A Dream of Red Mansion

by Cao Xueqin

  “Our young master is far more brilliant and talented than dull pedants like ourselves.”

  “You mustn’t flatter the boy,” protested Jia Zheng with a smile. “He’s simply making a ridiculous parade of his very limited knowledge. We can think of a better name later.”

  They walked on through a tunnel into a ravine green with magnificent trees and ablaze with rare flowers. A clear stream welling up where the trees were thickest wound its way through clefts in the rocks.

  Some paces further north, on both sides of a level clearing, rose towering pavilions whose carved rafters and splendid balustrades were half hidden by the trees on the slopes. Looking downwards, they saw a crystal stream cascading as white as snow and stone steps going down through the mist to a pool. This was enclosed by marble balustrades and spanned by a stone bridge ornamented with the heads of beasts with gaping jaws. On the bridge was a little pavilion in which the whole party sat down.

  “What would you call this, gentlemen?” asked Jia Zheng.

  One volunteered, “Ouyang Xiu’s Pavilion of the Old Drunkard has the line, ‘A winged pavilion hovers above.’ Why not call this Winged Pavilion?”

  “A delightful name,” rejoined Jia Zheng. “But as this pavilion is built over the pool there should be some allusion to the water. Ouyang Xiu also speaks of a fountain ‘spilling between two peaks.’ Could we not use that word ‘spilling’?”

  “Capital!” cried one gentleman. “‘Spilling Jade’ would be an excellent name.”

  Jia Zheng tugging thoughtfully at his beard turned with a smile to ask Baoyu for his suggestion.

  “I agree with what you just said, sir,” replied his son. “But if we go into this a little deeper, although ‘spilling’ was an apt epithet for Ouyang Xiu’s fountain, which was called the Brewer’s Spring, it would be unsuitable here. Then again, as this is designed as a residence for the Imperial Consort we should use more courtly language instead of coarse, inelegant expressions like this. Could you not think of something more subtle?”

  “Do you hear that, gentlemen?” Jia Zheng chuckled. “When we suggest something original he is all in favour of an old quotation; but now that we are using an old quotation he finds it too coarse. Well, what do you propose?”

  “Wouldn’t ‘Seeping Fragrance’ be more original and tasteful than ‘Spilling Jade’?”

  Jia Zheng stroked his beard again and nodded in silence while the others, eager to please him, hastened to commend Baoyu’s remarkable talent.

  “The selection of two words for the tablet is easy,” said his father. “Go on and make a seven-character couplet.”

  Baoyu rose to his feet and glanced round for inspiration. Then he declaimed:

  “Willows on the dyke lend their verdancy to three punts;

  Rowers on the further shore spare a breath of fragrance.”

  His father nodded with a faint smile amid another chorus of approval.

  They left the pavilion then, crossed the bridge and strolled on, admiring each rock, each height, each flower and each tree on the way, until they found themselves before the whitewashed enclosing walls of a fine lodge nestling in a dense glade of fresh green bamboos. With cries of admiration they walked in.

  From the gate porch a zigzag covered walk with a cobbled path below and parallel to it wound up to a little cottage of three rooms, with the cottage door in the middle one and furniture made to fit the measurements of the rooms. Another small door in the inner room opened on to the back garden with its large pear-tree, broad-leafed plantain and two tiny side courts. Through a foot-wide opening below the beak wall flowed a brook which wound past the steps and the lodge to the front court before meandering out through the bamboos.

  “This is pleasant. If one could study at this window on a moonlit night one would not have lived in vain,” observed Jia Zheng. He glanced at Baoyu, who hung his head in confusion while the others quickly changed the subject, one of them suggesting:

  “We need a four-character inscription here.”

  “What four characters?” asked Jia Zheng.

  “Shades of the River Qi?”

  “Too commonplace.”

  “Traces of the Sui Garden?”

  “That is equally hackneyed.”

  Jia Zhen proposed, “Let Cousin Bao make a suggestion.”

  “Before he makes any suggestion,” objected Jia Zheng, “the impudent fellow criticizes other people’s.”

  “But his comments are correct. How can you blame him?”

