writers embellished their writings, attaining accomplishment in diction only. Nobody living in this age can do anything about this. Beginning with Qinglian 青莲 [i.e. Li Bai 李白 (701762)], and Bai Fu 白傅 [i.e. Bai Juyi], and concluding with the end of the

                                                             52

[Translator’s note] The ‘first three histories’ (qian san shi 前三史) are The Records of the Grand Historian, the History of the Han, and the History of the Later Han. 53 Liu Shipei, Zhonggu wenxue lunzhu sanzhong 中古文学论著三种 (Three Works on Literature from the Middle Period) (Shenyang: Liaoning jiaoyu chubanshe, 1997), 118.

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Qing dynasty, I here choose a few poems with which to entertain those gentlemen who share my interest.

The Lectures on Verse for Singing and Selection of Song Lyrics kept by the Collège de France are both labelled Chinese literature on the front cover. Together with the three volumes of History of Chinese Literature, they create a certain symmetry. Back when I was reading ‘Overview of Peking University Humanities Faculty’ from 1918, kept in the Peking University Archives, I was not clear about some of the aspects of the teaching of the National Language Department. Liu Shipei: Chinese Literature (6), Literary History (2); Huang Kan: Chinese Literature (10); Wu Mei: Song Lyrics and Dramatic Lyrics (10), Modern Literary History (2). I understood that the numbers within parentheses meant the number of lessons per week, but what puzzled me somewhat was where the difference lay between the course ‘Chinese Literature’ and ‘Literary History.’ Once I had discovered the Old PKU textbooks at the Collège de France, it all became clear. Later I read the ‘Teaching Plan for Literature of the National Language Department of the Faculty of Humanities,’ issued by Peking University in 1918, and found that they clearly stipulate the following: ‘The Department of National Language of the Humanities Faculty teaches courses in literary history and in literature. Their aims are completely different, therefore their teaching methods must also be different.’ The objective of the former was to ‘acquaint the students with the transformations within literature and the different schools of literature’ whereas the use of the latter was to ‘(train) the students to inquire into the ingenious uses of literature and detect the intentions of the authors, in order for them to improve their literary technique.’ The course called ‘Chinese literature’ was divided into three subjects: prose, lyrics and rhapsodies, and song lyrics and dramatic lyrics. (A course for fiction was not formally organized until Lu Xun began teaching the history of Chinese fiction in 1920.) According to the proposed regulations for teaching: ‘In the first and second years of study, students shall be taught all these subjects (prose, lyrics and rhapsodies, song lyrics and dramatic lyrics). In the third year of study, students may, in accordance with the system for selecting courses, select one or two of these subjects in which they are especially interested for in-depth study. The subjects may be further subdivided into periods and literary schools, and the students

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may concentrate on the study of a particular era, or of a school.’54 A year and a half later, the National Language teaching section once again met to discuss improvements in teaching materials and teaching methods. Fifteen people were present at the meeting, including Qian Xuantong, Liu Bannong, Wu Mei, Ma Youyu 马幼渔 [i.e. Ma Yuzao], Shen Jianshi, and Zhu Xizu. In order to facilitate communication, it was even decided in this meeting that there would be ‘five separate teaching sections (jiaoyuanhui 教员会): the literary history section, the literature section, the phonology section, the grammar section, and the section for preparatory courses.’55 I would never have guessed that, at the time of the New Culture Movement, the courses ‘Literary History’ and ‘Literature’ would have been so clearly separated within the teaching of National Language at Peking University. In 1925 and 1934, the curriculum of the Chinese Department of Peking University underwent two relatively thorough revisions. Soon the organization of the teaching was being perfected with each passing day, with the division of work becoming more and more specialized and the number of optional courses multiplying. But one fact did not change: the literature programme continued to include the compulsory courses ‘Chinese Literature’ and ‘Chinese Literary History.’ The one has to do with historical change, the other emphasizes the analysis of art. In the teaching of literature in the early days of Peking University, each had its role to play, each had its proper place. I remember that Hu Shi in his later years stated that his research into fiction was done ‘entirely from the perspective of literary history and not from the perspective of literature studies.’56 This text is written in the form of questions and answers and is not a formal discussion but rather brief and sketchy. However, if we carefully examine Hu Shi’s                                                              54

‘Wenke guowen xuemen wenxue jiaoshou an’ 文科国文学门文学教授案 (Teaching Plan for Literature of the National Language Department of the Faculty of Humanities), Beijing daxue rikan, May 2, 1918. 55 ‘Guowen jiaoshou hui kaihui jishi’ 国文教授会开会纪事 (Record of the Meeting of the Section of National Language Teachers), Beijing daxue rikan, October 17, 1919; see Wang Xuezhen et al., eds., Beijing daxue shiliao, vol. 2, 1709–1711. 56 ‘Shenme shi “guoyu de wenxue,” “wenxue de guoyu”’ 什么是“国语的文 学”、“文学的国语” (What Is ‘A National Language Literature’ and ‘A Literary National Language’) , in Hu Shi jiangyan (Beijing: Zhongguo guangbo dianshi chubanshe, 1992), 274.

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consistent line of reasoning, it is not hard to see that what he calls ‘the perspective of literary history’ is a type of research which is systematic, scientific (positivist), emphasizes historical evolution and ‘produces the evidence,’ whereas what he calls ‘the perspective of literature studies’ is random, intuitive, emphasizes aesthetics, and has no way to ‘produce evidence.’ I used to think this preference was peculiar to Hu Shi, but now it appears to me that this perhaps was the shared taste of the scholars at Peking University during the ‘May Fourth’ period. For ‘Literature’ and ‘Literary History’ to carry equal weight in the teaching of literature in a university Chinese Department is actually a very good arrangement. How unfortunate then that since 1950, as ‘Literary History’ has become the single dominating type of course, literary education has suffered from a major shortcoming. The teachers merely scratch the surface of their subject and the students only pick up snippets of knowledge. They only memorize a whole lot of talk about literary schools, literary trends, and the styles of various authors, but lack the time to concentrate on the appreciation of literary works. Therefore, they have plenty of general knowledge but they are lacking in taste. I have discussed this point in a previous article, 57 but unfortunately I did not at the time look into the arrangement of curricula during the time of the New Culture Movement. If I had, the article’s argumentation would have been more developed. At this juncture I will allow myself a little digression. In Paris, reading early textbooks from Peking University I felt as if encountering an old friend, and I was deeply moved. Apart from thinking about how literary education ought to be arranged, I also grasped the true significance of ‘New Youth.’ Leafing through the Album to Commemorate the Twentieth Anniversary of National Peking University (1918), I discovered a ‘List of Current Employees.’ Among the teachers of the undergraduate and preparatory classes of the Humanities Faculty, the oldest one was Cui Shi, 67, followed by the other ‘old professors’ Gu Hongming, 62, Ye Han, 57, and Chen Hanzhang, 54. Of the other renowned professors, Huang Jie was 41, Zhu Xizu 40, Wu Mei 39, Zhu Zonglai 38, Zhang Shizhao 37, Shen                                                              57

See my ‘“Wenxue” ruhe “jiaoyu”’ “文学”如何“教育”(What Is an ‘Education’ in ‘Literature’), Wenhui bao, February 23, 2002.

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Yinmo 36, Liu Shipei 35, Zhou Zuoren 35, Ma Xulun 34, Huang Kan 33, Qian Daosun 33, Qian Xuantong 32, Chen Daqi 32, Shen Jianshi 32, Tao Menghe 31, Wang Xinggong 王星拱 (18871949) 30, He Bingsong 29, Hu Shi 28, Liu Bannong 28, Zhu Jiahua 朱 家 骅 (18931963) 26, Liang Shuming 26, and Xu Baohuang 25. Of the ages listed some are nominal ages and some are actual ages, and I have copied them from the old list as a means of textual research. Wu Mei is an exception: since he was reported to be five years older than he actually was, I have had to make a correction. Apparently, the hottempered Liu Wendian was only 28 that year. Liu Shipei, who had not filled in his age on the form, was 35. In the administration, president Cai Yuanpei was 50, and Chen Duxiu, Dean of the Humanities Faculty, was 40. Li Dazhao, the chief librarian, was 30. What a youthful academic team they made by today’s standards! But it was precisely these youths that opened up the new era of politics, thought and scholarship. This is idle talk, and I end it here. A History of Literature Not to Be Forgotten In discussions of the modern historiography of Chinese literature, two educational institutions are normally mentioned: Peking University and Soochow University (Dongwu daxue 东吴大学). This is, of course, because the first two works by Chinese scholars entitled History of Chinese Literature were produced by teachers from those two universities: Lin Chuanjia 林传甲 (courtesy name: Guiyun 归云, style: Kuiteng 奎腾, 1877–1922), a native of Minhou 闽侯 in Fujian, and Huang Ren (original name: Zhenyuan 振元, changed to Ren in mid-life, courtesy name: Muhan 幕韩, style: Moxi 摩西), a native of Changshu 常 熟 in Jiangsu. Many scholars have discussed their works.58 There is, however, another famous scholar, linked to both                                                              58

Cf. Huang Lin 黄霖, Jindai wenxue piping shi 近代文学批评史 (History of Early Modern Literary Criticism) (Shanghai: Guji chubanshe, 1993), Chapter 9; Xia Xiaohong 夏晓虹, ‘Zuowei jiaokeshu de wenxueshi – Du Lin Chuanjia Zhongguo wenxueshi’ 作为教科书的文学史 – 读林传甲《中国文学史》(Literary History as Textbook: Reading Lin Chuanjia’s History of Chinese Literature), Wenxueshi 1 (1995); Wang Yongjian 王永健, ‘Suzhou qiren’ Huang Moxi pingzhuan ‘苏州奇人’ 黄 摩 西 评 传 (Critical Biography of Huang Moxi, the ‘Remarkable Man from Suzhou’) (Suzhou: Suzhou daxue chubanshe, 2000); Dai Yan 戴燕, Wenxueshi de quanli 文学史的权力 (The Power of Literary History) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2002), appendix 1 and 3; Chen Guoqiu 陈 国 球 , Wenxueshi shuxie

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these universities, who also made a great contribution to the early writing of literary histories, and that is Wu Mei, who was a native of Wuxian 吴县 in Jiangsu. His tenure as professor at Peking University from 1917–1922 gave Wu Mei plenty of opportunities to show his capabilities.59 However, his previous tenure at Soochow University is an equally noteworthy part of his scholarly development. In 1905, aged only 22, Wu Mei was appointed as an instructor at Soochow University at the recommendation of his good friend Huang Moxi. During his years at Soochow University (interrupted only by a short stint as an official aide in Kaifeng 开封), Wu Mei earned a meagre salary and both his living conditions and his emotional state were not very stable. However, he got to know many famous literary figures, which directly supported his later positive development at Peking University and National Central University. Most significant in this context is his profound intimacy with the fiction critic and literary historian Huang Ren. Wu Mei, incensed by the failure of the 100 Days Reform and the execution of the ‘six gentlemen,’ 60 had previously published a chuanqi play entitled ‘Blood Splatters’ (xuehua fei 雪 花 飞 ), for which Huang Moxi wrote a preface. The text of the play itself was later burned to avoid trouble,61 but Huang’s preface has survived. Wu Mei himself stated that, in his studies of song lyrics and dramatic lyrics, he ‘also received instruction from Mr Huang Moxi, and thus made even more progress.’ 62 In his long collection of random notes                                                                                                                                

xingtai yu wenhua zhengzhi 文 学 史 书 写 形 态 与 文 化 政 治 (Forms of Literary Historiography and Cultural Politics) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2004), chapter 2. 59 Wang Weimin 王 卫 民 writes: ‘On the whole, those five years were the happiest years of his life. He became more and more famous and influential, both in the scholarly world and in the world of traditional opera.’ Wang, Wu Mei pingzhuan 吴梅评传 (Critical Biography of Wu Mei) (Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu chubanshe, 2002), 26. 60 [Translator’s note] The ‘six gentlemen’ (liu junzi 六君子) executed in the wake of the 100 Days Reform were Tan Sitong, Kang Guangren 康广人, Lin Xu 林旭, Yang Shenxiu 杨深秀, Yang Rui 杨锐, and Liu Guangwei 刘光伟. 61 [Translator’s note] A euphemism for saying it was destroyed by the author or his family prior to or during a political campaign—most likely the Cultural Revolution. 62 Cf. ‘Shemota shi quhua – zixu’ 奢摩他室曲话·自序 (Notes on Dramatic Lyrics from the Samatha Room – Author’s Introduction), in Wu Mei quanji – Lilun juan

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(biji 笔 记 ) entitled ‘Liyan’ 蠡 言 (Shallow Words), serialized in Xiaoshuo yuebao 小说月报 (The Short Story Magazine), Volume 4, Nos. 9–12, Wu Mei also makes special mention of Huang Muhan (Moxi), ‘my old friend from my days as a teacher at Soochow,’ as follows: He is an unusual man. After his mother passed away, he let his hair grow long, looking all dishevelled as he swaggered around town, attracting people’s ridicule. In his studies he had an eye for everything. Whether it was classics and history, poetry and prose, occultism and divination, musical meters, or ancient sorcery, he always new the gist of it. Therefore when he composes, he just picks up his brush and writes, without fussing over conventions, full of flair and loftiness, unable to restrain himself. […] Generally speaking, his song lyrics are characterized by errors in prosody but brilliance in diction, so his longer lyrics often bear traces of carelessness and mistakes. A man of great talent who takes little care (cai da er xin cu 才大而心粗): that just about sums him up. I hear he has had mental problems of late, and I wonder if perhaps his curiosity has harmed him.’ 63

He appreciated how his old friend ‘had an eye for everything’ in his studies, and that he could just ‘pick up his brush and write,’ but at the same time he gently chided him for being talented, yet careless. As an appreciation of Huang’s character, these lines are quite penetrating. What is more important, however, is that they help us to understand Wu Mei’s own tastes in literature and scholarship: to pursue specialization, rather than breadth of knowledge, and to emphasize detail, as opposed to being careless. This corresponds well with the trend towards specialization in modern Chinese scholarship. Later scholars have generally heaped profuse praise on Wu Mei’s writing of and research on song lyrics and dramatic lyrics. This makes sense, and it is certainly the case that, in the context of the history of modern Chinese scholarship, we can only discuss Wu Mei’s field of specialization, namely his research on lyrics. The reality of Wu’s life as a professor, however, meant that                                                                                                                                

(Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu chubanshe, 2002), 1139. See also Jin Tianyu 金天羽, ‘Suzhou wu qiren zhuan’ 苏州五奇人传 (Biographies of Five Eccentrics from Suzhou), in Tianfanglou xu wenyan (Suzhou: Suzhou guoxue hui, 1933), juan 4. In this latter source, Huang Ren is described as follows: ‘In composing dramatic lyrics, he was as good as Wu Mei, and the two of them were very close friends. Muhan was not capable of profound or refined metres, but when it came to enhancing the beauty of a text, he was often better than Wu Mei.’ 63 ‘Li yan’ 蠡言 (Shallow Words), Wu Mei quanji – Lilun juan, 1466–1470.

