Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900 9789048554119

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Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900

Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900

Edited by Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: Qiegu yuezhang 茄鼓樂章, bilingual Chinese and Manchu texts for hymns to be performed with instrumental accompaniment, Qing dynasty (1644-1911) Source: Open data image; National Palace Museum, Taipei Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6372 955 0 e-isbn 978 90 4855 411 9 (pdf) doi 10.5117/9789463729550 nur 616 © The authors / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2022 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.



Table of Contents

Introduction

Scriptworlds, Vernacularization, and Shifting Translation Norms Peter Kornicki, Patricia Sieber, and Li Guo

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1 On Not Being Shallow

33

2 A Faithful Translation

59

3 Romance of the Two Kingdoms

89

Examination Essays, Songbooks, and the Translational Nature of Mixed-Register Literature in Early Modern China Patricia Sieber

Tsūzoku sangokushi, the First Japanese Translation of Sanguozhi yanyi Matthew Fraleigh

Okajima Kanzan’s Chinese Explication of ‘The Annals of Pacification’ (Taiheiki engi) William C. Hedberg

4 Speaking the Sinitic

109

5 ‘Body Borrowed, Soul Returned’

145

6 ‘Out of the Margins’

175

Translation and ‘Chinese Language’ in Eighteenth-Century Japan Ye Yuan

An Adaptation of a Chinese Buddhist Miracle Tale into a Vietnamese Traditional Theatrical Script Nguyễn Tô Lan

The Western Wing Glossarial Complex in Late Chosŏn and the Problem of the Literary Vernacular Ross King

7 Vernacular Eloquence in Fiction Glossaries of Late Chosŏn Korea 223 Si Nae Park

8 Imagined Orality

257

9 Linguistic Transformation and Cultural Reconstruction

293

Index

317

Mun Hanmyŏng’s Late Nineteenth-Century Approach to Sinitic Literacy Xiaoqiao Ling and Young Kyun Oh

Translations of Gorky’s ‘Kain and Artem’ in Japan and China Xiaolu Ma

List of Figures and Tables Figures Figure 2.1 Tsūzoku sangokushi 通俗三國志. Tr. Konan Bunzan 湖南 文山 81 Kyoto: Yoshida Saburōhei 吉田三郎兵衛, 1692, fascicle 1, 1a Reproduced with permission of Kyoto University Library Figure 2.2 Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi 繪本通俗三國志. Tr. Konan Bunzan 湖南文山 81 Ed., Ikeda Tōritei 池田東籬亭 Illust., Katsushika Taito 葛飾戴斗. Osaka: Gungyokudō 群玉堂, 1836-1841. Shohen 初編, fascicle 2, 1a Reproduced with permission of Waseda University Library Figure 4.1 Kun’yaku jimō 訓譯示蒙 (Gloss and Translation for Beginners, 1738) 121 Available at Waseda University library, volume 2, 1a Figure 4.2 Okajima Kanzan, Tōwa san’yō 唐話纂要 (Essence of Chinese Speech, 1716) 123 Waseda University Library copy, vol. 4, 6b-7a Figure 6.1 Danish Royal Library copy of Ullim pyŏlsŏ hoesang t’aju che yuk chaeja sŏ 雲林別墅繪像妥註第六才子書 181 Figure 6.2 Hwang Jong-yon copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記 181 Figure 6.3 Taegu Municipal Library copy of Kim Sŏngt’an sŏnsaeng p’yŏngchŏm susang cheyuk chaejasŏ 金聖嘆先 生評點繡像第六才子書 182 Figure 6.4 Chungang University Library copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記 183 Figure 6.5 Adan Mun’go copy of Jinxin xiudu 錦心繡肚 184

