A Dream of Red Mansion

by Cao Xueqin

  Now Jia Zheng told them to write a poem apiece, promising the reward to one who finished first and to give an additional prize for the best poem. As Huan and Lan had recently written several poems in company, they no longer lacked confidence. After reading the topic, they went off to think it over. Before long, Lan was the first one to finish. And Huan, afraid to be left behind, finished his too. By the time both had copied their verses out, Baoyu was still lost in thought. Jia Zheng and his secretaries read the two younger boys’ verses. Lan’s heptasyllabic quatrain read as follows:

  Fourth Mistress Lin, Lovely General,

  Had jade-like beauty but an iron will;

  Because she gave her life to requite Prince Heng

  Today the soil of her district is fragrant still.

  The secretaries said admiringly, “When a boy of thirteen can write like this, it truly shows the influence of a scholarly family.” Jia Zheng smiled.

  “The language is childish, but it’s quite a good effort.”

  Then they read Huan’s eight-line pentameter, which was as follows:

  Fair young ladies know no sorrow,

  But a general has no relief;

  Wiping her tears she left her broidered hangings

  And took the battlefield, her heart filled with grief.

  She wanted to requite the prince’s kindness—

  Who else would wreak vengeance on the enemy?

  Let us, at her grave, eulogize her loyalty

  And her eternal, peerless gallantry.

  “This is even better!” the secretaries exclaimed. “Being a few years older after all, he is more original.”

  “It’s not too bad,” said Jia Zheng, “but it still lacks real feeling.”

  “It’s quite good enough,” they protested. “The Third Young Master is only a couple of years older—he’s not reached manhood yet. If they go on working hard like this, in a few years they’ll be like the poets Yuan Ji and Yuan Xian.”

  Jia Zheng laughed.

  “You’re praising them too highly. The trouble with them is that they don’t study hard.” Then he asked Baoyu how he was getting on.

  His proteges said, “The Second Young Master is composing his carefully. It’s bound to be more stylish and poignant than the others.”

  Baoyu said with a smile, “This subject seems unsuitable for a poem in the later style. Only a long poem in the old style—some song or ballad—can convey the spirit.”

  The secretaries rose to their feet, nodding and clapping.

  “We knew he’d come out with something original,” they said. “When presented with a subject, the first thing to consider is what is the most suitable form for it. This shows he’s an old hand at versifying. This is like tailoring—you must measure your customer before cutting out a gown. As this is a eulogy of the Lovely General and there is a preface to it, it should be a longish ballad something like Wen Tingyun’s The Pitcher Song or some other old ballad, or like Bai Juyi’s Song of Eternal Sorrow, half narrative and half lyrical, lively and graceful. That’s the only way to do justice to such a good subject.”

  Jia Zheng, approving this, took up the brush ready to write the poem down.

  “Very well then,” he said to Baoyu, smiling. “Dictate it to me. If it’s no good, I’ll give you a thrashing for making such a shameless boast.” Baoyu started off with one line:

  “Prince Heng loved martial arts, the fair sex too....”

  Jia Zheng having written this down shook his head. “Crude!”

  “That’s the classical style. Surely not crude,” one of his proteges remonstrated. “Let’s see how he continues.”

  “We’ll keep it for the time being,” Jia Zheng conceded. Baoyu resumed:

  “He taught girls horsemanship and archery,

  Taking no joy in splendid song or dance,

  Only in spearmanship and soldiery.”

  When Jia Zheng had written this out, the secretaries said, “The third line has a classical flavour and is vigorous too—excellent. And these four lines are apt, fitting the narrative style.”

  “Don’t overdo your praise,” demurred Jia Zheng. “Let’s see how he turns the subject.”

  Baoyu went on:

  “No dust was seen to rise by watching eyes,

  By the red lantern stood the general fair.”

  After these two lines the rest exclaimed in approval. “Wonderful— ‘No dust was seen to rise’ followed by ‘the red lantern’ and ‘general fair.’ The choice of words and images is superb.” Baoyu resumed:

  “Her sweet breath scented every battle-cry,

  Hard for one so frail to wield cold sword and spear.”