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apart from lyrics, he also taught the writing of poetry and prose, and he also lectured on literary history. If we leave out those corners and margins and only talk about his main achievements, we would not be looking at the ‘whole man,’ let alone the ‘whole oeuvre.’ Taking his five years of lecturing at Peking University as an example, what is remembered is Wu Mei’s specialism, the study of lyrics. His disciple Ren Zhongmin 任中敏 (18971991) describes in his ‘Remembering Master Qu’an’ how the humanities prospered at Peking University under the chancellorship of Cai Yuanpei: ‘In those days, of the professors of Chinese literature, Liu Shenshu taught prose, Huang Huiwen 黄晦文 [i.e. Huang Jie] taught poetry, and Master Qu’an [i.e. Wu Mei] taught lyrics.’64 This fits exactly with Wu Mei’s own footnote to his poem ‘Entering the Capital in MidAutumn, Bidding Farewell to My Associates in Shanghai’: ‘At that time, the Hongxian 洪宪 reign [i.e., the reign of Yuan Shikai] was already over, National Learning had been abolished as a school subject, and I was recruited to lecture on old lyrics.’ These lectures led to the publication of Ciyu jiangyi 词余讲义 (Lectures on Verse for Singing) and are therefore widely known. The book was later given the new title General Survey of Dramatic Lyrics and published by the Commercial Press, and together with Guqu zhutan 顾曲麈谈 (Informal Talks on Listening to Dramatic Lyrics) and Nan Bei ci jianpu 南北词简谱 (Notations of Southern and Northern Song Lyrics) it helped cement Wu’s fame as a ‘master of the study of dramatic lyrics.’65 In the 1919 Peking University Press publication of Lectures on Verse for Singing, Wu Mei has an author’s preface which explains how the book came about: In the Autumn of 1917, I was honoured with an appointment at our National University, to instruct students in this art [i.e. dramatic lyrics]. It is a shame that, although there have been many authors throughout

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Ren Zhongmin, ‘Huiyi Qu’an fuzi’ 回忆瞿庵夫子 (Remembering Master Qu’an), in Wang Weimin, ed., Wu Mei he ta de shijie (Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu chubanshe, 2002), 102. 65 Pu Jiangqing praised Wu Mei’s achievements in the following words: ‘For 20odd years he was an enthusiastic educator, revered throughout the country as a master of the study of dramatics lyrics.’ He also writes: ‘His research on dramatic lyrics is contained in Informal Talks on Listening to Lyrics, General Survey of Dramatic Lyrics, and Notations of Southern and Northern Song Lyrics. The latter is the most important.’ Pu Jiangqing 浦江清, ‘Dao Wu Qu’an xiansheng’ 悼吴瞿安先 生 (Mourning Mr Wu Qu’an), Xiqu 1, No. 3 (1942).

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the Yuan and Ming dynasties, there are very few that have formulated clear conventions and established schools of writing that might guide the way for students. Moreover, ever since the mid-nineteenth century, the singers no longer know the rhythms, the literati no longer know the sounds, and the composers no longer know the scores. Day by day the origins of the art fade into the distance, and musical expertise is hard to come by. It has been my earnest intention to bring together all the different explications and write a book about them.66

Since the preface states that the lectures were held in mid-Autumn of 1917 and turned into a book in mid-Winter of 1919, it makes it absolutely clear the book was directly linked to the establishment of his course at Peking University. Yet, if we check the Peking University lecture timetable and the list of teachers for those years, we immediately encounter an interesting issue: at Peking University, Wu Mei taught more than just classes in his specialist field of ‘lyrics.’ According to the ‘Record of Current Teaching Staff’ that is included in the Album to Commemorate the Twentieth Anniversary of Peking University, Wu Mei was aged 39 (in fact, he was 35), was a native of Wuxian in Jiangsu, lived in the university staff accommodation in Di’anmennei erdaoqiao 地安门内二道桥 and was ‘Professor in the Humanities Faculty and graduate student supervisor in the Department of National Language.’67 There are two archival materials that can help us solve the ‘mystery’ of what Wu Mei was teaching in the ‘Humanities Faculty’ and what he was supervising in the National Language Department of the Humanities Research School. The ‘Overview of Peking University Humanities Faculty’ (1918), kept at the Peking University Archives, mentions that classes given by Wu Mei as instructor in the National Language Department included: ‘lyrics’ (ten lessons per week) and ‘recent literary history’ (two classes a week). And according to the ‘Overview Table of Research School Research Areas and Responsible Supervisors,’ published in the Album to Commemorate the Twentieth Anniversary of Peking University, the National Language Department of the Research School covered ten specializations, and Wu Mei was                                                              66

‘Qu xue tonglun – zixu’ 曲学通论·自序 (General Introduction to Dramatic Lyrics – Author’ Preface), in Wu Mei quanji—Lilun juan, 161. 67 ‘Xianren zhiyuan lu’ 现任职员录 (Record of Current Teaching Staff), in Beijing daxue shiliao, ed. Wang Xuezhen, vol. 2, 348.

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responsible for supervising and teaching ‘literary history’ and ‘dramatic lyrics.’ 68 In other words, when Wu Mei was at Peking University, both in his undergraduate teaching and in his graduate supervision, he covered both ‘literary history’ and ‘lyrics.’ While teaching at Peking University, Wu not only wrote his Lectures on Verse for Singing, he also collated The Origins of the Song Lyrics [by Zhang Yan] and edited An Anthology of Famous Plays from Past and Present and An Anthology of Song Lyrics. One might say his achievements were immense. It seems, however, that he published nothing in the field of literary history. Yet according to Peking University regulations in those days, professors who taught were required to give out the text of their lectures. A whole generation of famous works, including Liu Shipei’s History of Chinese Literature from the Middle Period and Lu Xun’s A Brief History of Chinese Fiction, as well as Wu Mei’s Lectures on Verse for Singing originated from texts of lectures handed out to students. Bearing this in mind, from time to time my mind would wander to think about what the lectures on literary history by the famous lyrics expert Wu Mei might have been like. A chance encounter made this fantasy a reality. In the Spring of 2004, in the library of the Institute of Chinese Advanced Studies of the Collège de France, I actually encountered Wu Mei’s lectures in literary history from his years at Peking University. I say ‘encountered,’ because although I had had an inkling about it, I had never been able to confirm that such a book existed anywhere in the world. It is not held in the Peking University Library, nor in its archives, nor have I seen it mentioned in any biographies or book lists. I had merely deducted on the basis of common sense, and it turned out, to my surprise, that I had guessed correctly. Having done research on the history of the university had familiarized me with the set-up of the literature curriculum at Peking University. Moreover, having read a description of the mimeographed edition of Lu Xun’s A Brief History of Chinese Fiction, I spotted Wu Mei’s History of Chinese Literature immediately among a pile of books. It was in the standard format for the old Peking                                                              68

‘Ge yanjiusuo yanjiu kemu ji danren jiaoyuan yilan biao’ 各研究所研究科目 及 担 任 教 员 一览 表 (Overview Table of Research School Research Areas and Responsible Supervisors), in Ibid., 359.

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University, i.e., the text had been hand-copied on transparency paper with a brush dipped in nitric acid, then printed in ink, bound with a yellow-coloured raw edge, and then folded into two sides, with ten lines of 20 to 24 characters on each side. On the fold of each page is written ‘History of Chinese Literature Humanities Faculty Department of National Language Year 3 Wu Mei,’ indicating the title of the course, the level of the students, and the name of the author and professor. Page numbers are indicated in the middle, and occasionally there appear the names of different copyists, to make it easier for the university to calculate their wages. The History of Chinese Literature is in three volumes. The name given on the cover is ‘Wu.’ On the first page is a heading ‘History of Chinese Literature – From Tang to Qing,’ followed by ‘by Wu Mei.’ Here, the ‘history of Chinese literature from Tang to Qing’ is exactly what is meant by ‘recent literary history,’ indicated as taught by Wu Mei in the ‘Overview of Peking University Humanities Faculty.’ Early histories of literature that were modelled on Japanese works were often divided into ‘ancient period’ (shanggu 上古), ‘middle period’ (zhonggu 中古) and ‘recent period’ (jingu 近古), with the Tang dynasty being considered the start of the ‘recent period.’69 The Peking University lecture timetable for 1917 confirms that the section on Chinese literature contained a three-year course in ‘history of Chinese literature,’ taught for three hours a week, with the first year of study covering ‘the ancient period up to the Wei,’ the second year covering ‘Wei and Jin to Tang’ and the third year ‘Tang and Song up to the present.’70 Wu Mei’s History of Chinese Literature, put together for thirdyear students of Chinese literature, in fact only goes up to the Ming dynasty. Moreover, one of the three volumes is a selection of works. The actual discussion of literary history is in three parts: a general discussion of Tang dynasty literature (68 pages), a general discussion of literature from the Song and Yuan dynasties (35 pages), and a                                                              69

Cf. Zeng Yi 曾毅, Zhongguo wenxueshi 中国文学史 (History of Chinese Literature) (Shanghai: Taidong tushuju, 1915) and Xie Wuliang, Zhongguo da wenxueshi 中 国 大 文 学 史 (Great History of Chinese Literature) (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1918). 70 Zhu Youhuan 朱有瓛, Zhongguo jindai xuezhi shiliao 中国近代学制史料 (Historical Materials for the Chinese Education System) (Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 1992), vol. 3, pt. 2, 99.

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general discussion of Ming dynasty literature (45 pages). The first two parts constitute the first volume. The third part, together with an ‘Appendix to History of Chinese Literature’ containing works from the Tang, make up the second volume. An ‘Appendix’ of works from the Song and Yuan dynasty, as well as an ‘Appendix to the Appendix,’ containing a ‘List of Ming Dynasty chuanqi Plays’ and a ‘List of Ming Dynasty zaju Plays,’ 95 pages in all, make up the entire third volume. Solely on the basis of the organization of the chapters we can get a glimpse of the basic structure of Wu’s History of Chinese Literature. His ‘General Discussion of Tang Dynasty Literature’ is divided into six sections: prose, poetry, song lyrics, history, fiction, and Buddhist literature. His ‘General Discussion of Literature from the Song and Yuan Dynasties’ is in eight parts: prose, poetry, song lyrics, dramatic lyrics, history, recorded utterances (yulu 语 录 ), fiction, and examination writings (shiwen 时 文 ). The ‘General Discussion of Ming Literature’ has six sub-headings: prose, poetry, lyrics, NeoConfucianism, eight-legged essays (zhiyi 制艺), and fiction. Today’s readers might be surprised to find that Wu Mei included discussions of history, recorded utterances, Neo-Confucianism, and eight-legged essays in a history of literature. If you are familiar, however, with early literary historiography, such as the works of Lin Chuanjia, Huang Ren, Zeng Yi 曾 毅 (18791953), Xie Wuliang, and Hu Huaichen, you will not be perturbed by such ‘chaotic principles.’ One might even consider it the other way round: for the past century or so, has the practice of tailoring the ‘history of Chinese literature’ to the Western concept of ‘pure literature’ not been a case of cutting the feet to fit the shoes? One might challenge the actual discourse used, but I do agree with the idea that when discussing classical Chinese literature one cannot completely disregard historical works, recorded utterances, Neo-Confucianism, eight-legged essays, and other such ‘scattered writing’ (to use the May Fourth ‘New Culture’ term). In the 1930s, Wu Mei produced a preface for the second volume of Qing Authors’ Zaju Plays, edited by Zheng Zhenduo. In it he wrote: ‘Moxi holds that the examination essays and chuanqi plays of the Ming, and the examination poems of the Qing, were all works of

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peerless excellence. I profoundly agree with his words.’71 In fact, in their respective lectures entitled History of Chinese Literature, Huang and Wu displayed many similarities in their attention to the eight-legged essay.72 However, rather than explore Wu Mei’s view of ‘examination essays,’ we should focus on his views of fiction and theatre, since his true colours lay more in those areas. Below are two passages dealing with Tang chuanqi tales and Yuan zaju drama, which I hope can largely demonstrate Wu Mei’s writing style and scholarly taste in his lectures entitled History of Chinese Literature: Tang dynasty stories were mainly written by unsuccessful scholars, unemployed and frustrated, dispelling their feelings of boredom and unfairness through [tales about] knights and immortals, gods and spirits, boudoirs and garments, beauty and seduction. They belong, therefore, to the school of sentiment (xieqing pai 写情派), and cannot be compared with the stories of earlier dynasties, which occupied themselves solely with narrating events. That explains why story writing became widespread following its advance (?) up to the Tang dynasty. Yet authors often had no basis [for their stories] and would thus borrow from lyrics and rhapsodies. Although their rhetoric is able to move people, textual research on their writings leads to nothing. Their shortcomings are that they are ornate and prolix, rarely cultured and restrained. This is all firmly rooted in the vogues of their era. Moreover, their objectives are largely flippant and debauched. So large is the number of volumes, and so numerous are the different categories, that these works really cannot be placed on a par with those of previous dynasties. There is one major distinction between the two: Story writing before the Tang descends from Yu Chu’s Tales of the Zhou Dynasty,73 which is recorded in the ‘Treatise on Letters’ [in the

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‘Qing ren zaju er ji xu’ 清人杂剧二集序 (Preface to the Second Volume of Qing Authors’ Zaju Plays), Wu Mei quanji – lilun juan, 1019. 72 In a ‘Brief Discussion’ in the second volume of his History of Chinese Literature, Huang Ren claims that there are two noteworthy literary phenomena in the Ming dynasty: rhymeless eight-legged essays, and rhymed chuanqi. The former is important because ‘for 300 years, Confucian scholars and their followers all over the country concentrated their efforts on this point, extracting many essences and using vast amounts of material. Naturally, in this way, what used to be stinking and rotten was made marvellous and miraculous, and a new landmark was created in the world of letters.’ Huang Ren, Huang Ren ji 黄人集 (Huang Ren’s Writings), ed. Jiang Qingbai 江庆柏 et al. (Shanghai: Shanghai wenhua chubanshe, 2001), 343. 73 [Translator’s note] Yu Chu Zhou shuo 虞初周说 (Yu Chu’s Tales of the Zhou Dynasty) is a legendary collection of folk tales recorded by a Former Han dynasty official, often regarded as the origin of the xiaoshuo genre.