Figure 6.6 Adan Mun’go copy of Jinxin xiudu 錦心繡肚 Figure 6.7 Full-page view of the Danish Royal Library copy of Ullim pyŏlsŏ hoesang t’aju che yuk chaeja sŏ 雲林別墅繪 像妥註第六才子書 Figure 6.8 Upper two registers of the Danish Royal Library copy of Ullim pyŏlsŏ hoesang t’aju che yuk chaeja sŏ 雲林別墅 繪像妥註第六才子書 Figure 6.9 Korean kugyŏl reading glosses in the Hwang Jong-yon copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記 Figure 6.10 Interlinear lexical glosses in the Hwang Jong-yon copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記 Figure 6.11 Reader commentary in the Hwang Jong-yon copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記 Figure 6.12 Ho Sang Yu ŏrok 滸廂遊語錄, Ogura Shinpei Collection, University of Tokyo Figure 6.13 Yŏmmong mansŏk 艶夢慢釋, Ogura Shinpei Collection, University of Tokyo Figure 6.14 Hwaŏryuaekch’o 華語類掖鈔 section of the Chongno Tosŏgwan copy of the Chibyŏng kwan’gamju 集英觀紺珠 Figure 6.15 UC-Berkeley copy of the Hwaŏryu ch’o 華語類抄 Figure 6.16 Adan Mun’go copy of the Yŏmsa kuhae 艶詞具解 Tables Table 4.1 Refined and colloquial conversations in Classified Chinese Terms, Refined and Colloquial Table 6.1 First expressions glossed in the Danish Royal Library copy of Ullim pyŏlsŏ hoesang t’aju che yuk chaeja sŏ 雲林 別墅繪像妥註第六才子書 Table 7.1 Glossing types of the Yulei Glossary by language of glossing Table 7.2 Sound and motion expressions Table 7.3 Korean glosses reflecting the agglutinative identity of Korean Table 7.4 Lexical exuberance of Korean glosses Table 7.5 Examples of insults

185 188 189 191 191 192 193 194 204 205 212

135 189 240 243 244 245 246

Introduction Scriptworlds, Vernacularization, and Shifting Translation Norms Peter Kornicki, Patricia Sieber, and Li Guo Introduction In this volume we have brought together essays that examine various aspects of interlingual transactions within East Asia. Some of the essays stretch the meaning of the notion of ‘translation’ in interesting and challenging ways and suggest that Roman Jakobson’s tripartite distinction between intralingual, interlingual, and intersemiotic translation may need to be rethought.1 Part of the challenge resides in the fact that, contrary to the nationalistically inflected binaries of ‘script’ vs. ‘orality’ or ‘domestic’ vs. ‘foreign’ advanced in twentieth-century political and scholarly discourses, such categories prove to be remarkably porous and permeable within the early modern language ecologies of East Asia. Thus, this volume is part of a broader conversation that seeks to dismantle certain ready-made assumptions about the nature of the Chinese language, the Chinese literary corpus, and the cultural engagement of countries within the Sinographic sphere. The need for a new mapping of the web of translational interactions becomes particularly acute as we take stock of the fact that early modern China’s literary culture operated in a plurality of linguistic forms. Moreover, these varieties of written Chinese exceeded the reformist May Fourth divisions between languages that were reputedly ‘outmoded’ or ‘new’, ‘dead’ or ‘alive’. As Chinese intellectuals sought to fashion a new written medium that could accommodate modern content and be readily learned by a mass public, they divided written Chinese into so-called ‘literary’ (wenyan 文 言) Chinese and ‘vernacular’ (baihua 白話) Chinese, while revamping the entire literary canon to align with these new linguistic divisions. ‘Literary 1

Jakobson, ‘On Linguistic Aspects of Translation’.