  “Don’t pander to him like that,” He turned to his son. “We’re putting up with your wild talk today, so let’s have your criticisms first before we hear your own proposals. Were either of these gentlemen’s suggestions appropriate?”

  “I didn’t think so, sir.”

  His father smiled sardonically, “Why not?”

  “Since this will be the first place where our Imperial visitor stops, we should pay some tribute to Her Highness here. If we want a four-character inscription there are plenty of old ones ready at hand, why need we compose anything new?”

  “Aren’t ‘The River Qi’ and ‘The Sui Garden’ both classical allusions?”

  “Yes, but they sound too stiff. I propose ‘Where the Phoenix Alights.’“ The rest were loud in their praise and Jia Zheng nodded. “You young rascal,” he said, “with your pitiful smattering of knowledge. All right, now let’s hear your couplet.” Baoyu declaimed:

  “Still green the smoke from tea brewed in a rare tripod;

  Yet cold the fingers from chess played by quiet window.”

  Jia Zheng shook his head. “No better either!” He was leading the party on when a thought struck him and turning to Jia Zhen he said, “All these compounds and lodges are furnished with tables and chairs, but what about curtains, blinds, knick-knacks, curios and so forth? Have appropriate ones for each place been prepared?”

  “We have got in a large stock of ornaments which will be properly set out in due course,” replied Jia Zhen. “As for the curtains and blinds, Cousin Lian told me yesterday that they are not all ready yet. We took exact measurements from the building plans for each place when the work started, and sent out our designs to be made up. By yesterday about half of them were finished.”

  Since he was clearly ignorant of the details, Jia Zheng sent for Jia Lian and asked him, “What are the different items? How many are ready and how many are not?”

  Jia Lian promptly pulled out a list from the leg of one boot. After referring to it he replied, “Of the one hundred and twenty satin curtains embroidered with dragons and brocade hangings large and small with different designs and colours, eighty were ready yesterday and forty are still to come. Two hundred blinds were delivered yesterday. Beside these, there are two hundred portieres of crimson felt, two hundred of red lacquered bamboo with gold flecks, two hundred of black lacquered bamboo, and two hundred woven with coloured silks. Half of each kind is ready, the rest will be finished by the end of autumn. Then there are chair-covers, table-drapes, valances and stool-covers— one thousand two hundred of each—which we already have.”

  As they walked on talking, their eyes fell on some green hills barring their way. Skirting these they caught sight of brown adobe walls with paddy-stalk copings and hundreds of apricot-trees, their blossoms bright as spurting flames or sunlit clouds. Inside this enclosure stood several thatched cottages. Outside grew saplings of mulberry, elm, hibiscus and silkwormthorn trees, whose branches had been intertwined to form a double green hedge. Beyond this hedge, at the foot of the slope, was a rustic well complete with windlass and well-sweep. Below, neat plots of fine vegetables and rape-flowers stretched as far as eye could see.

  “I see the point of this place,” declared Jia Zheng. “Although artificially made, the sight of it tempts one to retire to the country. Let us go in and rest a while.”

  Just as they were on the point of entering the wicker gate they saw a stone by the pathway which was obviously intended for an inscription.

&nbs
p; “That’s the finishing touch,” they cried, chuckling. “A plaque over the gate would have spoilt the rustic flavour, but this stone here adds to the charm. It would take one of Fan Chengda’s poems on country life to do justice to this place.”

  “What shall we call it then, gentlemen?”

  “As your worthy son just remarked. ‘An old quotation beats an original saying.’ The ancients have already supplied the most fitting name—Apricot Village.”

  Jia Zheng turned with a smile to Jia Zhen, saying, “That reminds me. This place is perfect in every other respect, but it still lacks a tavern-sign. You must have one made tomorrow. Nothing too grand. Just a tavern-sign of the sort used in country places. Let it be hung on a bamboo pole from a tree-top.”

  Jia Zhen readily agreed to this, then suggested, “Other birds would be out of place here, but we ought to have some geese, ducks, hens and so on.”

