by Kim Man-jung
A Note on the Translation
There are only three previous translations of Kuunmong in English—an unusually small number, given the novel’s literary stature in Korea. It was previously translated by James Scarth Gale in 1922 as The Cloud Dream of the Nine and again by Richard Rutt in 1974 as A Nine Cloud Dream.1 It was also translated as The Nine Cloud Dream by the English Student Association of the Department of English Language and Literature at Ewha Women’s University under the supervision of Kathleen Crane.2
Gale (1863–1937), a Presbyterian missionary, and Rutt (1925–2011), an Anglican bishop who later became Roman Catholic, are part of the long lineage of Christian clergy who lived and worked in Korea, and they are distinguished by their deep engagement with Korean culture and language, particularly in their study of the classical Chinese in which the old Korean scholarly and literary texts are written.3 Their translations, examined in sequence, are a fascinating glimpse into the changes in the English language over the course of a half century and an implicit look at the different cultural attitudes taken by Gale and Rutt to their subject. The two translations also reveal an increasing understanding of and openness to Asian traditions from the perspective of highly educated Christians over that half century. Rutt’s builds on Gale’s, and each has its particular strengths and weaknesses, but in general terms the latter translation shows a cultural sea change in Western attitudes toward Asian culture. The Ewha translation, which was done by Korean students, makes liberal use of both earlier ones while also providing a much more literal rendition of the language.
My own translation has the good fortune of learning from all three previous translations. It is based on multiple source texts including the 1803 edition at the Harvard-Yenching Library, the 1890 hangul text at the Kyujanggak Institute for Korean Studies, and the Seoul National University text published in 1972. The 1972 text is a slightly shorter version of what is called the “Nojon” text by Kuunmong scholars (so named because it begins with the passage describing the “old monk”). I began with the understanding that I would be translating for a readership whose exposure to the subtexts of Kuunmong would be in English. Since it was written in seventeenth-century Korea, while the story is set in Tang China, I also tried to emulate the archaic tone of a historical novel without being too archaic with my language. I had to keep in mind that Kim Man-jung was writing what amounted to a fantasy novel that not only alluded to but imitated earlier Chinese works. He also wrote the novel in Chinese with an eye and ear toward the additional layers of wordplay created by reading the Chinese characters in a Korean context. It is difficult even to set up an appropriate analogy, but imagine if a Russian novelist of the nineteenth century had written a heroic fantasy novel set in the France of the Middle Ages and furthermore wrote it in the French of that time, alluding, throughout the work, to even earlier French literature. How does one do a translation that re-creates such a parallel effect? It was a question that presented numerous challenges.
After surveying both Chinese and Korean classics in English translation, I decided that where Gale and the Ewha group used the Korean readings of character and place names, I would use the more logically appropriate Chinese renditions, as did Rutt. The use of the Korean readings of Tang-period Chinese names would be as odd as anglicizing European names—Joseph for Giuseppe, for example—in a novel set in Renaissance Italy. Where possible, I read antiquated English translations of Chinese classics to explore ways of conveying that style. I also kept the anachronistic Wade-Giles romanizations of the Chinese specifically to make this translation feel slightly archaic in English to emulate how Kuunmong must have felt to its original readership. In the Introduction, Notes, and Appendices, on the other hand, I have used the standard Pinyin romanizations, except where other romanizations have become established as the familiar form.
Acknowledgments
First, I would like to thank the Literary Translation Institute of Korea for its generous support in sponsoring my initial translation work for this project, and the State University of New York at New Paltz for the sabbatical that permitted part of the research and writing time. I have many people to thank, even from before the inception of this project, which, I realized a few years ago, was the intersection and culmination of all the major threads of my literary engagements going back to the time when I was a child being told bedtime stories from the Odyssey and the Völsunga Saga by my father, Heinz Johannes Fenkl. My Korean maternal uncles, Hyongbu and Big Uncle, were consummate storytellers, and I unwittingly began my career as a translator when I tried to write down stories they had told me in Korean in my seventh-grade English notebook in Germany. Big Uncle also demonstrated to me, firsthand, how one could integrate the reading of the Tao into one’s perception of commonplace reality and memory of dreams. From my mother, Lee Hwa-sun, I learned the importance of remembering dreams and interpreting their omens.