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History of the Han], providing genuine textual verification. Story writing from the Tang onwards becomes common chit-chat (suyu 俗 语 ). It uses completely fictitious, empty language to indulge its despondent and fatalistic (yise bu ou 抑塞不偶) intentions. The works from the Jin and Yuan dynasties are all like this. (From page 65 of the chapter ‘General Introduction to Tang Literature’) Story writers and dramatists of the Yuan dynasty were generally poor and living among the common people, disdaining to accept official positions from the barbarian [Mongol] dynasty. It was their lofty ambition to describe in playful words the state of society, so as to give vent to their pent-up anger and sense of injustice, while at the same time administering reward and punishment. After the appearance of the Western Chamber and the Lute, 74 however, scholars began to follow these models, depending on which of them was closest to their temperament. Those who modelled themselves on the Western Chamber start from The Story of the Women’s Quarters and The Pavillion Where They Pray to the Moon and go all the way down to [Tang Xianzu’s 汤显祖 (1550-1616)] Four Dreams from Linchuan and [Wu Bing’s 吴炳 (jinshi 1619)] Five Plays from the Studio of Splendid Speech. Those modelling themselves on the Lute include The Story of the Thorn Hairpin, The Story of the Dead Dog, and The Story of the White Hare.75 In my modest opinion, those who follow the Lute easily fall prey to vulgarity, whereas those who follow the Western Chamber easily get caught up in excessive detail. Both have their drawbacks, but those who followed the Western Chamber did not sacrifice the proper ways. Excessive detail can be corrected, but vulgarity is something bred in one’s bones, and is impossible to remove. (From page 18 of the chapter ‘General Introduction to Literature of the Song and Yuan’)

Fiction was not Wu Mei’s forte, so it is unavoidable that, when touching upon Tang dynasty stories, he would largely rely on received opinion. Writing about theatre, on the other hand, was                                                              74

[Translator’s note] i.e. Xixiang ji 西厢记 (The Story of the Western Chamber), a zaju 杂剧 (‘comedy’) play by Wang Shifu 王实甫 (late 13th century), and Pipa ji 琵琶记 (The Story of the Lute), a chuanqi 传奇 (‘Southern drama’) play by Gao Ming 高明 (ca. 1307ca. 1371). 75 [Translator’s note] The English translations of most of the titles referred to here were taken from Wilt Idema and Lloyd Haft, A Guide to Chinese Literature (Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, The University of Michigan, 1997), 179, 193. Brief introductions to the plays can also be found there.

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undoubtedly something that Wu Mei was very proficient at. Not everyone would be able to distinguish between imitations of Story of the Western Chamber and of Story of the Lute. When lecturing at Peking University about southern arias and northern arias, zaju and chuanqi, Wu Mei was like a fish in water. In those days, he had proudly entered the highest institution of learning as a ‘professor of classical lyrics,’ following the publication of his Informal Talks on Listening to Dramatic Lyrics (Shanghai: Commercial Press, 1916).76 Yet there are not many passages in the sections on lyrics in History of Chinese Literature that copy his Informal Talks. On the contrary, numerous strange ideas and wonderful thoughts that came to him while teaching influenced his later related publications. The passage below, for instance, dealing with Tang Xianzu’s Four Dreams from the Jade Tea Studio [i.e. Four Dreams from Linchuan], was later copied almost entirely in his Outline of Chinese Theatre (Shanghai: Dadong shuju, 1926), where it appears as ‘General Discussion of the Four Dreams’ in ‘Section 3: Chuanqi Drama’ of the second volume.77 When the Four Dreams from Linchuan came out, with their extraordinary sentiment and masterful writing, it towered over all other lyricists, and no later author has been able to surpass it. The literati of the mid-Ming were fond of discussing human nature and principle (xingli 性理), yet they often dissembled, as concerns about placement in the imperial examinations and about official remuneration were bred in their bones. Tang Xianzu detested all this, so he availed himself of irony and satire (Manqian huixie, Dongpo xiaoma 曼倩诙谐，东坡笑骂) as an antidote against all the excitement and seriousness. In his own words: ‘Others speak of human nature, I speak of sentiment.’ He also wrote: ‘Who knows if that which the principles lack is that which the sentiments possess?’ And also: ‘Where ever in this world one speaks of lovers’ yearning, this is what our love is like.’ It seems he held that intimate sentiment might transcend life and death, connect the real and the unreal, lose sight of self and other, and that it

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Chen Shunnian 陈舜年 recalled Wu Mei’s own account as follows: ‘In 1917, Wu Mei was 34 years old. At the time, the Peking University chancellor Cai Yuanpei had bought a copy of Informal Talks on Listening to Dramatic Lyrics at an old bookshop, and after reading it he was very appreciative of it. Chen Duxiu was then in charge of the Humanities Faculty at Peking University and he personally went to see Wu Mei to enlist his services as professor of classical lyrics.’ Cf. Wu Mei quanji – riji juan, 936. 77 Cf. Wu Mei quanji – lilun juan, 286.

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would never perish. If the body is an empty shell, why discuss merit and achievement? If the immortals and buddhas are in disarray, wherein lie wealth and honour? Those who value outward appearance will only appreciate the marvel of his plots and the beauty of his language; and those who are short-sighted will scold him for being profane and curse him to hell, which is especially ridiculous. Now, in regular chuanqi drama, one must respect the male lead (sheng 生). Liu Mengmei 柳 梦 梅 in The Peony Pavillion goes from begging for money and digging up graves in the middle of the night to being a dignified top graduate. In The Handan Dream, the poor Scholar Lu goes from climbing the social ladder through marriage, pursuing favours and releasing enemies, to being a dignified meritorious official. As for the likes of Li Shilang 李十郎 [the male protagonist of The Purple Hairpin]: he clings to powerful people and betrays his love, behaves like an animal, ruins his career, overindulges in alcohol and sex, and mates with lowlifes. How utterly detestable is that! Therefore, on the surface it would seem that the protagonists of the Four Dreams are Bridal Du, Huo Xiaoyu 霍小玉, Scholar Lu, and Chunyu Fen 淳于 棼. 78 Those who understand the deeper meaning of the texts would simply say that Peony Pavillion is about ghosts, The Purple Hairpin about knights, The Handan Dream about immortals, and The Nanke Dream about buddhas. This is definitely a good way of putting it. Yet in the author’s intention the real protagonists were the Judge of the Underworld (mingpan 冥 判 ) [in Peony Pavillion], Yellow Robe (Huangshanke 黄衫客) [in The Purple Hairpin], Old Man Lü (Lü weng 吕翁) [in The Handan Dream], and Zen Master Qixuan 契玄 [in The Nanke Dream]. When people refer to ghosts, knights, immortals, and buddhas, this relates to the main ideas of the play, but they are not the vehicles of those ideas. The four first-mentioned characters are like marionettes on the stage, while the latter four are the ones holding the strings. The first four are the ones who are dreaming, the latter four are outside the dream. Since ghosts, knights, immortals, and buddhas represent the main ideas, therefore from an intrinsic perspective (zhuguan 主观) the Judge and the others are the main protagonists, while Bridal Du and the others can only be the protagonists from an outside perspective (keguan 客观). Herein lies the reason why Tang Xianzu’s talent vastly exceeds that of all common chuanqi writers. The expression ‘superior rhetoric’ (cizao shengren 词藻胜人) does not even begin to cover it. Ning’an 宁庵 [i.e. Shen Jing 沈璟] adhered to the prosodies, carefully and measuredly, but compared to Hairuo 海若 [i.e. Tang Xianzu], he is not just like the maidservant is to the wife,

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[Translator’s note] Bridal Du (Du Liniang 杜丽娘) is the female lead in Peony Pavillion, Huo Xiaoyu the female lead in The Purple Hairpin, and Chunyu Fen the male lead in The Story of Nanke.

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but rather like a dwarf to a giant. That current opinion places Shen on a par with Tang might be called a wholly inappropriate comparison.79 (From page 23 of the chapter ‘General Introduction to Ming Literature’)

It is worth noticing that when this passage was later included in Outline of Chinese Theatre, the passage starting with ‘Ning’an adhered to the prosodies’ was deleted. In the Informal Talks, Wu Mei gave high praise to Shen Jing (1553–1610, courtesy name: Boying 伯 英, style: Ning’an, commonly known as ‘Master Lyric Hermit’ ciyin xiansheng 词隐先生), saying that ‘when it comes to the ways of prosody, he alone possesses divine intelligence,’ and mentioning him in the same breath as Tang Xianzu: I consider these two gentlemen (Tang and Shen) to be a radical and a conservative (kuangjuan 狂狷). Both types of people are needed in this world. If one could observe the conventions like Master Lyric Hermit, and employ one’s talent like the Immortal of Clarity and Distance (qingyuan Daoren 清远道人) [i.e. Tang Xianzu], would this not be the fusion of two types of beauty? 80

Given Wu Mei’s focus on the prosody of dramatic lyrics, it is to be expected that he would appreciate Shen Jing. What is highly unexpected is that, when lecturing at Peking University, he decided to become depreciative of him. The only explanation for this is probably the impact of the atmosphere at Peking University in those days, with its emphasis on naturalness, individuality, and resistance to formal restrictions. Since these are, after all, texts of lectures, the book strongly gives the impression of having been written in a hurry. For instance, he made it clear that ‘during the Tang dynasty, literature flourished, and of the examples it has set for later ages, none compares to its poetry.’ (49) Yet for his discussion of Tang poetry, the author only used ten pages. Compared to his 47 pages of discussion of Tang prose, this is really disproportionate. If it were the case that the author had a bias towards prose and against poetry and did this on purpose, that would at least be an explanation. But then how to explain the fact that he                                                              79

[Translator’s note] The translation of this quotation is indebted to a partial translation provided in Wei Hua, ‘Character Design in The Peony Pavillion,’ CHINOPERL Papers 20-22 (1997-1999), 10. 80 Informal Talks, Chapter 4, in Wu Mei quanji – lilun juan, 148.

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spent 47 pages on Tang prose, and only five-and-a-half pages on Song prose? His discussion of Tang prose takes up nearly one-third of the entire history. This kind of lack of proportion does not represent Wu Mei’s own aesthetic tastes. It is much more likely that, when he started out, he prepared his classes very conscientiously and wrote very detailed lecture notes, but that soon after, he found out that time was short and that it was impossible to consider all details and write everything down unhurriedly, so he began to rush his way through. In fact, it was not only a matter of time. In my view, the greater crisis lay in the fact that there were significant discrepancies between Wu Mei’s scholarly approach and the image of ‘literary history’ that was prevalent at Peking University in those days. The University Daily of May 2, 1918, published a ‘Teaching Plan for Literature,’ decided upon during a meeting of professors of the National Language Department on April 30. The plan states: ‘The Department of National Language of the Humanities Faculty teaches courses in literary history and in literature. Their aims are completely different, therefore their teaching methods must also be different.’ Based on these standards, of the two courses that Wu Mei was responsible for at Peking University, one (‘Recent Literary History’) belonged to ‘literary history’ and the other (‘Lyrics’) belonged to ‘literature.’ Comments such as ‘… formulated clear conventions and established schools of writing that might guide the way for students’ and ‘On the whole, when it comes to writing lyrics, his technique is crude from beginning to end,’ both from Lectures on Verse for Singing, were Wu Mei’s speciality. On the other hand, analyses such as ‘Literature changes with the trends of the time. The style of each era has its origin and its moment of creation. The process is natural and there is no initial intention to be different,’ from History of Chinese Literature, were really not his strong point. If it was characteristic of Huang Ren’s writing, as summarized by Wu Mei, that he was ‘not a stickler for rules,’ then it would be a characteristic of Wu Mei’s writing that he was ‘not a stickler for evidence.’ I agree with the assessment by scholars, such as Pu Jiangqing 浦江清 (19041957), Qian Jibo 钱基博 (18871957), and Tang Guizhang 唐 圭 璋 (19011990), who wrote that the two greatest contributions to early modern research on theatre were made by Wang Guowei and Wu Mei, with the former emphasizing

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historical textual research, and the latter focusing on the theatre itself.81 Wu Mei, who could write, could compose music, could sing, and could act, clearly had a better understanding of and sensitivity towards the art of the theatre itself than Wang Guowei. Yet, when it comes to the foundations of modern Chinese scholarship, Wang Guowei’s achievements are more commendable. Relatively speaking, Wu Mei was more like a member of the traditional literati with a high level of artistic cultivation. When he turned towards specialized academic writing (such as the writing of literary history or theatre history), his random attitude to research and his neglect of textual research exposed his shortcomings in this area. Ye Dejun 叶德均 (19111956) wrote that Wu Mei, as a scholar of theatre history, was only interested in whether or not the arias followed the prosodies, and he had no broader scholarly horizon. He would arrive at conclusions randomly, based on his feelings, and sometimes churn out his writing quite carelessly.82 This criticism is certainly not unjustified.83 Wu Mei was ‘good at exploring the subtle effects of writing,’ but he was not very adept at ‘explaining the origins of the different genres of writing, as well as the divisions between different schools and their changes.’ This being the case, one should not harbour too many expectations about the recently discovered History of Chinese Literature. This book can help us to                                                              81

Cf. Pu Jiangqing, ‘Mourning Mr Wu Qu’an,’ here cited from Wu Mei he ta de shijie, ed. Wang Weimin, 61–63; Qian Jibo, Xiandai Zhongguo wenxueshi 现代中国 文学史 (History of Modern Chinese Literature) (Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 1986), 313; Tang Guizhang, ‘Huiyi Wu Qu’an xiansheng’ 回忆吴瞿庵先生 (Remembering Mr Wu Qu’an), in Wu Mei he ta de shijie, 83–88. 82 Cf. Ye Dejun, ‘Wu Mei de “Shuangya qu ba”’ 吴梅的《霜厓曲跋》(Wu Mei’s Postscript to Shuangya’s Dramatic Lyrics), in Xiqu xiaoshuo congkao (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979), 484–494. 83 Deng Qiaobin 邓乔彬 cites Ye Dejun’s view and largely agrees with it, writing that Wu Mei ‘as a critic was not short of brilliant opinions, but as a textual researcher he was lacking in discipline.’ Cf. Deng, Wu Mei Yanjiu 吴梅研究 (Wu Mei Studies) (Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 1990), 109. On the other hand, Ren Zhongmin strongly dislikes Ye’s opinion, calling Ye an ‘opinionated imbecile’ (wangren 妄人) and revealing in a footnote that Ye ‘committed suicide in 1957.’ (According to Zhao Jingshen’s preface to Ye’s book, the latter passed away on July 6, 1956.) Ren further ridicules Zhao for ‘hiding the suicide from the outside world’ and writes ‘why would a “broad-minded person” (you shi zhi shi 有识之士) commit suicide in the end? It really defies explanation.’ Personally I find this kind of counter-criticism much too spiteful. Cf. Ren, ‘Remembering Master Qu’an,’ 102– 105.