  All clapped their hands and laughed.

  “It’s drawn to the life! Was Master Bao there at the time to see her delicate form and smell her sweet breath? If not, how could he have conjured it up like this?”

  “When ladies practise fighting,” Baoyu explained, “however fearless they are they’re no match for men. It goes without saying they’ll appear rather delicate.”

  “Stop blathering,” said his father, “and go on quickly.”

  After a moment’s reflection Baoyu recited:

  “Her knots of clove and her hibiscus belt....”

  The secretaries commented, “A change of rhyme here is excellent, showing flexibility and fluency. Besides, this line is charming in itself.”

  Jia Zheng wrote it down, observing. “This line is no good. He’s already given us ‘sweet breath’ and ‘hard for one so frail to wield.’ Why go on like this? It’s lack of substance that makes him pad out his lines in this way.”

  “A long poem needs certain ornate images to add some touches of colour,” ventured Baoyu.

  “If you just hunt for images,” said his father, “how can you move on to the fighting? Another couple of lines like this will be superfluous.”

  “In that case I suppose I can revert to the subject in the next line.”

  Jia Zheng smiled scornfully.

  “What great skill have you got? You’ve just made a fresh opening by bringing in something irrelevant. If now in one line you try to round it off and revert to the main theme, you’ll find you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”

  Baoyu lowered his head to think, and then continued:

  “Enchain no pearls but a keen blade enchain.”

  He asked hastily, “Will this line do?” All the secretaries applauded.

  Jia Zheng having copied this out said with a smile, “We’ll let it go. Carry on.”

  “If this is all right, I’ll go straight on; if it’s not, I’ll scrap it and think up something else.”

  “Be quiet!” snapped his father. “If it’s no good you’ll have to do it again. If you had to write a few dozen poems, would you complain it was hard work?”

  Baoyu had to rack his brains and then declaimed:

  “After a night’s manoeuvres she is exhausted,

  Powder and rouge her silken headscarf stain.”

  Jia Zheng said, “This is another stanza. What follows?” Baoyu resumed:

  “The next year rebels rampaged east of the mountains,

  Fierce tigers and leopards, swarming hornets were they.”

  Again the others exclaimed, “That fine word ‘rampaged’ shows skill, and the mm in the narrative is natural too.” Baoyu went on:

  “The prince led Imperial troops to wipe them out;

  One battle, then another—they lost the day.

  A reeking wind swept down the fields of wheat,

  Flags and empty commander’s tent the sun did gild;

  Green hills were silent, the stream gurgled on;

  Now, in the heat of battle. Prince Heng was killed.

  Rain drenched the bones of the dead, blood stained the grass;

  Moonlight fell cold on the sand, ghosts hovered around.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful!” cried the secretaries. “Composition, narration and imagery—all are perfect. Let’s see how he proceeds now to the Fourth
Mistress. There’s bound to be another skilful transition and more remarkable lines.”

  Baoyu continued:

  “Commanders and men thought only of fleeing to safety,

  The city must speedily be razed to the ground.

  Who would have looked in a boudoir for loyalty?

  The prince’s favourite rose up wrathfully.”

  All commented, “A good narrative style.”

  “Too wordy,” said Jia Zheng. “It may grow tedious.”

  Then Baoyu resumed:

  “Who might that be, the favourite of Prince Heng?

  Fourth Mistress Lin the fair general—none but she!

  She gave the order to her lovely troops,

  Fair as peach and plum-blossom they set off to fight;

  Tears stained their embroidered saddles, heavy their grief,

  No clank from their armour in the chilly night.

  None could know the outcome—victory or defeat—

  But they vowed at all costs their lord’s kindness to repay;

  The rebels were too powerful to rout,

  They crushed these willows and blooms—alas the day!

  Their ghosts stayed by the city, close to home;

  Steeds trampled their sweet rouged corpses where they lay;

  This news, sent posthaste to the capital,

  Filled every family with sore dismay.

  The city’s loss appalled the Emperor,

  Generals and ministers hung their heads in shame,

  For not one of the court officials could compare

  With lovely Fourth Mistress Lin of deathless fame.