While I was an undergraduate at Vassar, Professor Walter Fairservis introduced me to the Chinese classics and encouraged me to explore Korean folklore more analytically, while Professor William Gifford encouraged a more story-oriented approach. Professor Susan Brisman, in her Romantic Poetry seminar, taught me the value of close reading paired with original research. During my graduate studies at the University of California, Davis, Professors Marian Ury and Benjamin Wallacker introduced me to the rigors of translating Asian folktales and classical Chinese; Daniel Rancour-Laferriere’s seminars in psychoanalysis and semiotics helped make symbolism transparent; and Aram Yengoyan, by mentoring a year-long research project that involved dream theory and the study of the Dreamtime and lucid dreaming, lent tremendous insight into the real themes that underpin Kim’s novel.
James Scarth Gale and Richard Rutt were inspiring role models and their earlier translations were invaluable resources. In translation theory and practice, I am grateful to the late Song Yo-in; and in pragmatic and historical issues, my thanks to Peter H. Lee for his insights and guidance. Sam Raim, my editor, provided insightful feedback that made this a far better book than its original form. Walter Lew, in our work together during his Kaya days, gave me confidence to tackle this project. I deeply appreciate the support of David McCann and Lee Young-Jun, especially while I finished the first annotated excerpt for the journal Azalea; Kwon Youngmin inspired me with his deep analysis of the encoded language of the Korean poet Yi Sang, introduced me to Zen sijo, and also gave me his inscribed copy of Kim Byong-Cook’s Korean translation1 of Kuunmong as an invaluable resource. Master Cho Oh-hyun, whose Zen sijo poetry I translated, helped me to understand the principles of interpenetration and nonobstruction in language, two of the fundamental Buddhist principles expressed in the novel. Master Cho passed away the same day I submitted my final draft of this manuscript, and to him I must emulate Hsing-chen’s bow to Master Liu-kuan. And finally, my love and gratitude to Anne and Bella, my first readers, without whose continuous support and patience this project would not have been possible.
PART I
1
THE REINCARNATION OF HSING-CHEN
There are five great mountains beneath Heaven.1 To the east is T’ai-shan, Grand Mountain; to west is Hua-shan, Mountain of Flowers; to the south lies Heng-shan, the Mountain of Scales; to the north another Heng-shan, Eternal Mountain; and in the center stands Sung-shan, the Exalted Mountain. These are known as the Five Peaks, and the highest of them is Heng-shan, south of Tung-t’ing Lake, encircled by the river Hsiang on three sides. Upon Heng-shan itself there are seventy-two peaks that rise up and pierce the sky, some jagged and precipitous—blocking the paths of clouds—their fantastic shapes evoking wonder and awe, their auspicious shadows full of good fortune.
Among the seventy-two peaks, the five tallest are called Spirit of the South, Crimson Canopy, Heaven’s Pillar, Stone Treasure-House, and Lotus Peak. They are regal, crowned by the heavens, and veiled in clouds, their bases obscured in mist. They are imbued with divine power, and in the haze of the day they are occluded from huma
n view.
In ancient times, when Yü restrained the Great Flood2 that inundated the Earth, he erected a commemorative stone tablet on one of these peaks, recording his deed, and though many eons have passed, the inscription is still sharp and clear and one can still read the characters for “cloud” and “heaven” upon the stone.
In the days of Ch’in Shih-huang-ti,3 Lady Wei, having become a Taoist immortal,4 settled in these mountains with an attending company of fairies as decreed by Heaven. She was known as Lady Wei of the Southern Peak, and many are the strange and wonderful things she caused to happen there.