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understand better Wu Mei’s scholarly thinking, but it will not allow us to ‘remould’ the image of Wu Mei as a scholar. The next question is: why did Wu Mei himself and his many students from those years later consciously or unconsciously overlook his teaching and writing of the history of Chinese literature? Let’s deal with Wu Mei first. Literary history was designated as a compulsory course by the university. Whether you liked it or not, you needed to prepare it properly and make sure you were in the classroom at the right time. Perhaps literary history was more something for the ‘talented, yet careless’ Huang Moxi, rather than for Wu Mei, who was quite reserved and restrained, and preferred to focus his attention on his studies. For that reason perhaps, Wu Mei never mentioned the literary history he authored during his time at Peking University, not while he was teaching there, nor when he was at National Central University, nor while he drifted through Guangxi and Yunnan during the War of Resistance. A few months before his death, Wu Mei wrote a letter to his pupil Lu Qian 卢前 (19051951), expressing his last wishes: I have drawn up a list of my life’s writings, for my student to be entrusted with after my death, as follows: Record of Shuangya’s Prose, in two volumes, still needs to be copied out; of Record of Shuangya’s Poetry, in four volumes, there is already a clean copy; of Record of Shuangya’s Song Lyrics, in one volume, there is already a clean copy; the printing blocks for Record of Shuangya’s Dramatic Lyrics, in two volumes, have already been cut; the blocks for Shuangya’s Three Plays, including musical scores, have already been cut. Apart from these, Informal Talks on Listening to Dramatic Lyrics, History of Chinese Theatre, History of the Literature of the Liao, Jin, and Yuan are all in the bookshops. Let them survive or perish naturally. As for Numbered Notation of Northern and Southern Lyric Tunes, in ten volumes and already copied out, this book is truly needed by those who study dramatic lyrics, and therefore it must be printed and then published together with the five works mentioned at the beginning.84

Even as he looked back on his life and listed his works, Wu Mei did not make a single mention of his History of Chinese Literature. Clearly, those three volumes of lecture notes did not occupy any position at all in his mind.                                                              84

‘Yu Lu Qian shu’ 与卢前书 (Letter to Lu Qian), in Wu Mei quanji – lilun juan, 1135.

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Both his pupils and later researchers refer to Wu Mei as a great scholar of song lyrics and dramatic lyrics. It is possible to further refine these well-deserved words of praise. In my opinion his discussions of creative work (Informal Talks on Listening to Dramatic Lyrics, General Survey of Dramatic Lyrics, General Survey of Song Lyrics) are clearly superior to his literary histories (General Discussion of Chinese Theatre, Yuan Drama Studies, History of Literature of the Liao, Jin, and Yuan). In other words, works of literary history, requiring broad knowledge and meticulous documentation, were not Wu Mei’s strength. When he was at Peking University and faced with the requirements of the curriculum, he did the best he could and produced a History of Chinese Literature in three volumes, which was later lost overseas and eventually recovered by me. I remember a brilliant passage in the final chapter of Qian Mu’s Random Recollections of Fellow Students: ‘My life’s truth is what I can recall. All that is outside my recollection, is clearly not the truth of my life.’ 85 It seems that the Peking University publication of A History of Chinese Literature was unable to become Wu Mei’s ‘life’s truth.’ He never recalled it during his appointment in Nanjing, nor during his travels in the south-west. At this point, I cannot but add a sad note: could it be that what I so enthusiastically discovered was exactly what Wu Mei had purposefully tried to expunge? And even if it was not done on purpose, it is equally worth dwelling on the fact that he unintentionally forgot about it. I have no intention to raise the reputation of this forgotten History of Chinese Literature. I merely view it as a trace of the past of a famous drama scholar. Moreover, I believe that such faint traces have some significance for our understanding of the early teaching and writing of literary history. An 80-year-old Debate about Teaching Chinese in Secondary School In the late Spring of 2002, Professor Cheng Daode 程道德, a wellknown collector, showed me a mounted eight-page manuscript by                                                              85

Qian Mu, Bashi yi shuangqin. Shiyou zayi 八 十 忆 双 亲 · 师 友 杂 忆 (Remembering My Parents at 80. Random Recollections of Fellow Students) (Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 1986), 320.

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Liang Qichao. At the end there was a postscript, added by the professional appraiser of cultural relics Shi Shuqing 史树青, which read: ‘These are handwritten Tsinghua School lecture notes by Liang Rengong. […] Rengong wrote this for a lecture given in 1925. He argues that students should not limit themselves to either classical language or vernacular language in composition. This was his position on writing throughout his lifetime.’ The middle part of Shu’s postscript (omitted above) contains some errors which betray his lack of expertise on this particular topic. However, I completely accept his judgment that this is indeed Liang Qichao’s handwriting. Apart from the paper and the writing style, I paid more attention to the contents of the manuscript, believing that this is even more worthy of investigation. Behind these eight pages of manuscript lies a noteworthy story of modern intellectual and cultural history. It touches upon the teaching of Chinese in secondary schools, which remains a thorny issue up to the present day. The recent debate on the subject of Chinese in secondary school, when placed in historical context, turns out to have many echoes of the past. Below I shall first discuss the eight-page manuscript, determining when and why it was written, trying my best to return to the ‘live scene’ of the debates at the time. Towards the end, I shall touch upon the contemporary significance of this topic. The manuscript is written on Tsinghua School headed writing paper. The first page has the phrase ‘following on from notes’ circled in the margin. There are two types of numbering on the pages, namely numbers 1 to 8 in Chinese characters, and numbers 26 to 33 in Arabic numbers. This alerts us to the fact that this is not a complete essay. In order to understand Liang Qichao’s train of thought, we shall need to verify its origins. It is well known that Liang Qichao took up the post of tutor for National Learning in the research college of Tsinghua School in 1925. So seeing the heading ‘Tsinghua School Writing Paper’ on the eightline pages, Shi instantly concluded that ‘Rengong wrote this for a lecture given in 1925.’ In my view, however, this text must have been written at an earlier date, most likely late Autumn or early Winter of 1922, and the place of writing must have been Southeast University in Nanjing. The time of writing of this text cannot be judged solely on the basis of the heading on the writing paper. Liang Qichao started using

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Tsinghua School headed paper ten years prior to taking up his post at the Tsinghua National Learning Institute. In the Winter of 1914, Liang Qichao resigned his post as Director-General of the Mint and took up residence at Tsinghua School in the western suburbs of Beijing, where he wrote his ‘On the History of the War in Europe.’ In the Spring of 1920, after returning from his travels in Europe, he gave frequent lectures at the Tsinghua School. Moreover, according to the Preliminary Chronological Biography of Liang Qichao compiled by Ding Wenjiang 丁文江 and Zhao Fengtian 赵丰田, Liang ‘lectured at Tsinghua School’ in the Spring of 1922. In April of the same year, he toured Beijing, Tianjin, Jinan, Nanjing, Shanghai, and Nantong, giving lectures for various schools and social organizations. A set of lectures he gave at the Summer Schools of Nankai University and Southeast University was entitled ‘Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education.’86 Fortunately, both those lecture series led to publications. When we compare those two publications with the newly-discovered eightpage manuscript, we can easily see the connections between the three. Compared to the essay ‘Teaching Methods for Composition,’ published in 1936 by Zhonghua shuju in Volume 15 of Collected Writings from the Ice Drinker’s Studio: Collected Works, as well as the 1925 publication ‘Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education (Lectures by Liang Rengong)’ from the same publisher, the eight-page manuscript shows many similarities and continuities, but also some clear differences, as if it meant to elaborate further on some of the points made in the first two texts. ‘Teaching Methods for Composition’ was first published in Volume 4, No. 9 of the journal Gaizao 改造 (La Rekonstruo), under the title ‘Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education.’ The whole text consisted of 12 sections, of which nine appeared in this first publication. This particular issue of La Rekonstruo was clearly published later than the printed date of May 15, 1922. Liang Qichao was fond of referring to the local scenery in his lectures. Phrases like ‘… write down my impressions of the Nankai Summer School …’ can help us determine the time of writing of the La Rekonstruo edition of ‘Teaching Methods.’ In his letter of                                                              86

Cf. Ding Wenjiang and Zhao Fengtian, eds., Preliminary Chronological Biography of Liang Qichao, 949–977.

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July 24, 1922 to Xu Fosu 徐佛苏 (18791943), Liang mentions that his lecturing stint at the Nankai Summer School would end on 29 July, and adds ‘right now I am working day and night on preparing my lectures.’ This is further evidence of the fact that his lecture draft could not have been published prior to this date. ‘Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education (Lectures by Liang Rengong)’ mentions Southeast University and the Nanjing Teachers College Secondary School in four different places. It is easy to determine that these lectures were the ones delivered at the Southeast University Summer School in August 1922. Since the dates were clearly recorded in the preface by Wei Shisheng 卫士生 (18991990) and Shu Shicheng 束世澂 (18961978), who recorded the lectures, this has been well known among scholars. The two sets of lecture notes are quite different: one was written by Liang himself, the other recorded. Whether or not a lecturer has a ready-made draft in front of him can be guessed on the basis of his tone of speech as well as his references to sources. As for the latter lectures by Liang, he claimed that he did not prepare for them at all, which is probably an exaggeration. However, it appears to be true that he did not have a complete draft. Since his draft from the Nankai lectures had already been handed over to the [Tianjin-based] journal La Rekonstruo, he spoke much more freely in Nanjing and also relied more on memory. Although the general train of thought of both lectures is consistent, the latter clearly wanders off into all kinds of directions and ends up being a completely new work. It makes sense that Liang allowed for it to be published separately. A lecturer may speak freely, but when it comes to arranging the written version, superficial changes or drastic restrictions are often required. Spontaneous brilliant phrases may have a good live effect, but in a different setting they may well be inappropriate. A careless remark by a speaker might be given a concrete intention by a ‘reader,’ perhaps leading to unnecessary conflict. While the debate between Old and New Culture was raging, Liang Qichao came to discuss classical and vernacular language at the headquarters of the Critical Review group. No matter what stance he adopted, he was bound to insult someone. Just talking about it would not matter too much, but as soon as it was to be put in writing, Liang must have had some misgivings. This is why he hesitated for a long time and did not immediately agree to the note-takers’ request for permission to

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publish his lectures, claiming he needed to revise or even rewrite them. When Liang Qichao lectured on ‘Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education’ at the Southeast University Summer School, he focused on the issue of classical vs. vernacular language, drawing in the debate between the two big universities in Beijing and Nanjing: I support teaching vernacular texts in upper-level primary school and below, while teaching classical texts from secondary school upwards, with occasionally some vernacular texts blended in. In composition, classical and vernacular can be used at will. Whether or not a composition is good or bad, in terms of its intelligibility, does not depend on the use of classical or vernacular. Currently the two universities in Beijing and Nanjing are at odds about classical and vernacular language. My view is that writing must be judged on content. As long as its meaning is clear, it should not be considered better, nor worse because of its use of classical or vernacular language.87

This scrupulously maintained neutral, ‘not better, nor worse’ position will probably not have been appreciated by anyone at Peking University and Southeast University. However, when taking this stance at that particular place and time, Liang Qichao’s main target was not the Critical Review group, which was clearly on the defensive, but the New Culture advocates, who were enjoying a healthy popularity. When the note-takers suggested to Liang Qichao that the notes of his lectures might be published, he wrote to them to explain further his own attitude towards the ‘classical vs. vernacular debate’ in Chinese education. For secondary school composition, classical and vernacular are both fine. For the teaching of Chinese texts, however, I advocate teaching classical texts. This is because classical Chinese has a millennia-long history, with many very good texts, making it easy for teachers to select. Vernacular writing has not yet been tried out quite so satisfactorily. Of course, the Water Margin and the Dream of the Red

                                                             87

Liang Rengong, Zhongxue yishang zuowen jiaoxuefa 中学以上作文教学法 (Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education), recorded by Wei Shisheng et al. (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1925).