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_intro

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Chinese’ was reputedly divorced from any spoken forms, encompassed the bulk of the Confucian classics and the much-maligned examination essays, and as such was thought to represent a ‘dead language’ that impeded modernization. The ‘vernacular’ allegedly hewed closely to a spoken idiom, was newly aligned with the ostensibly ‘popular’ forms of traditional fiction, drama, songs, and some poetry, and represented the foundation upon which a new written standard could be established. However, as more recent scholarship has shown, this opposition between ‘literary’ and ‘vernacular’ Chinese is profoundly misleading because historically, the so-called ‘vernacular’ was neither the proximate counterpart to any spoken form of Chinese nor was it an exclusively popular form of writing. On the contrary, what distinguished this form of writing – which has alternatively been called ‘vernacular’, ‘plain Chinese’, or ‘mixed-register literature’2 – was its encyclopedic capacity to blend registers drawn from different strata within literary Chinese.3 At the same time, it also admixed syntactic and semantic elements from different waves of vernacularized language innovation instigated by the interlingual creation of a Chinese Buddhist canon (Six Dynasties, Tang dynasty), the intersemiotic impact of performance culture (Song, Jin, and Yuan dynasties), and the intralingual fashioning of simplified administrative and narrative prose (Yuan and Ming dynasties). Perhaps it is not so surprising that this flexible literary medium, which defied socio-literary alignments of ‘high’ and ‘low’, ‘vulgar’ and ‘refined’ in its native Chinese context, would profoundly alter translational norms in East Asia as iconic works written in this form began to circulate outside of China proper. Within the Sinographic sphere – that is, the vast area in East and South East Asia where so-called Chinese characters were used – different cultures engaged with the Chinese writing system, the written corpus written in multiple forms of Chinese, and with spoken Chinese at a number of different levels. Arguably, such engagement in other societies, such as Japan, Korea, and Vietnam, cannot be subsumed under standard notions of ‘interlingual translation’. For one, as Peter Kornicki has argued elsewhere, literary Chinese, or what we will call Sinitic, was first and foremost a writing technology.4 In 2 Until recently, ‘the vernacular’ was the standard term. In a direct critique of the misleading implications of the Eurocentric term ‘vernacular’, Shang proposed ‘plain Chinese writing’ in his ‘Writing and Speech: Rethinking the Issue of Vernaculars in Early Modern China’, pp. 254-301. More recently, Sieber termed this form of literary language ‘mixed-register writing’ in her ‘A Flavor all Its Own: Some Theoretical Considerations on Sanqu Songs as Mixed-Register Literature’, pp. 203-235. 3 On the encyclopedic nature of such texts, see Shang, ‘Jin Ping Mei and Late Ming Print Culture’, pp. 187-238. 4 Kornicki, Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts in East Asia.

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contrast to other transregional or cosmopolitan languages such as Latin or Sanskrit, it did not also constitute a means of oral communication in China or abroad, although it could be realized orally when necessary, particularly for teaching purposes. Among China’s neighbors, Sinitic was almost always filtered through the regional vernaculars in reading, writing, and spoken practices. This interface between a transregional writing technology and regional vernacularization constitutes an important dimension of the ‘ecologies of translation’ examined in this volume. For another, scholars have also begun to attend to the literary aspects of inter-Asian translation in the early modern era with a view toward delineating the circulation of particular texts, while seeking to identify underlying translation norms. For a long time, Claudine Salmon’s 1987 edited volume Literary Migrations: Traditional Chinese Fiction in Asia (17th to 20th Century) was the only work in the field that drew attention to the translational afterlives of Chinese narrative writing not only within China (Manchu, Mongolian) but also within the Sinographic sphere (Japan, Korea, Vietnam) and in other Asian script traditions (Cambodian, Indonesian, Malay, Thai). In the last decade, however, more studies have followed. Eva Tsoi Hung and Judy Wakabayashi’s edited volume Asian Translation Traditions (2014) has offered an overview of translation traditions in the East Asian cultural sphere, with a view toward illustrating how ‘different historical factors and different epistemologies underlie the practice and norms of translation’ in non-Western cultures and regions from ancient times to the early twentieth century.5 Similarly, the volume edited by Lawrence Wang-chi Wong entitled Towards a History of Translating (2013) also featured a number of case studies of inter-Asian translation in Sino-Japanese contexts. Rebekah Clements’s A Cultural History of Translation in Early Modern Japan (2015) provided a much-needed overview of translation practices in the Tokugawa period (1600-1868) and proposed a contextualized redefinition of ‘translation’ in premodern Japanese as ‘a scholarly tool for mining a foreign text in order to write a new work’.6 In a similar vein, in The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction: The Water Margin and the Making of A National Canon (2019), William C. Hedberg, a contributor to this volume, argued that the Japanese reception of Chinese fictional classics led to a significant ‘reappraisal of the relationship between language, literature, and cultural identity’.7 In The Korean Vernacular Story: Telling Tales of Contemporary 5 Hung and Wakabayashi, ‘Introduction’, p. 1. 6 Clements, Cultural History of Translation in Early Modern Japan, p. 11. 7 Hedberg, The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction, p. 17.