In the days of the T’ang dynasty5 a great monk arrived from India. He was so taken by the beauty of the mountains that he built a monastery on Lotus Peak, and there he taught The Diamond Sutra,6 instructed disciples, and banished evil spirits. In time people said that a living Buddha had descended to Earth. His name was Liu-kuan, and he explicated the sutras so clearly that they called him “Master of the Six Temptations,” the Great Master Liu-kuan.7
Among his five or six hundred disciples, there were some thirty who were advanced and well versed in these teachings, and the youngest of these was Hsing-chen.8 His features were fair and handsome, and a light shone from his face like flowing water. He had already mastered the scriptures,9 though he was barely twenty. He surpassed all the others in wisdom and mental agility, and all knew that the master loved him best and intended, in time, to make him his successor.
When Master Liu-kuan expounded upon the dharma to his disciples, the Dragon King10 himself—in the guise of a white-clad old man—would come from Tung-t’ing Lake to listen attentively. One day the master called his disciples together and said to them, “I am old now, and my health is failing. It has been more than ten years since I have been beyond the gates of these mountains. I must go and pay my respects to the Dragon King. Who among you will go in my stead to his Underwater Palace?”
Hsing-chen volunteered at once, and the master was greatly pleased. He had the young monk outfitted in new robes, presented him with a ringed staff, and sent him off toward Tung-t’ing Lake.
* * *
Just as Hsing-chen departed, the monk who guarded the monastery’s main gate came to Master Liu-kuan to announce that Lady Wei of the Southern Peak had sent eight of her fairies11 to see him and they were now waiting outside.
“Let them in,” said Liu-kuan.
And they skipped in through the gate, one by one, circled him three times, and bowed, scattering fairy flowers at his feet. Kneeling respectfully, they recited a message from Lady Wei:
Venerable Master, you live on the west side of the mountain and I on the east. The distance is not far, and we are near enough to be neighbors. Yet I am so busy that I have not had occasion to visit your monastery to hear your teaching of the sutras. So now I am sending my servants to pay my respects and to offer you heavenly flowers, fairy fruit, silk brocade, and other humble gifts. I hope you will accept them as a token of my respect.
With that, each of the eight fairies presented flowers and other gifts to the master, and he received them and passed them on to his disciples, who, in turn, placed them as offerings before the Buddha in the shrine room.
Liu-kuan bowed ceremoniously, with hands folded. “An old man like me hardly deserves such lavish gifts as these you have presented to me,” he said, and he gave generously to the fairies in return before they took their leave and set lightly off.
They made their way out through the mountain pass, hand in hand, chatting as they went. “In the past, we were free to go anywhere among these mountains,” they said. “But now that the Great Master Liu-kuan has established his temple, some of the peaks are forbidden to us, and for nearly ten years we have missed seeing the places of beauty that were once ours to view. We are lucky that our lady’s order brings us to this valley at a beautiful time of year.
“It is still early, so let us take this chance to climb up to the top of Lotus Peak. Let us loosen our garments, wash our scarves in the waterfall, and compose some poems. And when we return our sisters will envy us!”
They set off, walking hand in hand along the high precipices, gazing down at the cascading streams and the rushing waters. It was springtime, and myriad flowers filled the valleys below like a pink mist. The air was fresh and alive with an untold variety of birdsong.
The eight fairies sat to rest on a stone bridge, looking down at their reflections where the streams met in a wide pool as clear as crystal. Their dark brows and radiant faces were mirrored in the water like a classical painting done in a master’s hand, and they were so captivated they did not notice the sun descending into the western mountains.
* * *
Hsing-chen crossed Tung-t’ing Lake and now entered the Underwater Palace. The Dragon King, hearing that Master Liu-kuan had sent one of his disciples, personally came to the gate with an entourage to greet him. When they had gone inside the palace, the Dragon King took his throne and Hsing-chen bowed and delivered his master’s message.
The Dragon King thanked Hsing-chen, and then held a great feast for him, full of fantastic delicacies he had never before tasted. But when the Dragon King offered him a cup of wine, Hsing-chen declined, saying, “Your Majesty, wine intoxicates the mind, and it is against my monastic vows to drink.”
“Of course, I know that wine is among the five things that the Buddha forbade,” the Dragon King replied. “But this wine is altogether different from the wine that mortals drink. It neither arouses passions nor dulls the senses. It instills calm and contentment. Surely you will not refuse it?”