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Chamber are very good, but only when read from beginning to end. To select useful passages from them is not so easy.88

The real significance of this passage can only be grasped if it is read alongside Liang’s ‘Teaching Methods’ article in La Rekonstruo. The latter has a crucial footnote added to the first section, which I copy below: Some people have proposed to use famous novels as teaching material. I do not think that is appropriate. Although the aim of Chinese education does not need to be something like ‘grasping the Way from texts’ (yin wen jian dao 因文见道), but it still ought to bring some additional knowledge to students, supporting their studies in other disciplines. Those works of pure literature, such as Water Margin and Dream of the Red Chamber, are of no academic interest except for those who aspire to become writers. Secondly, in order to grasp the brilliance of a text, it must be read closely and in full. Voluminous works such as these are not suitable for classroom use. Thirdly, they are stylistically plain and not good enough to set as examples in teaching.89

Here, ‘some people’ clearly means Hu Shi. Two years prior, Hu Shi had published his ‘Teaching Chinese in Secondary Education.’ In it he proposed that the foremost ‘teaching method for spoken and written Chinese’ was ‘reading novels.’ To read between 20 and 50 novels. Works such as Water Margin, Dream of the Red Chamber, Journey to the West, The Scholars, Flowers in the Mirror, Seven Valiants and Five Righteous, Strange Events Witnessed in the Past Twenty Years, Sea of Regret, The Extraordinary Crime Costing Nine Lives, Short History of Civilization, Exposure of Officialdom, Travels of Lao Can, The Three Musketeers, and Twenty Years After. Some good short stories in the vernacular can also be selected.90

When reading this passage, as well as Liang Qichao’s rebuttal, one might feel that Hu Shi was overdoing things by trying to implement                                                              88

Cf. Wei Shisheng and Shu Shicheng, ‘Zhongxue yishang zuowen jiaoxuefa xuyan yi’ 《中学以上作文教学法》序言一 (First Preface to Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education), in Teaching Methods. 89 Liang Qichao, ‘Zhongxue yishang zuowen jiaoxuefa’ 中学以上作文教学法 (Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education), Gaizao 4, no. 9 (1922). 90 Hu Shi, ‘Zhongxue guowen de jiaoshou’ 中学国文的教授 (Teaching Chinese in Secondary Education), in Hu Shi wencun, vol. 1, 308.

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his own proposals for a ‘vernacular literature’ onto the reading habits of millions of secondary school pupils. Would they really be able to learn good Chinese if they went around all day carrying copies of Water Margin and Dream of the Red Chamber? In fact, the problem was not so serious. Hu Shi’s ‘proposed secondary school Chinese curriculum’ consisted for 60 per cent of classical texts, with the remaining 40 per cent divided between vernacular spoken language, grammar, lectures, and composition. 91 His proposal to use chapter novels as teaching materials for secondary school Chinese had the greatest impact, which is why it attracted widespread attention. Around the time that Liang Qichao lectured at Southeast University, Hu Shi once more clarified his position. According to Hu Shi’s diary, he drafted ‘More on Teaching Chinese in Secondary Education’ in the morning of July 6, 1922, and at 4pm he presented it as a lecture for the Shandong provincial parliament. On 17 August, he wrote that he had ‘re-organized the notes of my lecture in Jinan and added 2,000 characters.’92 This piece was published in Morning News Supplement on August 27, 1922, under the title ‘More on Chinese Teaching in Secondary Education,’ and later collected in the Second Collection of Hu Shi’s Writings. In these revised lecture notes, Hu Shi made some adjustments to his earlier statements, including two crucial ones. Firstly, he played down the significance of teaching classical texts: ‘For the past three or four years, the common view has been to deplore the lack of good vernacular texts for teaching. Only now have we realized that some vernacular texts are quite useful, whereas there are no suitable classical texts that can be used.’ The problem was not that the ancients had not left behind anything decent, but that ‘classical writings have currently not yet been properly sorted out,’ therefore students could not study them on their own. On the one hand, Hu thus created a basis for his own slogan of ‘sorting out the national heritage,’ while on the other hand he emphasized the vernacular’s suitability for teaching. Secondly, whereas his first three categories of teaching material for the spoken and written national language remained unchanged, he added a fourth category, namely ‘anthologies of literature in the old vernacular.’ These were ‘to be arranged by dynasty, starting from Tang dynasty                                                              91 92

Ibid., 303–324. Cf. Hu Shi, Hu Shi’s Diary, 430.

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poetry, song lyrics, and recorded utterances, all the way down to the late Qing.’93 By linking together ‘anthologies’ and ‘historiography,’ Hu created a connection between the specialist research done by university professors and the actual teaching practice of teachers in primary and secondary education. This was an important prerequisite for the success of Hu Shi and the other New Culture advocates. In this same article, there is one extremely interesting aside where Hu Shi, as if to prove that he was not alone in his pursuit, cites the opinion of Li Jinxi: During the annual general meeting of our society, Li Jinxi put the following proposal to the sub-group for Chinese language education: ‘In secondary school composition the focus should still be on the vernacular. […] Those who want to study classical writing should be free to do so, but it should only be an elective course…’ I mention this for further reference.94

From Hu Shi’s diary for July 5, 1922, we can find out that during the first AGM of the Society for the Reform of Chinese Education (Zhonghua jiaoyu gaijin she 中华教育改进社), he argued so fiercely with Li Jinxi over his proposal that ‘we almost hurt each other’s feelings.’ The full text of Li Jinxi’s proposal was as follows: In the current system, reading and composition for upper primary school should both focus on the vernacular; in secondary schools reading should focus on classical texts, while in composition the focus should still be on the vernacular. In the new system, the Chinese curriculum should be analogous to this.95

Li’s proposal is very close to Liang Qichao’s ideas. Hu Shi resolutely resisted this kind of ‘compromise.’ He demanded that it be changed to: ‘If primary schools cannot yet fully implement seven years of vernacular Chinese education, then both reading and composition in secondary schools must focus on the vernacular.’96 The differences lie in the fact that Li and Liang considered the characteristics of secondary education, namely its aims to transmit knowledge and train overall ability. Hu Shi, on the other hand, worried that the recent                                                              93

Hu Shi, ‘Zai lun zhongxue de guowen jiaoxue’ 再论中学的国文教学 (More on Chinese Teaching in Secondary Education), in Hu Shi wencun er ji, vol. 4, 245– 259. 94 Ibid., 247. 95 Cf. Hu Shi’s Diary, vol. 2, 394. 96 Ibid.

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victory of the vernacular movement would be hollowed out by a traditional school system even before it was able to find a firm footing. Now let us return to Liang Qichao’s draft ‘following on from notes.’ Whose notes did it follow up on and how was the connection made? In their preface to Teaching Methods, dated November 1923, Wei and Shu state: ‘This book is based on notes taken during Liang Rengong’s lectures at Southeast University this last Summer. Last Autumn, when Mr Liang taught at Southeast, we showed him the manuscript and informed him that we intended to publish it in book form, to which he assented.’ After he had approved verbally, Liang later changed his mind and said he wanted to rewrite the draft. Presumably in the interval Liang had examined Wei and Shu’s draft very carefully and possibly started to make some revisions. However, he was unable to finish this project because he was overworked and fell ill from fatigue shortly after. In the end, Liang allowed himself to be convinced by the notetakers and agreed to the publication of the lectures. In the letter from March 1924 in which he agrees to the publication, Liang mentions that he had recently been invited to give the same lectures again: ‘I was about to ask you to send me the draft lecture notes for reference, so that I do not have to start all over again.’97 As he agreed to the publication and asked to be sent a few copies for future reference after it had come out, we may assume that Liang, who had by then returned to Tianjin, was not in possession of the manuscript. If he had made revisions following the publication of the book, he would not have marked them as ‘following on from notes.’ I assume, therefore, that these eight pages of manuscript were most likely produced in the Autumn or Winter of 1922, when Liang was teaching at Southeast University. The 2,000 words or so that have now been discovered should be inserted into the section on ‘teaching classical Chinese in secondary schools.’ Since that section was the one part of the lecture that might most easily provoke controversy, it is no wonder that Liang paid special attention to it. The main point made in the manuscript is that                                                              97

Cf. Wei Shisheng and Shu Shicheng, ‘Zhongxue yishang zuowen jiaoxuefa xuyan er’ 《中学以上作文教学法》序言二 (Second Preface to Teaching Methods for Composition in Secondary Education), in Teaching Methods.

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‘novels are important research material in university humanities courses, but for secondary education, no matter how you look at it, they are of no benefit at all.’ As he built on this point in his conclusion, Liang’s confidence and wit are fully displayed: ‘Look at the people in our country who write good vernacular: is there any one of them who does not have a very thorough grasp of the classical language? If you are afraid of your students reading the Records of the Grand Historian or History of the Han, are you really going to set them something as pedantic as the “Country of Gentlemen” from Flowers in the Mirror? Rest assured, that will never happen!’ This additional explanation is similar to the ‘Teaching Methods’ text that appears in Writings from the Ice Drinker’s Studio: Collected Works, but it makes its point even more clearly and its target is even more obvious. Perhaps exactly for this reason Liang felt that it should not be made public before he had provided fuller support for his arguments, so as to avoid risking a fierce clash with Hu Shi and the New Culture advocates. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, the question as to whether one needs a basis in classical Chinese in order to be able to write good vernacular was debated a number of times and the participants in the debate on both sides were individuals who played important roles in modern Chinese cultural circles. For instance, Zhu Guangqian 朱光 潜(18971986) greatly appreciated Zhou Zuoren’s stylistic experiments and gave strong support to the 1926 publication of Zhou’s Writings for a Rainy Day. In his review, Zhu reminds his readers that, if you want to write well in the vernacular, it is essential that you read some of the best works in classical language. The best vernacular writers of our time are Hu Shizhi, Wu Zhihui, Zhou Zuoren, and Lu Xun. Their vernacular writing clearly contains elements where they have benefited from their familiarity with the classical language (even if they do not admit to this themselves).98

Hu Shi and Zhou Zuoren, both stalwarts of the ‘New Culture’ Movement, did not express any public disagreement. Only Lu Xun, sensitive as ever, did not just ‘not admit’ but even linked Zhu’s views with the ideology of ‘restoring the ancient ways’ (fugu 复古). Lu Xun called this ‘the New Literature’s attempt at suicide.’ In his                                                              98

Mingshi 明石 [Zhu Guangqian], ‘Yu tian de shu’《雨天的书》(Writings for a Rainy Day), Yiban 1, no. 3 (1926).

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postscript to the collection Grave, Lu Xun criticized ‘those young authors who pick up some obscure expressions from ancient texts and classical poems and use them, like a conjurer’s handkerchiefs, to stuff up their own writing.’ Lu Xun held that ‘having come from the old camp, I can see things more clearly. By turning against those you once sided with, it is easy to bring about the death of a formidable foe.’ For that reason, Lu Xun maintained his view that ‘young people should read as few Chinese books as possible, or not read them at all.’ He added that this was ‘a truth I discovered at the expense of much hardship and not some sudden whim, something said for fun or out of excitement.’ Regardless of content and solely on the basis of the writing style, Lu Xun advocated ‘reading widely in the vernacular’ and not consulting ancient books.99 In 1934, eight years after Zhu Guangqian published his review of Writings for a Rainy Day and was harshly criticized by Lu Xun, Zhang Taiyan said in his discussion of ‘the relation between the vernacular language and the classical language’ that ‘the meaning of the vernacular language is not complete, and from time to time one cannot but use the classical language.’ He added: ‘There are many ancient phrases which lie hidden in the vernacular language. If one does not know philology, how can one master the vernacular language?’100 This too attracted criticism from the advocates of the vernacular. Lu Xun expressed his disagreement by saying that his former teacher ‘applied philology, in which he is so well versed, too extensively.’ 101 The reason why Lu Xun and other New Culture advocates were so sensitive is partly to do with stylistic considerations, but more importantly it was the result of their ideological opposition to ‘restoring the ancient ways.’ [See also Chapter 4.] With the passing of time, the debate over classical and vernacular language has faded into the distance and has gradually been forgotten both by scholars and by the general public. But if you listen carefully, you can still detect lots of faint echoes, although nowadays the opinions you hear are more those of Liang Qichao and Zhu                                                              99

Lu Xun, ‘Xiezai Fen houmian’ 写在《坟》后面 (Written at the End of Grave), Lu Xun quanji, vol. 1, 282–287. 100 Zhang Taiyan, ‘The Relation Between the Vernacular Language and the Classical Language,’ in Guoxue gailun, 113–121. 101 Lu Xun, ‘Famous People and Famous Words,’ in Lu Xun quanji, vol. 6, 361– 364.

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Guangqian than those of Hu Shi and Lu Xun. That is not to say that there are people saying that you need a thorough grounding in classical Chinese in order to be able to write good vernacular. But the emphasis on reading classical texts in secondary education is an uncontested fact. Except for the ten years of the Cultural Revolution, this mainstream notion does not seem to have been challenged at all. Only in recent years has there been some debate on the question whether or not secondary schools should teach classical Chinese. Those who challenge the idea have said that ‘classical Chinese has lost its instrumental effect,’ that having classical Chinese occupy ‘one-third of the overall secondary school Chinese curriculum’ is a waste of children’s youth and of the nation’s knowledge investment, and that it should simply be done away with.102 Two rebuttals were published shortly after. One featured exhaustive arguments against ‘becoming unworthy transmitters of the Chinese language,’ but its tone was somewhat overly indignant. The other suggested that ‘what should be removed from secondary education is modern Chinese writing,’ in a deliberate attempt to beat the opponents at their own game.103 In the 20th century debates about classical and vernacular language, we find refracted the high points of modern Chinese cultural and ideological development. These kinds of debates easily attract great interest from scholars and are easily absorbed into established ‘metanarratives.’ Because of this ‘great significance’ of the topic, most attention goes to those ‘far-sighted’ individuals who, like Hu Shi and Lu Xun, kept an eye on overall cultural and ideological trends. On the other hand, people like Zhang Taiyan, Liang Qichao, and Zhu Guangqian, who were concerned about the combination of writing reform, secondary education, and stylistic experimentation, are often seen as overly specialized and therefore less well understood by the general public and less appreciated by scholars.                                                              102

Moluo 摩罗, ‘Qing wenyanwen tuichu jichu jiaoyu’ 请文言文退出基础教育 (Please Remove Classical Chinese from Basic Education), Yuehai feng 5 (2001). 103 Cf. Wang Xiaohua 王晓华, ‘Wu zuo Hanyu de buxiao chuanren’ 勿做汉语的 不肖传人 (Let Us Not Become Unworthy Transmitters of the Chinese Language) and Jiang Yin 蒋寅, ‘Yinggai tuichu de shi xiandai Hanyu wenzhang’ 应该退出的 是现代汉语文章 (What Should Be Removed Is Modern Chinese Writing), both published in Yuehai feng 6 (2001).