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Chosŏn in Sinographic Writing (2020), Si Nae Park, another contributor to this volume, examined the formative role that the collection Repeatedly Recited Stories of the East (Tongp’ae naksong) played in shaping an important Korean vernacular genre (yadam). Rather than writing in cosmopolitan Sinitic, the collection’s compiler, No Myŏnghŭm 盧命欽 (1713-1775), developed a new linguistic medium in which Literary Sinitic was hybridized with the vernacular realities of Chosŏn society and elements of plain Chinese. Within the literary sphere of China proper, Carla Nappi argued that during the early and mid-Qing – with its bilingual Chinese-Manchu bureaucracy and the creation of new literatures in Manchu, Mongolian, and Tibetan – translation became a means of refashioning the empire. While attending to the fact that ‘early modern China was not just written, spoken, and translated in Chinese’, Nappi calls for further work that ‘incorporates China into a more multi-sited and globally informed history of translation’.8 This edited volume seeks to build on these studies and articulate new conceptual tools while offering richly documented alternatives to received modern narratives of language formation. First, in engaging with translation theory, the contributors hope to expand the theoretical categories available to conceptualize translation practices in East Asia. In doing so, they show that the questions ‘what is translation’ and ‘what does it do’ differ from Latin or Sanskrit-centered models of translation studies and as such expand the theoretical repertoire of translation studies. Second, in attending to the materiality of early modern translations, some chapters also seek to open a dialogue between the history of translation, the history of the book, and media studies. Rather than looking at texts as abstract entities unmoored from the materiality of their circulation, these discussions also analyze the meanings of their material manifestations. Finally, in examining key texts within East Asian traditions of vernacularized reading, writing, and translation practices, this volume addresses issues of transregional canon formation and linguistic innovation in the context of ‘world literature’.9 Taken together, the chapters offer a powerful corrective to the ubiquitous linguistic nationalism of modern nation-states as they delineate the ‘polylingual, polyphonic, and polyperspectival’10 as well as the polyscriptic nature of early modern translation practices in East and South East Asia.11 8 Nappi, ‘Full. Empty. Stop. Go.: Translating Miscellany in Early Modern China’, p. 220. 9 Damrosch, What is World Literature? 10 Lartey, Pastoral Theology in an Intercultural World, p. 124. 11 On the importance of script as a significant variable within the Sinographic sphere, see Reynolds et al., ‘Prismatic Translation’, pp. 139-143.

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The complexity of the language situation in East and South East Asia Given the pan-Asian scope of ‘Sinitic’, the language situation in premodern East Asia calls into question the applicability of Jakobson’s neat division between ‘intralingual’ and ‘interlingual’ translation. Moreover, the very notion of what constitutes translation, or what we can call ‘translation norms’, may not align either. In short, both parts of this term pose difficult questions in the context of East Asia. First, when we are talking about translations from the written language known in English as literary Chinese (Sinitic) but as wenyan in Chinese, kanbun in Japanese, hanmun in Korean, and Hán văn in Vietnamese, the notion of ‘interlingual’ translation may miss the mark. This is because to many people in premodern East Asia, Sinitic was not perceived as some written form of ‘Chinese’ but rather as something akin to a universal language, or at any rate as the common written language of East Asia. Thus in Japan, Korea, and Vietnam, the educated resorted to this language for the purposes of intellectual discourse, poetry, official records, and government business without having any knowledge whatsoever of any spoken form of Chinese. In the nineteenth century, even ardent nationalists used it without any sense that they were using a ‘foreign’ language. At the same time, when written by Japanese, Koreans, or Vietnamese, this language acquired new inflections that reflected not only local geography and nomenclature but also grammatical patterns and usages. Of course, some of the most educated could write Sinitic text that passed muster everywhere and did not have its origins imprinted in it. But that was not true of all, and it is an inescapable fact that some Sinitic written outside China was difficult for people from other parts of East Asia to read. Consequently, if, for example, a work written in Sinitic by a Korean scholar was translated into vernacular Korean, it is difficult to call it an ‘interlingual translation’ without some sense of unease. At the same time, even a regionally inflected form of Sinitic was, of course, different enough from vernacular Korean in script, syntax, and semantics that we would be equally uncomfortable in labeling it an ‘intralingual translation’. Second, in the Sinographic sphere, ‘translation’ as a term to denote interlingual transactions has to cover an unusually broad range of possible transactions, some of them involving oral forms of vocalization. At one extreme is the practice of reading Sinitic texts aloud in the order in which they were written but using local vernacular pronunciation of the characters. The resulting performance, most commonly but not exclusively of Buddhist scriptures, was necessarily incomprehensible to speakers of other East Asian