Hsing-chen could not decline, and he had drunk three cups by the time he said his good-byes and left the Underwater Palace, riding on the wind to Lotus Peak. When he lighted there, he was already intoxicated and overcome by dizziness.
“Master Liu-kuan will be furious if he sees me this way,” he said to himself. “He will scold me.”
Crouching by the bank of a stream, he took off his robes and placed them on the clean sand. He dipped his hands in the clear water and was washing his hot face, when suddenly he noticed a strange and mysterious perfume wafting toward him. It was neither incense nor flowers, and it clouded his mind. “There must be flowers blooming upstream to put such wonderful fragrance in the air,” he thought. “I must go find them.”
He dressed carefully and followed the course of the stream upward; and there, quite suddenly, he found himself face-to-face with the eight fairies who were sitting on the stone bridge.
Hsing-chen dropped his staff and bowed deeply as he addressed them. “Ladies! I am a disciple of Master Liu-kuan and I live on Lotus Peak. I am on my way back from an errand for him. This bridge is not wide, and by sitting upon it, you are blocking my way. Would you kindly move aside and let me pass?”
The fairies returned his bow. “We are attendants to Lady Wei, and we are on our way back from delivering her greetings to your master. We have paused here to rest awhile. Is it not written in The Book of Rites,12 concerning the law of the road, that the man goes to the left and the woman to the right? Since this bridge is very narrow, and we are already sitting here, is it not proper for you to avoid it altogether and cross at some other place?”
“But the water is deep,” Hsing-chen replied. “There is no other way to cross. Where do you suggest I go?”
“It is said that the great Bodhidharma13 crossed the ocean on a single leaf,” said the fairies. “If you are, in fact, a disciple of Master Liu-kuan and you have studied the dharma with him, then surely you must have acquired some supernatural powers. It should not be hard for you to cross this tiny rivulet, so why do you stand there arguing with women over the right of way?”
Hsing-chen laughed. “I see from your attitude that you require some sort of payment for the right to cross, but I have no money. I am only a poor monk. Yet I do have eight jewels, which I will happily give to you if you will permit me to pass.” With
this he snapped off a branch from a peach tree and tossed it before the fairies. The fragrant peach blossoms that landed transformed into eight clear, sparkling, fragrant jewels.
The eight fairies laughed with delight. Each of them rose from her place and lifted a jewel, gave Hsing-chen a coy glance, mounted the wind, and flew away into the sky.
Hsing-chen stood at the bridge and watched for a long time looking in every direction, but he could not see where they had gone. Soon the multihued clouds had dissipated and even their fragrance was gone.
In a terrible state of dejection, Hsing-chen returned to the temple and delivered his message from the Dragon King. When Master Liu-kuan reprimanded him for his late return, Hsing-chen said, “The Dragon King detained me, Master, and it was not possible to refuse his generosity. That is why I have been delayed.”
The master did not reply to this. He simply said, “Go away and rest.”
Hsing-chen went back to his dim meditation cell and sat down alone. He could still hear the melodious voices of the eight fairies echoing in his ears, and his eyes still seemed to see their beautiful forms and faces as if they stood before him in the room. He found it impossible to control his racing thoughts—he could not meditate.
He thought to himself: “If a youth diligently studies the Confucian classics and serves his country as a minister of state or a general when he is grown into a man, he may dress in silks with an official seal upon his jade belt. He may look upon beautiful colors with the eyes and listen to beautiful voices with his ears. He may enjoy beautiful girls and leave an honorable legacy for his descendants. But a Buddhist monk has only a small bowl of rice and a cup of water. We read the sutras and meditate with our 108 mala14 beads hanging upon our necks. It is a lofty and profound endeavor, but it is terribly lonely. Though I may become enlightened, though I may master all the doctrines of the Mahayana15 path and sit in my master’s seat to succeed him, once my spirit parts from my body in the flames of the funeral pyre, who will remember that a person named Hsing-chen ever lived upon this Earth?”