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How to balance the teaching of vernacular and classical texts in the secondary school Chinese curriculum is an urgent pedagogical issue, quite worthy of serious attention. Such fashionable debates will easily attract the attention of historians. In my opinion, there are two other ideas in Liang Qichao’s text that are easily overlooked but that deserve to be commended. Firstly, he emphasized the need for secondary school pupils to cultivate an ability to appreciate belleslettres, but added: ‘The aim of secondary school is to foster general knowledge, not to train literary writers. Therefore, practical writing should be at the core and belles-lettres should be a supplement.’ Secondly, he argued that ‘the study of texts should focus on narrative texts,’ but that one should not start from fiction. He said: ‘The famous historians and the masters of narrative writing were generally not adept at writing fiction. Moreover, the techniques of narrative writing definitely cannot be mastered by studying fiction.’ Although this sounds a bit too absolute, the idea that the training of narrative writing skills depends more on observation of real life and organization of materials than on wild flights of imagination is definitely worth bearing in mind. All those who are aware of the recent discussions surrounding secondary school composition, as well as those who have reflected upon the recent trend for prose essay (sanwen 散 文) writing to tend more and more towards fictionality, will understand why I want to pay attention to Liang Qichao’s above two points. Time flies by and people change, and a relic from 80 years ago cannot possibly guide the way for progress in the present. Yet the ideas of Liang Qichao, who was such an important thinker and stylist of the Late Qing period, remain important for us to savour. One point, though, should be made clear: any discussion of Liang Qichao’s later awareness of style and concept of education can only gain a more or less complete understanding if it includes reference to his works from the early 1920s. These include ‘The Emotions Expressed in Chinese Rhymed Writing’ (1922), ‘Essential Books: Explanation of Themes and Ways of Reading’ (1923) and ‘Introductions to National Learning: A List of Titles and Ways of Reading’ (1923), as well as his lectures at various universities.

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Zhang Taiyan 章 太 炎 . Daohan weiyan 菿 汉 微 言 (Daohan’s Subtle Words). Letterpress print. Beijing, 1916. ——. Guogu lunheng (Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning). Shanghai: Dagonghe ribao guan, 1912. ——. Guoxue gailun 国学概论 (Outline of National Learning). Recorded by Cao Juren 曹聚仁. Hong Kong: Xianggang xuelin shuju, 1971. ——. Taiyan wenlu chubian 太炎文录初 编 (Taiyan’s Prose: First Collection). Shanghai: Youwen, 1915. ——. Zhang Taiyan de baihuawen 章太炎的白话文 (The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan). Shanghai: Taidong tushuju, 1921; Taibei: Yiwen yinshuguan, 1972. ——. Zhang Taiyan quanji 章 太 炎 全 集 (Complete Works of Zhang Taiyan). Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chuban she, 1985. Zhang Yuanji 张元济. Zhang Yuanji riji 张元济日记 (Zhang Yuanji’s Diary). Beijing: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1981. Zhao Jiabi 赵家璧, ed. Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi 中国新文学大系 (Compendium of China’s New Literature). Shanghai: Liangyou tushu yinshua gongsi, 1935. Zheng Guanying 郑观应. Zheng Guanying ji 郑观应集 (Works by Zheng Guanyin). Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1982. Zheng Jie, Jane. ‘The Shanghai Art College, 19131937.’ MPhil diss., University of Hong Kong, 2005. Zheng Zhenduo 郑振铎. ‘Qian shi bu wang’ 前事不忘 (Past Events Not Forgotten). Zhongxuesheng, no. 5 (1946). Zhongguo kexueyuan lishi yaniiusuo di-san suo 中国科学院历史研究所第三所 (No. 3 Institute of the Institute of History, Chinese Academy of Sciences), ed. Gengzi jishi 庚 子 记 事 (Record of the Boxer Rebellion). Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 1959. Zhongguo shehui kexueyuan jindaishi suo 中国社会科学院近代史所 (Institute for Early Modern History, Chinese Academy of Social Sciences), ed. Wu si aiguo yundong 五 四 爱 国 运 动 (The May Fourth Patriotic Movement). Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexueyuan chubanshe, 1979. Zhongyang gongyuan nianwu nian jinian kan 中 央 公 园 廿 五 年 纪 念 刊 (Commemorative Publication for the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of Central Park). Beijing: Zhongyuan gongyuan shiwusuo, 1939. Zhou Xiaoming 周晓明. ‘Chongxin pingjia Hu Shi de Changshi ji’ 重新评价胡适的 《尝试集》(Re-evaluating Hu Shi’s Experiments). Po yu li, no. 5 (1979). Zhou Yutong 周予同. ‘Wu si huiyi pianduan’ 五四回忆片断 (Bits of Reminiscences of May Fourth). Zhanwang, no. 17 (1959). ——. Zhou Yutong jingxueshi lunzhu xuanji 周予同经学史论著选集 (Selection of Zhou Yutong’s Works on the History of the Study of the Classics). Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1996. Zhou Zuoren 周作人. Fengyu tan 风雨谈 (Talks of Wind and Rain). Shanghai: Beixin shuju, 1936. ——. Kuzhu zaji 苦 竹 杂 记 (Random Notes from Bitter Bamboo). Shanghai: Liangyou tushu gongsi, 1936. ——. ‘Qian Xuantong de fugu yu fan fugu’ 钱 玄 同 的 复 古 与 反 复 古 (Qian Xuantong’s Restoration of the Past and His Anti-Restoration). In Wenshi ziliao xuanji, no. 94. Beijing: Wenshi ziliao chubanshe, 1984. ——. Tan hu ji 谈虎集 (Speaking of Tigers). Shanghai: Beixin shuju, 1928. ——. Zhitang huixianglu 知堂回想录 (Zhitang’s Memoirs). Hong Kong: Sanyu tushu gongsi, 1980.

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——. Zhitang yiyou wenbian 知堂乙酉文编 (Compilation of Zhitang’s Prose from 1945). Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1985. ——. Zhou Zuoren huiyi lu 周作人回忆录 (Zhou Zuoren’s Memoirs). Changsha: Hunan renmin chubanshe, 1982. ——. Zhou Zuoren riji 周作人日记 (The Diary of Zhou Zuoren). Zhengzhou: Daxiang chubanshe, 1996. Zhu Defa 朱德发. ‘Lun Hu Shi zaoqi de baihua shi zhuzhang yu xiezuo’ 论胡适早 期 的 白 话 诗 主 张 与 写 作 (Hu Shi’s Early Proposals for and Writing of Vernacular Poetry). Shandong shiyuan xuebao, no. 5 (1979). Zhu Xiang 朱湘. Zhong shu ji 中书集 (Book-struck). Shanghai: Shenghuo shudian, 1934. Zhu Youhuan 朱 有 瓛 . Zhongguo jindai xuezhi shiliao 中 国 近 代 学 制 史 料 (Historical Materials for the Chinese Education System). Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 1992. Zhu Ziqing 朱自清. Zhu Ziqing quanji 朱自清全集 (Complete Works of Zhu Ziqing). Nanjing: Jiangsu jiaoyu chubanshe, 1990.

INDEX A Ying, 141 Academia Sinica, 162, 171, 199, 350, 364 Academy of Police Officers, 25, 57 actual scene (xianchang), 6, 52, 5455 aesthetic education (meiyu), 151, 160, 178185, 189191, 193, 195196, 198, 200, 204205; as replacement for religion, 179, 182 aimei de (amateur), 206 Aizhen, 127, 138 Alarming Bell Daily News, 70 Ambush on All Sides, 194, 207 Anhui suhua bao. See Anhui Vernacular News Anhui Vernacular News, 70, 90, 113, 264 Annales School, 7 associates magazine (tongren zazhi), 71, 77 Awakening, 119 Babbitt, Irving, 137 baihua. See vernacular Bai Juyi (Fu), 327, 329, 378 Bai Qichang, 31 Beijing daxue rikan. See The University Daily Beijing daxue yuekan. See Peking University Monthly Beijing Municipal Constabulary Office, 38, 49, 51 Beiping, 2023, 207, 286, 303304, 306, 336, 341 Bei she. See Northern Society Beiyang zhengfu. See Northern government Benefit the World News, 49 Berlin, Isaiah, 154 bizhiju (The Mint), 14, 400 Bing Xin, 21, 54, 6062, 340 Bloom, Harold, 345 Book of Odes (Shijing), 277279, 323 Boxer Indemnity, 174

boya chuantong. See learned tradition Braudel, Fernand, 8 Bunyan, John, 365 Butsu Mokei (Ogyū Sorai), 256 cadences (yinjie), 296297, 312, 317318, 322, 324, 328, 332 Cai Yuanpei (Jiemin), 5, 7, 15, 29, 46, 66, 70, 7475, 79, 105, 142143, 145, 147148, 151200, 203205, 264265, 375, 382, 385, 392 campaign (yundong), 96, 102103, 107, 120122 canon, 272274, 277, 279, 282, 330, 345346 Cao Cao (Cao Man), 30 Caochuan Weiyu (Zhang Xiuzhong), 336 Cao Pi, 371 Cao Rulin, 14, 27, 3032, 3538, 41, 43, 46, 49, 53, 65 Cao Shujing, 222, 225226 Cao Xueqin, 319 Central Park (Zhongyang gongyuan), 17, 2122, 28, 64 Centre Franco-Chinois d’Etudes Sinologiques, 366 Changshi ji. See Hu Shi: Experiments Ch’ao-yang University, 25 Chen bao. See Morning News Chen Dabei, 206 Chen Daqi, 74, 382 Chen Duxiu (Zhongfu), 5, 12, 16, 19, 29, 49, 6869, 7174, 75, 7778, 8082, 8592, 94, 9799, 102106, 109, 113116, 118119, 121, 123132, 137138, 143148, 160, 181, 188, 215, 263264, 314, 320, 382, 392 Chen Gongbo, 79 Chen Hanzhang (Botao), 358, 360, 368369, 372, 381

427

INDEX Chen Hengzhe (Shafei, Sophia Chen), 79, 89, 110, 141, 275, 280, 282, 285288 Chen Jinmin (Hongxun), 4041, 47 Chen Lanfu, 243 Chen Mian, 89, 110, 206 Chen Pingyuan, 63 Chen Qiqiao, 64 Chen Qixiu, 29 Chen Tan, 170 Chen Wangdao, 78, 85, 118, 217218 Chen Yan, 6364 Chen Yinke, 9, 170171, 174 Chen Yuan (Xiying, Tongbo), 305, 330 Chen Zizhan, 328, 337, 341 Cheng Daode, 398 Cheng Fangwu, 334335 China Times, 14, 135, 333 China University, 25, 46, 58, 65 Chinese Communist Party (CCP), 13, 69, 78-80, 88, 176 Chinese Literary Association, 135, 143 Chinese Times, 74 Chow Tse-tsung (Zhou Cezong), 68, 70, 149, 293 Chu Dagao, 41 Chuandao, 60, 63 chuanqi, 383, 389393 Chung Hwa Novel Magazine, 70 ci. See song lyrics Civil Diplomacy Association (guomin waijiao xiehui), 47 College of Law and Political Science, 2426, 4546, 65 Commercial Press, 277, 326, 378, 385, 392 Compendium of China’s New Literature, 105, 108, 110, 135, 140143, 148, 210, 221, 226, 264, 289, 340, 342, 350 Concise Encyclopædia Britannica, 11 Confucius, 17, 209, 252253, 277279, 357358, 371 Creation Society, 135136 Critical Review (Xueheng), 107108, 121123, 134135, 137140, 401402

Cui Shi, 359, 381 Cultural Revolution, 383, 409 Dai Wangshu, 313 Dai Zhuyi, 125127 Deng Shi, 210211, 217, 266 Di Fuding (Ying), 206 Ding Wenjiang, 29, 400 Ding Yi, 342 Dongfang zazhi. See Eastern Miscellany Dongjiaominxiang. See East Jiaomin Alley Dongnan daxue. See Southeast University Dongwu daxue. See Soochow University dramatic lyrics (qu), 296, 299, 307, 309, 311312, 318, 324, 378379, 383, 385386, 392, 396398 Dream of the Red Chamber, 403404 Dujiao. See Zhang Taiyan Du Zhengnan (Yu), 356 Du Zhengsheng, 350, 364 Duan Xipeng, 4445 Duan Yi, 170 Duan Yucai, 235236 East Asia Library, 71, 7374, 76, 147, 275, 278 East Jiaomin Alley, 18, 2324, 3136, 54, 65 Eastern Miscellany, 67, 71 Eastern Times, 118 Eight Great Lanes, 187 Eight Powers Allied Army (ba guo lianjun), 29, 33 Eliot, T. S., 344345 Empress Dowager Cixi, 33 Empress Dowager Longyu, 29 enlightenment, 1213, 144, 149 Erya, 235236, 373 Esperanto, 115, 189 Europeanization, 101, 203, 246 Fan Chengda, 325 Fan Ye, 371 Fan Yun, 21, 43 Feng Youlan, 158 Feng Zhi, 341

428 Feng Zikai, 196 fine arts (meishu), 183, 199 fugu, 210, 407 Fu Sinian (Mengzhen), 4, 35, 45, 97, 100, 115116, 133, 285, 291, 318, 347351, 354, 356, 358365 Fu Yuecheng, 351 Gaizao. See La Rekonstruo Gao Yihan, 67, 70, 7375, 87 Gao Yuhan, 73 Gate of Heavenly Peace, 18, 2324, 2831, 33, 35, 64 Ge Gongzhen, 97 Gong Baoquan (Weisheng), 236237, 243 Gong Jimin, 343 Gongyang School, 246, 356, 358 Gong Zizhen (Dingan), 348, 357 Grande Hotel des Wagon-Lits (liu guo fandian), 46, 48 Granet, Marcel, 366 Great Anti-Religion Alliance (fei zongjiao da tongmeng), 181 Greenblatt, Stephen, 8 Gu Hongming, 184, 381 Gu Jiegang, 175, 220222, 225226, 348349, 351354, 359, 361; Disputing Antiquity (Gu shi bian), 220, 351352 Gu Mengyu, 74, 170 Gu shi bian. See Gu Jiegang: Disputing Antiquity Gu Weijun (V.K. Wellington Koo), 14 Gu Yanwu (Tinglin), 231, 234235, 268, 353, 371 Guangya, 235 Guangyun, 373 guocui. See national essence Guocui xuebao. See National Essence Journal Guogu lunheng. See Zhang Taiyan: Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning Guogu yuekan. See National Heritage Monthly Guomindang, 159, 164 Guo Moruo, 135, 289290, 292, 334335, 340