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languages, but also incomprehensible to speakers of the same vernacular who were not familiar with the text. But it was comprehensible to those who knew the text. Is this a translation? In other circumstances, an educated person might read aloud, or sotto voce, a Sinitic text using vernacular pronunciation but also transposing the characters and adding a few grammatical pointers. The resulting performance was only comprehensible to those who spoke the same vernacular and also were familiar with the conventions for generating this type of performance. For example, in the case of Japanese and Korean, the performance did not include the markers for tense or the honorifics that are a normal part of those languages. Is this a translation? Again, in other circumstances a scholar might add glosses to a Sinitic text which enables a reader familiar with the glossing conventions to produce the same kind of oral performance as in the previous case. Does the act of adding the glosses constitute a translation? These are by no means easy questions to answer. Third, the differentiation between ‘interlingual’ and ‘intralingual’ translation becomes even more complicated if we examine the dynastic Chinese literary language alternately referred to as the ‘vernacular’, ‘plain Chinese writing’, or ‘mixed-register writing’.12 Borrowing from Sinitic as well as from vernacularized varieties of Chinese and from certain topolects, this written medium evolved out of major waves of literary innovation spawned by the need to accommodate oral dimensions of cultural production in China. In medieval China, the centuries-long process of translating and pseudo-translating Buddhist texts from a variety of South and Central Asian languages led to the development of newly vernacularized forms of Chinese,13 as the translators mediated between the text-centered language ideology of the Confucian classics and the oral-centered language philosophy of Buddhism. Chapter 5 offers a sense of the complexity of written and oral interactions in Buddhist translational contexts in early modern and modern Vietnam. Meanwhile, with the establishment of a civil service examination system in Tang China, the capital Chang’an (modern Xi’an) and other urban centers became home to a flourishing entertainment culture that began to favor performative intelligibility over literary allusiveness. Over the next several centuries, the emergence of performance-related genres culminated in the formation of a full-blown, literati-authored, and textually documented culture of songs (ci 詞 and sanqu 散曲) and musical theater that catered 12 Shang, ‘Writing and Speech: Rethinking the Issue of Vernaculars in Early Modern China’, 254-301. 13 Mair, ‘Buddhism and the Rise of the Written Vernacular in East Asia: The Making of National Languages’, 707-751 and Salguero, Translating Buddhist Medicine in Medieval China.