  When this proposal had met with general approval, Jia Zheng observed, “‘Apricot Village’ is first-rate, but since it is the name of a real place we should have to get official permission to use it.”

  “True,” agreed the other. “We shall have to think of something else. What shall it be?”

  Without giving them time to think or waiting to be asked by his father, Baoyu blurted out, “An old poem has the line, ‘Above flowering apricot hangs a tavern-sign.’ Why not call this ‘Approach to Apricot Tavern’?”

  “‘Approach’ is superb,” they cried. “It suggests the idea of Apricot Village too.”

  “‘Apricot Village’ would be too vulgar a name.” Baoyu smiled scornfully. “But an old poet wrote ‘A wicker gate by a stream sweet with a paddy.’ How about ‘Paddy-Sweet Cottage’?”

  Again the secretaries clapped in approbation but his father sternly silenced him. “Ignorant cub! How many ancient writers have you read and how many old poems have you memorized that you dare show off in front of your elders? I put up with your nonsense just now to test you in fun—don’t take it seriously.”

  With that he led the party into one of the cottages. It was quite free of ostentation, having papered windows and a wooden couch. Secretly pleased, he glanced at his son and asked, “Well, what do you think of this place?”

  The secretaries nudged the boy to induce him to express approval. But ignoring them he answered, “It can’t compare with ‘Where the Phoenix Alights.’“

  “Ignorant dolt!” Jia Zheng sighed. “All you care for are red pavilions and painted beams. With your perverse taste for luxury, how can you appreciate the natural beauty of such a quiet retreat? This comes of neglecting your studies.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Baoyu promptly. “But the ancients were always using the term ‘natural.’ I wonder what they really meant by it?”

  Afraid his pig-headedness would lead to trouble, the others hastily put in, “You understand everything else so well, why ask about the term ‘natural’? It means coming from nature, not due to human effort.”

  “There you are! A farm here is obviously artificial and out of place with no villages in the distance, no fields near by, no mountain ranges behind, no source for the stream at hand, above, no pagoda from any half hidden temple, below, no bridge leading to a market. Perched here in isolation, it is nothing like as fine a sight as those other places which were less far-fetched. The bamboos and streams there didn’t look so artificial. What the ancients called ‘a natural picture’ means precisely that when you insist on an unsuitable site and hills where no hills should be, however skilfully you go about it the result is bound to jar....”

  “Clear off!” thundered Jia Zheng. “Stop. Come back. Make up another couplet. If it’s no good I’ll slap your face on both accounts.” Baoyu had to comply. He declaimed:

  “The green tide fills the creek where clothes are washed;

  Clouds of fragrance surround the girls plucking water-cress.”

  “Worse and worse,” growled Jia Zheng, shaking his head as he led the company out.

  The path now curved around a slope, past flowers and willows, rocks and springs, a trellis of yellow roses, an arbour of white ones, a tree-peony pavilion, a white peony plot, a court of rambler roses and a bank of plantains. Suddenly they heard the plash of a spring gushing from a cave overhung by vines, and saw fallen blossoms floating on the water below. As they cried out in delight, Jia Zheng asked them to suggest another inscription.

  “What more apt than ‘The Spring of Wuling’?” said one.

  “Too hackneyed. Besides, it’s also the name of a real place,” objected Jia Zheng with a smile.

  “Then how about ‘The Refuge of a Man of Qin’?”

  “Even more impossible,” cried Baoyu. “How can we use something that implies taking refuge in time of trouble? I suggest ‘Smartweed Bank and Flowery Harbour.’“

  “That makes even less sense,” scoffed his father. He strolled to the water’s edge and asked Jia Zhen, “Do you have any boats here?”

  “There will be four punts for lotus-gathering and one pleasure boat, but they aren’t ready yet.”

  “What a pity we can’t cross.”

  “We can make a detour by the path over the hills,” said Jia Zhen, and proceeded to lead the way.

  The others followed, clinging to creepers and trees as they clambered up. There were more fallen blossoms now on the stream, which appeared more translucent than ever as it swirled down its circuitous course, it was flanked by weeping willows and peach and apricot trees which screened the sun, and there was not a mote of dust in the air.