INDEX Guo Zhanbo, 68 guwen. See Old Text Hanlin (Academy), 157, 162, 372373 Han Qi, 356357 Hao Yixing, 235236 Hattori Unokichi, 50, 256 Hayashi Taisuke, 256 He Bingsong, 176, 382 He Lüzhi (Liangpu), 185 Henan. See Henan Magazine Henan Magazine, 70 He Zhisan, 340 History of the Han (Han shu), 325, 378, 391, 407 Hu Huaichen, 331334, 389 Hu Shi (Shizhi), 57, 12, 1516, 26, 29, 67, 70, 7375, 7779, 8487, 89, 9197, 99, 100103, 105112, 114117, 121130, 132134, 136140, 142143, 145148, 160, 164, 170171, 173, 175, 202, 211213, 215, 223, 263267, 269, 274300, 302314, 316344, 346, 351, 360, 362363, 380, 382, 403405, 407, 409; 1950s campaign to criticize, 16, 342343; ‘Driven to Revolt,’ 92, 94, 129, 140, 212, 283, 314; Experiments (Changshi ji), 134, 139140, 274277, 279280, 282284, 286, 289294, 297, 300301, 303, 309311, 313, 318320, 323324, 326, 329336, 338, 340, 342349; ‘Hu Shi style (of poetry),’ 277, 319, 328329, 337339, 341, 346; ‘Modest Proposals for Literary Reform,’ 92, 94, 138, 264 Hu Sidu, 304 Hu Siyong, 319, 338 Hu Xiansu, 108, 121123, 130, 134, 136, 139, 281282, 332334 Hu Zhemou, 206 Huang Chao, 373 Huang Jie, 376, 381, 385

INDEX Huang Kan (Jigang), 230231, 234, 237, 239241, 360, 368, 373375, 379, 382 Huang Ren (Moxi, Muhan, Zhenyuan), 92, 382384, 389390, 395, 397 Huang Xiaopei, 217 Huang Zunxian, 5, 210, 321 Hui-wen University, 25, 30, 46 Human Relations (Minyi), 70 Hundred Days Reform, 70, 142, 383 Ibsen, Henrik, 83, 107, 113, 133 Imperial University (Jingshi da xuetang), 56, 172, 187, 367, 372 inclusiveness (jianrong bingbao), 151154, 157158, 164 Institute of Chinese Advanced Studies, Collège de France, 347, 366, 387 Institute of Railroad Administration, 25, 58 intellectual history, 6768, 88, 98, 101, 103105, 120, 134, 149150 Ivanov, Aleksei, 170 Ji Dan, 356 Ji Yun, 216 Jiayin. See The Tiger jianrong bingbao. See inclusiveness Jiang Kui, 326, 378 Jiang Menglin, 159 Jiang Zhongming, 63 Jiaoyu jinyu zazhi. See The Educational Magazine Jin He, 321 Jin Kemu, 8 jinwen. See New Text Jin Xinyi. See Qian Xuantong Jingbao. See Peking Press Jingguan, 25 Jing ye xunbao. See The Tournament Jingzhong ribao. See Alarming Bell Daily News Juewu. See Awakening Kang Baiqing, 89, 281, 285, 289295, 312, 318, 334335, 340

429 Kang Youwei (Changsu), 5, 158, 159, 210, 266267, 351, 357359 Kats, A., 185 Ke Shaomin, 170 Kishimoto Nobuta, 255 knowledge education (zhiyu), 179180, 191 Kojima Kenkichirō, 256 Kong Zhongzhong (Guangsen), 357 Koo, V.K. Wellington. See Gu Weijun Kucha. See Zhou Zuoren Kuyu’an. See Zhou Zuoren Kuang Husheng (Rixiu), 27, 3541, 4446, 59 Kunqu, 193 La Rekonstruo, 400401, 403 La Vita Nuova, 70, 240 Lai Guanglin, 123 Laijinyu Pavillion, 64 Lan Dizhi, 343 Lan Zhixian (Gongwu), 121, 128129, 134 late Qing, 1, 35, 6, 9, 27, 33, 50, 69, 7172, 7576, 9093, 96, 104, 113114, 119120, 131, 133134, 210, 212, 222223, 227, 242243, 246, 263266, 269, 366, 405, 410 Le Goff, Jacques, 8 learned tradition (boya chuantong), 186, 204, 207 lecture notes (yanjiang gao), 212, 214, 224, 228229, 233, 249, 254 legation quarter, 3236 Leipzig Royal Conservatory of Music, 197 Leipzig, University of, 161, 197198 Li Bake, 327328 Li Bai (Qinglian), 378 Li Changtai, 2324, 27 Li Ciming, 276 Li Dazhao, 12, 1516, 29, 70, 7475, 78, 87, 119, 132, 143145, 170, 181, 382 Li Hanjun, 85 Li Ji, 79, 162 Li Jinfa, 313, 340

430 Li Jinxi, 96, 106107, 132, 222, 225226, 252253, 265, 369, 405 Li Qingzhao, 326 Li Shenqi (Zhaolou), 355 Li Xianyu, 69, 76, 80, 116 Li Xinbai, 119 Liang Qichao (Rengong), 4, 5, 47, 75, 9091, 100, 104, 119, 142, 174, 263, 267, 319325, 327, 330, 347, 365, 399406, 408410 Liang Shiqiu, 338 Liang Shuming, 157158, 165, 382 Liang Yusheng, 359360 Liao Ping, 247 Light of Learning, 333 Lin Changmin, 47 Lin Chuanjia (Guiyun, Kuiteng), 382, 389 Lin Fengmian, 200 Lin Shu (Qinnan), 4, 5, 98, 153154, 215, 267 Lin Yan, 343 Literary Revolution, 80, 8793, 9699, 102104, 107109, 111, 113114, 120, 124126, 129132, 134, 136, 138, 140, 142143, 146, 223, 264, 277, 283284, 288, 313314, 334, 340, 342, 344, 367 Liu Bannong (Fu), 70, 74, 79, 89, 9699, 109111, 114115, 118, 124126, 129, 141143, 145147, 160, 263, 278, 285286, 308, 312, 336337, 380, 382 Liu Dabai, 311312, 319, 340 Liu Haisu, 196 Liu Kezhuang, 326 Liu Mengwei, 335 Liu Shipei (Shenshu), 131, 210, 360, 368, 373, 375379, 382, 385, 387 Liu Shousong, 342 Liu Siyuan, 217, 226 Liu Tianhua, 196, 198, 201, 207 Liu Wendian (Shuya), 70, 73, 382 Liu Xie (Yanhe), 352, 354, 371 Liu Ze, 373374 Liu Zhiji, 353, 371

INDEX Liu Zongyuan (Zihou), 355 Lu Ji, 371 Lu Jiuyuan, 265 Lu Qian, 397 Lu Xun (Zhou Shuren, Zhou Yucai), 4, 5, 7, 1921, 34, 58, 70, 74, 79, 84, 8687, 89, 93, 95, 99, 103104, 108109, 111112, 117119, 125, 131132, 134, 140148, 213, 217218, 226, 230, 234243, 253, 275276, 280281, 285, 288, 298305, 307310, 315, 319, 324, 334, 339, 342344, 367, 370, 376377, 379, 387, 407409; pseudonym Tang Si, 74, 117 Lu You, 326 Lu Zhengxiang, 1415, 32, 53 Lu Zongyu, 14 Luo Changpei, 206, 377 Luo Ergang, 304305 Luo Jialun, 26, 32, 35, 53, 172173, 351, 360 Luo Yong, 170 Luo Zhenyu, 256 Ma Junwu, 70, 7374 Ma Shuping (Heng), 185 Ma Xulun, 375, 382 Ma Yinchu, 29, 74 Ma Yuzao (Youyu), 170, 182, 236, 380 Mao Dun (Shen Dehong, Shen Yanbing), 135, 141143, 358 Mao Zedong, 12, 16, 165 Mao Zishui (Zhun), 206, 351352, 361 Marxism, 12, 16, 7879, 83 May Fourth: demonstration, 12, 14, 1718, 24, 27, 30, 32, 3436, 3839, 45, 52, 55; generation, 5, 9, 143; intellectuals, 100-101, 120, 131, 133, 142; Movement, 1, 6, 10, 1113, 1517, 25, 30, 3548, 5363, 85, 88, 142, 155, 165166, 206, 253, 278; writers, 4 Mei Guangdi (Jinzhuang), 98, 121122, 137, 282283, 286 meishu. See fine arts Mei Yiqi, 154

INDEX meiyu. See aesthetic education Meizhou pinglun. See Weekly Review Min bao. See The Minpao Magazine Minguo ribao. See Republican Daily News Ministry (Minister) of Education, 24, 26, 30, 42, 96, 157, 159, 167168, 178179, 247248 Minli bao. See People's Stand Mint, The. See bizhiju Minyi. See Human Relations mock speeches, 228, 242, 256, 259, 269270 moral education (deyu), 179180, 191 Morning News, 15, 17, 19, 23, 2526, 32, 4749, 5152, 56, 182, 193, 207, 309, 332, 336, 404 Mr Democracy and Mr Science, 8283, 88, 339 Mu Mutian, 313 Nankai University, 400 Nanshe congkan. See The Southern Society Collection National Academy of Music, 195, 197199 National Agricultural College of Peking, 25 National Central University (Zhongyang daxue), 139, 372, 383, 397 National Conservatory of Music, 195, 197, 199 national essence (guocui), 101, 118 National Essence Journal, 212, 219, 233, 241, 246, 254 National Heritage Monthly, 375376 National Industrial College of Peking, 25, 27, 47, 51 National Language (guoyu), 96, 326, 360, 362363, 380, 386, 388 National Learning (guoxue), 162, 167168, 171, 173177, 201, 214, 219, 221, 225, 228229, 231234, 237238, 241, 248, 254, 262, 268, 270, 352, 360, 364, 371, 385, 399400, 410 National Medical College of Peking, 25

431 National Music (guoyue), 196, 198, 201 National Music Improvement Association, 196, 198, 201 Nationalist Party. See Guomindang New Citizen Miscellany, 67, 7071, 75 New Culture, 1, 510, 12, 16, 55, 68, 74, 88, 97, 99102, 105, 107, 141, 145, 148149, 217, 253, 263-265, 269, 347, 375, 389, 401402, 405, 407408; Movement, 2, 6, 13, 34, 69, 76, 80, 82, 115, 121, 123, 132, 135, 137, 140, 147, 156, 159, 166, 176, 178, 181, 186, 202, 212, 215, 220, 252, 299, 303, 339, 342, 344, 350351, 368369, 373, 380381 New Drama, 100101, 109 New Fiction, 4 New Fiction, 90, 142 New Historicism, 8 New Learning (xin xue), 4, 50 New Life, 119 New Literature, 90, 92, 96, 99, 105, 107, 115, 125126, 130, 137, 141143, 148, 278, 283, 285, 287, 290, 303, 330331, 334, 336, 340342, 346, 367, 407 New Poetry, 7, 109111, 219, 274275, 278280, 287, 289299, 307308, 310314, 317320, 322324, 327329, 331332, 334, 336338, 341344 New Society, 119 New Text (jinwen), 351352, 354, 356360 New Youth, 4, 7, 13, 16, 6769, 7189, 92, 9499, 101103, 105130, 133149, 222223, 263265, 276, 278, 284285, 287, 298, 303, 307, 309, 312, 339, 350351, 375, 381; Letters to the Editor (tongxin), 7778, 85, 8788, 92, 94, 99, 109, 113117, 119, 120, 124126, 128, 144, 177, 206; suigan (random thoughts), 69, 89, 109, 117120

432 Nie Gannu, 225 North China Herald, 42 Northern Expedition, 164 Northern government (Beiyang zhengfu), 12, 14, 31, 51, 163164, 195 Northern Society, 278 Nuli zhoubao. See The Endeavor Nüzi shijie. See Women's World Ogyū Sorai. See Butsu Mokei Ōkuma Shigenobu, 252 Old Text (guwen), 351352, 354, 356, 358360 Opium War, 36 Ouyang Xiu, 326 Pacific News, 70 Pan Mohua, 341 Paris Peace Conference, 1215, 18, 26, 3233, 55 Peking Higher Normal College, 25, 27, 2930, 3537, 3941, 4344, 47, 59, 64, 66 Peking Institute of Tax Administration, 25 Peking Press, 70 Peking University (PKU), 2, 7, 13, 19, 21, 2526, 2930, 35, 4043, 4547, 50, 5560, 64, 66, 6869, 7276, 78, 80, 88, 90, 96, 106, 136139, 142, 147148, 151161, 163178, 181, 185201, 203206, 276, 279280, 285, 299, 303, 306, 347, 349, 351354, 356, 358359, 361362, 365375, 377383, 385388, 392, 394395, 397398, 402; Faculty of Humanities, 69, 75, 79, 138, 147, 160, 169, 188, 358359, 361362, 370371, 375376, 378382, 386, 388, 392, 395; Faculty of Humanities National Language Department, 360, 362, 376, 379380, 386, 395; Faculty of Humanities Research School, 167, 170, 175, 376, 386; Faculty of Humanities Research School National Learning

INDEX Department, 167168, 170, 173175; Music Research Society, 192197, 199200, 205; Music Seminar, 186, 191192, 195198, 200; Music Society, 193; Painting Techniques Research Society, 190; Society for Advancing Morality, 187, 189 Peking University Monthly, 153, 174 Pelliot, Paul, 366 Peng Ming, 68, 149 Pengzi. See Yao Pengzi People’s Stand, 70 Petition to the President, 14, 25, 52 physical education (tiyu), 179, 191 practical learning. See xianxue primary schools, 96, 402, 405 Pu Jiangqing, 385, 395396 Pu Songling, 359 Qian Daxin, 353, 371 Qian Daosun, 192, 382 Qian Jiazhi, 236237 Qian Mu, 207208, 212, 398 Qian Nengxun, 14, 46 Qian Xuantong (Deqian, Xia), 1, 8, 23, 70, 7475, 78, 8586, 96101, 103, 106107, 112116, 118-119, 122-125, 127, 130, 132, 138, 141, 145-147, 170, 182, 213, 215, 220223, 225226, 234, 236237, 239241, 252253, 260, 263265, 280282, 314317, 325, 331, 333, 359, 368370, 374, 376, 380, 382; pseudonym Jin Xinyi, 112 Qin Jiaqi, 343 Qingnian zazhi. See New Youth Qingyi bao. See The China Discussion Qiu Jin (Xuanqing), 262263, 268 Qiu shu. See Zhang Taiyan: Book of Urgency qu. See dramatic lyrics Qu Qiubai, 69, 119 Qunyi Publishing House, 67, 69, 71, 73, 78