  For this fair lady I sigh and sigh again

  And, my song ended, my thoughts with her remain.”

  After Baoyu had finished, all the secretaries heaped praise on him and read through the poem once more.

  Jia Zheng observed with a smile, “Well, though there are some good lines it’s not moving enough.”

  Then he dismissed the three boys. They left like prisoners reprieved to return to their different quarters.

  We need not concern ourselves with all the others, who went to bed as usual when night fell. Only Baoyu, whose heart was heavy as he went back to the Garden, suddenly noticed the hibiscus in bloom and remembered the young maid’s account of Qingwen’s appointment as the goddess in charge of this flower. Imperceptibly, his spirits rose again as he gazed at the hibiscus, sighing. All of a sudden it occurred to him that he had not yet paid his respects by her coffin, and it would be only fitting to sacrifice now before the flower—this would be more original than the vulgar ceremonies before the bier.

  He was on the verge of bowing to the flowers when he had second thoughts. “Even if I do this, I mustn’t be too casual about it,” he told himself. “I’ll have to dress properly and have the sacrifice well prepared to show my sincere respect.”

  Then he reflected, “It definitely wouldn’t do to sacrifice to her in the usual vulgar manner, I must do something different and create a new ceremony which is romantic and original with nothing mundane about it —only then will it be worthy of the two of us. Besides, the men of old said: Objects as humble as ditch-water and water-weeds can be offered to princes and deities. It’s not the value of the objects that counts, but only the heart’s sincerity and reverence. That’s the first thing.

  “And secondly, the eulogy and elegy must be original too and unconventional. It’s no good following the beaten track and padding the writing with high-sounding phrases; one should shed tears of blood, making each word a sob, each phrase a groan. It’s better to show grief and to spare, even if that makes for an unpolished style. At no cost must genuine feeling be sacrificed to meretricious writing. Besides this was deprecated by many of the ancients too—it’s not a new idea of mine today. Unfortunately, men today are so keen on official advancement that they have completely discarded this classical style, for fear of not conforming to the fashion and damaging their chances of winning merit and fame. As I’m neither interested in rank or honour, nor writing something for others to read and admire, why shouldn’t I follow the style of such poetic essays as The Talk of the Great, Summoning the Soul, The Lament and The Nine Arguments of the ancient Chu people, or The Withering Tree, The Queries, The Autumn Flood and Life of the Great Gentlemen? I can intersperse the writing with solitary phrases or occasional short couplets, using allusions from real life as well as metaphors, and writing whatever I feel like. If merry, I can write playfully; if sad, I can record my anguish, until I’ve conveyed my ideas fully and clearly. Why should I be restricted by vulgar rules and conventions?”

  Baoyu had never been a good student, and now as he entertained such perverse ideas how could he produce any good poems or essays? Yet he wrote purely for his own enjoyment, not for others to read or admire. So giving free rein to his absurd imagination, he made up a long lament, and he copied this out neatly on a white translucent silk kerchief which Qingwen had fancied, entitling it Elegy for the Hibiscus Maid and giving it a preface and a concluding song.

  He also had four of the things which Qingwen had liked best provided. When it was dark and the moon was up, he told the young maid to place these before the hibiscus. First be bowed, then hung the elegy on a spray of flowers and, shedding tears, recited:

  “In this year of lasting peace, this month when hibiscus and osmanthus bloom, and on this hapless day, loutish Baoyu of Happy Red Court presents fresh flowers, icy mermaid’s silk, water from Seeping Fragrance Fountain and maple-dew tea, mere trifles to convey his sincere feelings and to sacrifice to:

  The Hibiscus Maid in charge of this autumn flower in the Palace of the White Emperor.

  The dedication:

  Pensively, I reflect that sixteen years have passed since this girl came into the dusty world, and her former name and home district have long been lost beyond recall. Only for little more than five years and eight months did I have her together with me as a dear companion in my bed-chamber to help me with my toiler and to share my recreations. In life, neither gold nor jade could compare with her character; neither ice nor snow with her purity, neither sun nor stars with her fine spirit; neither flowers nor moon with her beauty. All the maids admired her goodness, all the nurses praised her kindness.