  Presently, in the shade of the willows, they glimpsed an arched wooden bridge with scarlet railings. Once over this a choice of paths lay before them; but their attention was caught by an airy house of smooth brick with spotless tiles and an ornamental wall on one of the lesser slopes of the main hill.

  “That building seems very out of place here,” remarked Jia Zheng. But stepping over the threshold he was confronted by tall weathered rocks of every description which hid the house from sight. In place of trees and flowers there was a profusion of rare creepers, vines and trailers, which festooned the artificial mountains, grew through the rocks, hung from the eaves, twined round the pillars and carpeted the steps, Some seemed like floating green belts or golden bands; others had berries red as cinnabar and flowers like golden osmanthus which gave off a penetrating scent, unlike the scent of ordinary flowers.

  “This is charming!” Jia Zheng could not help exclaiming. “But what are all these plants?”

  “Climbing fig and wistaria?” someone suggested. “But they don’t have such a strange fragrance, do they?”

  “They certainly don’t,” interposed Baoyu. “There are climbing fig and wistaria here, but the fragrance comes from alpinia and snakeroot. That one over there is iris, I fancy, and here we have dolichos, dwarf-mallow and glycyrrhiza. That crimson plant is purple rue, of course; the green, angelica. A lot of these rare plants are mentioned in the Li Sao and Wen Xuan, plants with names like huona, Jiangtan, lunzu and zijiang; shifan, shuisong and fuliu; luyi, danjiao, miwu and fenglian. But after all these centuries scholars can no longer identify these plants, for which new names have been found....”

  “Who asked your opinion?” roared his father. Baoyu stepped back nervously and said no more. Covered corridors ran along both sides of this court and Jia Zheng led his party down one of these to a cool five-section gallery with roofed verandahs on four sides, green windows and painted walls, more elegant than any they had yet seen.

  “One could brew tea here and play the lyre without having to burn rare incense.” He sighed appreciatively, “This is certainly unexpected. We need a good inscription, gentlemen, to do it justice.”

  “What could be apter than ‘Wind in the Orchids and Dew on Angelicas’?” one ventured.

  “I suppose we have no other choice. Now what about a couplet?”

  “I have thought of one,” said another. “The rest of you must correct it.

  Fragrance of muck-orchids fills the court
at dusk,

  scent of alpinia floats to the moonlit island.”

  “Very good,” they commented. “Only the reference to ‘dusk’ seems inappropriate.”

  He quoted the old poem then with the line, “The alpinia in the court weeps in the dusk.”

  “Too sad, too sad,” they protested. “Here’s one for your consideration,” said another.

  “Along three paths white angelica scents the breeze,

  In the court a bright moon shines on golden orchids.”

  Jia Zheng thoughtfully tugged at his beard and seemed about to propose a couplet himself when, raising his head, he caught sight of Baoyu, now afraid to open his mouth.

  “Well?” he said sternly. “When it’s time to speak you say nothing. Are you waiting to be begged for the favour of your instruction?”

  “We have no musk, moon or islands here,” said Baoyu. “If you want allusive couplets of that kind, we can easily compose hundreds.”

  “Who is putting pressure on you to use those words?”

  “Well then, I suggest ‘Pure Scent of Alpinia and Iris.’ And for the couplet:

  Singing on cardamoms makes lovely poetry;

  Sleeping beneath roses induces sweet dreams.”

  Jia Zheng laughed. “You got that from the line ‘Write on plantain leaves and green is the writing.’ This is mere plagiarism.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with plagiarism provided it’s well done,” countered the others. “Even Li Bai copied from Yellow Crane Pavilion when he wrote his Phoenix Tower. If you consider this couplet carefully, sir, it is livelier and more poetical than the original. It even looks as if the other line plagiarizes this by our young master.”

  “Preposterous!” Jia Zheng smiled.

  From there they went on some way until ahead of them loomed towering pavilions enclosed by magnificent buildings, all of them connected by winding passageways. Green pines brushed the eaves, white balustrades skirted the steps, the animal designs glittered like gold and the dragon-heads blazed with colour.