INDEX random thoughts. See New Youth: suigan Record of Music, 205 Records of the Grand Historian, 277, 325, 352, 359360, 371, 378, 407 Ren Hongjun (Shuyong), 74, 234235, 239, 270, 275, 280286, 288, 332 Renjianshi. See The Human World Ren Zhongmin, 385, 396 Renaissance Society, 35, 189 Republican Daily News, 15, 119, 229 Rong Geng, 170 Ruan Ji, 373 Ruan Yuan, 348 Rulin waishi. See The Scholars Russell, Bertrand, 83, 189 School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), 347, 350, 365 Schwarcz, Vera, 1, 68, 148149 Scribe Zhou, 356357 secondary schools, 4, 399402, 403406, 409, 410 Shandong (Qingdao) question, 1213, 1718, 26, 29, 41, 5253, 65 Shang Chengzuo, 170 Shao Lizi, 119 Shen bao. See Shun Pao Shen Congwen, 110 Shen Dehong (Yanbing). See Mao Dun Shen Jianshi, 170, 175, 182, 236, 371, 380, 382 Shen Jing (Boying, Ning'an, Master Lyric Hermit), 392394 Shen Yanguo, 229, 270 Shen Yinmo, 5455, 7475, 89, 110, 147, 285, 312, 353, 368, 370373, 382 Shen Zhaozhou, 198 Shenzhou Scholarly Society, 179 shi. See verse Shifen. See Zhou Zuoren Shiji. See Records of the Grand Historian Shimian maifu. See Ambush on All Sides Shi Nai’an, 216, 319

433 Shishi xinbao. See China Times Shi Shuqing, 399 Shionaya On, 305 Shiratori Kurakichi, 256 Shiwu bao. See The Chinese Progress Shu bao. See Sichuan News Shu Shicheng, 401, 403, 406 Shuihu zhuan. See Water Margin Shun Pao, 71, 90, 229, 337 Shuowen jiezi, 218, 234238, 241, 255256, 368, 373 Sichuan News, 70 Sima Qian, 278, 371 Sima Tan, 353, 371 Sino-Japanese Collegial Hospital, 65 Six Arts, 183, 252 socialism, 78, 80 Society for the Reform of Chinese Education (Zhonghua jiaoyu gaijin she), 405 Song Jiaoren, 232, 262 song lyrics (ci), 295296, 299, 307, 309, 311312, 317319, 322329, 331, 335, 368, 378 379, 383385, 387, 389, 397398, 405 Soochow University (Dongwu daxue), 382, 383 Southeast University (Dongnan daxue), 138, 399 402, 404, 406 Statesmanship, 70 study associations (xuehui), 247248 Su Dongpo (Shi), 6, 326327, 329 Su Jun, 366 Su Manshu, 70, 7374, 89 suibi, 119 Sun Fuyuan, 23, 49, 55, 58, 61 Sun Lianggong, 305 Sun Yat-sen, 232 Taipingyang bao. See Pacific News Tan Sitong, 5, 104, 131, 210, 310 Tang Degang, 132133, 285286, 290, 293 Tang Dingzhi, 185 Tang Guizhang, 395396 Tang Lan, 369 Tang Si. See Lu Xun

434 Tang Xianzu (Hairuo, Immortal of Clarity and Distance), 391392, 393394 Tang Zhijun, 217, 219, 224225, 230231, 233, 235, 243 Tao Huanqing (Chengzhang), 221, 230, 259 Tao Menghe (Lügong), 74, 113, 382 Tao Xisheng, 186187, 353, 371, 372 The China Discussion, 70 The Chinese Progress, 67 The Educational Magazine, 70, 214, 221228, 247, 254, 258261, 265 The Endeavor, 67, 287 The Human World, 146 The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, 352, 353354, 371, 373375 The Minpao Magazine, 6768, 7071, 75, 142, 210, 224, 230234, 236237, 240242, 269, 370 The Music Magazine, 193, 195, 198, 203 The New World, 70 The Renaissance, 133, 350351, 359, 363, 375376 The Scholars, 216, 265, 403 The Short Story Magazine, 384 The Southern Society Collection, 143 The Tiger, 67, 70, 72, 74 The Tournament, 70 The University Daily, 186, 188189, 192, 195, 206, 368, 375, 395 Tiananmen Square, 13, 17 Tokyo Imperial University, 197 Tokyo School of Music, 197 Tongcheng school, 116, 312, 314 tongren zazhi. See associates magazine Tsinghua School, 55, 59, 172174, 399 400 Tsinghua University, 154, 168, 171, 173, 340 Twenty-One Demands, 1213 University of the Republic, 25

INDEX vernacular (baihua), 4, 7, 12, 26, 89, 9297, 99, 103, 105112, 116, 124, 131, 139142, 146, 147, 211219, 221223, 227228, 258, 261265, 267, 269270, 277289, 291292, 295299, 301, 303, 307, 309310, 312, 314322, 324331, 334336, 338, 340, 344, 346, 365, 399, 401405, 407410 Versailles Peace Treaty, 12, 14 verse (shi), 296, 307, 309, 311312, 317 319, 327, 331, 373 Von Stael-Holstein, Alexander, 170 Wang Anshi, 327 Wang Chengliu, 270 Wang Daxie, 47 Wang Dong, 234, 236237 Wang Duqing, 313 Wang Fansen, 350 Wang Guowei, 6, 7, 92, 170, 174, 256, 267, 395 Wang Heming, 219, 247 Wang Jingxuan, 97, 115, 124127, 130, 145 Wang Jingzhi, 318, 335, 340 Wang Kaiyun, 210 Wang Lu (Xinkui), 193, 195196, 201 Wang Maozu, 125126 Wang Mian, 265 Wang Niansun, 235 Wang Renjun, 245 Wang Ruoxu, 105 Wang Tongzhao, 2123, 30, 37, 58, 61 Wang Xiaoming, 102 Wang Xinggong, 382 Wang Yangming, 249 Wang Yao, 342 Wang Yisun, 378 Wang Yuanfang, 295 Wang Yunwu, 162, 175 Wang Zhefu, 341 Water Margin, 216, 265, 402404 Weekly Review, 19, 49, 53, 88, 119, 332 Wei Jiangong, 206 Wei Shisheng, 401403, 406

INDEX Wenxin diaolong. See The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons Wenxuan school, 116, 314 wenxue yanjiuhui. See Chinese Literary Association Wen Yiduo, 55, 59, 61, 296, 313, 335, 340 Wen Zhenting, 343 Wen Zongyao, 73 White, Hayden, 8 Wilde, Oscar, 89, 9192 Will, Pierre Etienne, 366 Wilson, Woodrow, 32 Women’s World, 70 Wu Bing, 391 Wu Bingxiang, 38, 4950 Wu Chengshi, 239, 270 Wu Jianren, 4 Wu Jingheng, 73, 243 Wu Jingzi, 216 Wu Mei (Qu'an, Shuangya), 195196, 347, 368369, 373, 378381, 383392, 394398 Wu Mengfei, 196 Wu Mi, 121, 137138 Wu Na, 210 Wu Qiren. See Zhang Jinglu Wu Ti (Wu Tee), 351, 354 Wu Wenying, 326 wuxu (1898) generation, 45 Wu Yu, 70, 74 Wu Zhihui, 70, 74, 407 Xia Minggang (Xiufeng), 39 Xia Xiaohong, 321 Xia Zengyou, 353 xianchang. See actual scene xianxue (practical learning), 11 Xiangjiang pinglun. See Xiang River Review Xiang River Review, 16 Xiao Fang, 4344 xiaoling, 320, 322, 327329 xiaopin (vignette), 119 Xiaoshuo yuebao. See The Short Story Magazine Xiao Tong, 348, 375 Xiao Yishan, 223224 Xiao Youmei, 186, 192193, 195198, 200202, 204

435 Xie Mian, 273 Xie Shaomin, 29 Xie Wuliang, 70, 73, 388389 Xie Yingning, 225 Xinchao. See The Renaissance Xinchao she. See Renaissance Society Xinmin congbao. See New Citizen Miscellany Xin Qiji, 326329 Xin qingnian. See New Youth Xin shehui. See New Society Xin sheng. See La Vita Nuova Xin shenghuo. See New Life Xin shijie. See The New World Xin xiaoshuo. See New Fiction xin xue. See New Learning Xiong Mengfei, 3536, 3839 Xu Baohuang, 382 Xu Deheng, 26, 4041, 43, 47 Xu Delin, 278 Xu Fosu, 401 Xu Qinwen, 58, 63 Xu Shichang, 1415, 42 Xu Shizeng, 210 Xu Shoushang (Jifu), 228, 230, 235239, 244, 370 Xu Zhimo, 313, 335, 340 Xuedeng. See Light of Learning Xueheng. See Critical Review xuehui. See study associations Yan Fu, 215, 266, 267 yanjiang gao. See lecture notes Yan Yannian (Yanzhi), 355 Yan zhi. See Statesmanship Yang Bojun, 374 Yang Changji, 74 Yang Hui, 35, 4142 Yang Shuda, 374 Yang Xingfo, 282283 Yang Zhensheng, 21, 43, 57 Yao Nai, 210 Yao Pengzi, 341 Ye Dejun, 396 Ye Haowu (Han), 185, 368, 372, 381 Ye Shengtao, 4 Yi Baisha, 73 Yi Jian, 343 Yisen huabao. See Yisen Pictorial Yisen Pictorial, 366

436 Yishi bao. See Benefit the World News Yiwan, 49 Yin Jifu, 356 Yin Mingde, 4243 Yinyue zazhi. See The Music Magazine Yoshida Kumaji, 156 Yu Dafu, 4, 20, 22, 135 Yu Jing (Shenchu), 36, 39, 44 Yu Pingbo, 5657, 59, 61 63, 89, 110, 275, 281, 285, 288291, 293299, 302, 311313, 318, 334335, 340, 362363 Yuan Shikai, 1213, 352, 376, 385 Yuan Zhen, 329 Yuan Zhenying, 85, 113 Yue Fei, 55 yuefu, 311, 325 Yueji. See Record of Music yundong. See campaign zagan, 119 zaju, 389392 zawen, 117119, 127 Zeng Guofan, 210 Zeng Yi, 389 Zhang Bilai, 342 Zhang Binglin. See Zhang Taiyan Zhang Dongsun, 333 Zhang Dun, 30 Zhang Fengju, 305 Zhang Houzai, 99, 115 Zhang Ji, 73 Zhang Jinglu, 213, 224; pseudonym Wu Qiren, 213214, 224225 Zhang Runzhi, 29 Zhang Shiqiao, 3637, 40, 44 Zhang Shizhao, 70, 381 Zhang Taiyan (Binglin, Meishu), 45, 7, 86, 130, 138, 142, 159, 209235, 237261, 263, 265271, 312, 324, 347348, 351352, 354, 356357, 360361, 364, 370, 376, 408409; Balanced Inquiries into Traditional Learning, 4, 211, 220, 239, 242245, 251, 270271, 347354, 358, 360361, 364365, 371; Book of Urgency, 210211, 217, 220,

INDEX 239, 251, 253, 266, 270; pseudonym Dujiao, 225226, 228, 261; The Vernacular Writing of Zhang Taiyan, 209, 212213, 217, 220228, 242, 244, 249, 251258, 269271 Zhang Xiuzhong. See Caochuan Weiyu Zhang Xu, 170 Zhang Xuecheng (Shizhai), 252, 254, 348, 353, 355, 371 Zhang Yan, 378, 387 Zhang Yong, 230231 Zhang Yuanji, 321 Zhang Zhidong, 248 Zhang Zongxiang, 14, 30, 32, 38, 48, 53, 65 Zhao Fengtian, 400 Zhaojialou, 18, 27, 3132, 3539, 41, 4344, 55, 59, 65 Zhao Yuanren, 174 Zhejiang chao. See Zhejiang Tide Zhejiang Tide, 70 Zheng Boqi, 135 Zheng Zhenduo, 54, 58, 119, 132, 141143, 389 Zhongfangshi, 3334 Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi. See Compendium of China’s New Literature Zhong Hong, 373 Zhonghua shuju, 358, 366, 388, 396, 400, 402 Zhonghua xiaoshuo jie. See Chung Hwa Novel Magazine Zhonghua xinbao. See Chinese Times Zhongyang daxue. See National Central University Zhongyang gongyuan. See Central Park Zhou Bangyan, 325 Zhou Cezong. See Chow Tse-tsung Zhou Fohai, 79, 118 Zhou Lingjun, 334 Zhou Shaomei, 198 Zhou Weiqun, 4445 Zhou Wu (Taixuan), 290 Zhou Xiaoming, 343 Zhou Yutong, 36, 39, 45, 59, 61, 63, 353354

INDEX Zhou Zuoren (Qiming), 5, 21, 23, 70, 74, 77, 79, 84, 86, 89, 92, 96, 101102, 106, 110112, 114115, 118119, 128, 132, 140148, 160, 170, 175177, 182, 184, 213, 221222, 226, 230, 236240, 265, 275276, 280281, 285, 288303, 306313, 315, 319, 332, 335, 339, 370, 382, 407; pseudonym Kucha, 306; pseudonym Kuyu’an, 306; pseudonym Shifen, 332333 Zhu Defa, 343 Zhu Guangqian, 407409 Zhu Jiahua, 382

437 Zhu Xi, 265, 267 Zhu Xizu, 170, 230, 233237, 240, 370, 380, 381 Zhu Xiang, 293, 335336, 341, 344 Zhu Zhixin, 332 Zhu Ziqing, 110111, 142143, 294296, 324, 336, 340, 342 Zhu Zonglai, 368, 369370, 381 Zhu Zugeng, 270 Zhuangzi, 215, 234235, 238, 243, 251, 357, 371 Zimo, 337 Zong Baihua, 292 Zou Rong, 217 Zuo Qiuming, 357