  Who could know that the eagle would be trapped in a net because pigeons and falcons hated its soaring spirit, that the orchid would be cut down because weeds envied its fragrance? How could such a delicate flower withstand a fierce gale, or the care-stricken willow endure torrential rain? Slandered by poisonous pests, she fell mortally ill: her cherry lips lost their redness as she moaned, her apricot cheeks became wan and faded. Slanderous accusations came from behind screens and curtains; brambles and thorns choked doors and windows. It was not that she asked for trouble, but refuting false charges she was fated to die. She was trampled down without cease, endlessly accused. Like Jia Yi, she was attacked by those jealous of her noble character; and, like Gun, imperilled by her integrity. She hid her bitterness in her heart, and who is thereto lament her life cut short?

  Now the fairy clouds have scattered; no trace of her can be found. No search can be made for the incense that revives the dead, as the way to the Fairy Isles is lost. No medicine that restores life can be obtained, as the Magic Barge is gone. Only yesterday I was painting those bluish eyebrows; today, who will warm her cold fingers with the jade rings? Medicine remains in the tripod on the stove; the tear-stains on my gown are still wet. Sad it is to open the mirror-case, for the phoenixes on its back have parted company with the broken mirror. Her comb has broken, alas and flown off like a vanishing dragon; her gold hair-pin has dropped in the grass; her emerald hair clasp is in the dust; the magpies are gone, the needle of the Double Seventh Festival rests idle; the love belt is broken, and who is there to weave the multicoloured silk thread?

  In this autumn season ruled over by the White Emperor, I dream in my lonely bed in a deserted room. In the dim moonlight under the plane tree, her charming image and sweet spiri
t have vanished; fragrance clings to the lotus curtain, but her scented breath and easy talk are no more. Withered grass stretches to the horizon, and everywhere crickets keep up a mournful chirping. In the evening the mossy steps are wet with dew, but no sound of pounding clothes comes through the portiere. As rain patters down on the vine-covered wall, one hardly hears fluting from the other court. The cockatoo before the eaves still remembers her sweet name; the begonia withering outside the balustrade foretold her death. No more games of hide-and-seek behind the screen, her dainty footsteps are silent; no more matching-herbs contests in the court where orchids burgeon in vain. The embroidery thread cast aside, who is there to decide the coloured patterns on silk? Linen crumpled, who is there to iron and scent it? Yesterday, on my father’s orders, I was borne far off in a carriage to another garden; today offending my mother, I wept over the removal of her lonely bier. When I heard that her coffin was to be cremated I blushed with shame at breaking my vow to die, be buried and reduced to ashes together with her!

  By the old temple in the autumn wind, will-o’-the-wisps are lingering; on the desolate mount in the setting sun, a few scattered bones only remain; elm trees rustle; tangled artemisia sighs; gibbons wail beyond the misty wilderness; ghosts weep around the foggy graveyard pathways. The young lording behind red gauze curtains is filled with longing for the ill-fated maid in her mound of yellow earth. Facing the west wind, for you I shed tears of blood, while the master of Zi Ze pours out his grief to the cold moon in silence.

  Alas! This calamity was caused by evil spirits, not because the gods were jealous. Slashing the slanderer’s mouth would be too good for her! Cutting out the shrew’s heart could not vent my anger! Though you had a short stay on earth, so deep was my feeling for you that I took careful thought and made detailed inquiries. Then I learned that the Heavenly Emperor had graciously summoned you to the Palace of Flowers; for in life you were like an orchid, and in death you are in charge of the hibiscus. Though the young maid’s words seemed fantastic, in my humble opinion there are good grounds for them. Of old, Ye Fashan summoned a spirit to write an epitaph for him, and Li He was ordered by Heaven to make a record-different happenings but the same in principle. For suitable tasks are selected for different talents, and the wrong choice of person would do the flowers injustice. This convinces me that the Heavenly Emperor makes most fitting use of his power, appointing those best suited to each post.