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to common and elite audiences alike.14 The love comedy The Story of the Western Wing (Xixiang ji 西廂記), touched upon in Chapter 1 and the main text treated in Chapters 6 and 8, was one of the key texts to arise out of this context. Meanwhile, the urban centers also spurred the emergence of oral storytelling, but it was elites associated with the Ming court that facilitated the initial printing of the iconic works of the long narrative tradition, The Romance of The Three Kingdoms (Sanguo zhi yanyi), discussed in Chapters 2 and 3, and The Water Margin (Shuihu zhuan), which is analyzed in Chapter 7.15 Finally, as these texts circulated through the early modern Chinese print sphere, they were embedded in appreciative commentaries. Couched in many inventive guises, such commentary expanded the cultural space around the text and in some cases became as important as the original work itself.16 In the view of China’s neighbors, such mixed-register vernacular forms of writing were deemed to be a ‘Chinese’ language to a greater degree than Sinitic, owing to their relative distance from the canonical writings of the Confucian, Neo-Confucian, and Buddhist ancients and to their greater proximity to spoken forms of Chinese. In treating the Chinese circulation of The Romance of the Flowery Notepaper (Huajian ji 花箋記), a mixed-register song text that eventually traveled to Vietnam, Chapter 1 outlines some of the complexities that would-be translators of such literary texts had to contend with. First, such texts typically did not circulate in a single version; instead, different intermediaries – scholar-officials, literati, publishers, the court, and others – shaped them to their and their intended audiences’ liking. Second, while these texts used Sinitic as their primary writing technology, some versions made abundant use of non-standard characters to aid less-educated audiences in the reading of the text. Third, such texts made considerable demands on what we might describe as an eclectic knowledge base. On the one hand, it helped for the reader to be conversant with the canonical Confucian tradition, because classical turns of phraseology often served as a source of humor in mixed-register writing; alternatively, classical forms of writing also offered a basis for idiosyncratic literary virtuosity such as the 14 On song culture and its diverse audiences in Yuan and Ming contexts, see the essays gathered in the special issue on ‘The Protean World of Sanqu Songs’, Journal of Chinese Literature and Culture 8, no. 1 (2021); on the theatrical and dramatic culture of the Yuan, Ming, and Qing periods, see Sieber and Llamas, ed., How To Read Chinese Drama: A Guided Anthology. 15 On Ming court involvement with these novels, see Gregory, ‘“The Wuding Editions”: Printing, Power, and Vernacular Fiction in the Ming Dynasty’, pp. 1-29. 16 For an overview of early modern f iction commentary, see Rolston, Traditional Chinese Fiction and Fiction Commentary: Reading and Writing Between the Lines.

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playful examination essays discussed in Chapter 1. On the other hand, the performance-connected texts often sedimented language use connected with locally or temporally specific colloquial registers. However, such oral elements were not necessarily treated as a residue, but as the chapter shows, they could also be self-consciously deployed as a hallmark of a particular elite aesthetic. In short, in their prodigious capacity to traverse generic and linguistic boundaries, mixed-register writings opened up polyvalent spaces for linguistic, literary, and even social experimentation. Accordingly, translation norms and technologies adopted in the case of such texts were necessarily different from those current in the case of Sinitic (e.g., Sinitic text with vernacular glosses),17 not to mention modern translational multilingualism. As a result, translation from vernacular mixed-register writing played an important role within the Sinographic sphere in the transition from the dominance of Sinitic to the creation and adoption of modern standard vernaculars as the primary form of written communication.

Polyscriptic translation within the Sinographic sphere Almost all the chapters in this book focus on interlingual transactions that are dependent upon the flow of texts between societies in East Asia. This flow is often taken for granted, but it is important to remember that the flow was not uniform, was often imbalanced, and was at times subject to interruptions. The most important consideration, perhaps, is that very few vernacular works travelled outside the societies in which they were created, with the obvious exception of Chinese vernacular fiction and some drama, which was read, adapted, and translated in Japan, Korea, and Vietnam. An obvious impediment to the circulation of non-Sinitic vernacular texts was the differentiation of scripts: vernacular works written or printed in Japanese kana, Korean han’gŭl, or Vietnamese nôm were literally illegible to those who did not know the script. There were precious few opportunities to learn foreign scripts in premodern East Asia, and even the trade between Japan and Korea conducted over the Tsushima Strait failed to result in more than a handful of people with a reading knowledge of the other language. As a result, there were no translations from Japanese, Korean, or Vietnamese vernacular writings into other vernaculars until the late nineteenth century at the earliest. However, as Chapter 9 shows, at the dawn of the 17 Denecke et al. (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Classical Chinese Literature (1000 BCE-900 CE).

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twentieth century, relay translation from Japanese into Chinese assumed great importance in reinventing the Chinese written standard language. Another imbalance was the centrifugal pattern of book movement from China outwards to surrounding societies. This is not to say that no books journeyed in the other direction, but the scale was much smaller. What is more, although books transmitted from China often had a profound impact upon other societies, the opposite was rarely true. To be sure, a few works by Yamanoi Konron 山井崑崙 (d. 1728) and Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠 (1666-1728) from Japan, and from Korea the compendium of medicine, Tong’ŭi bogam, compiled by Hŏ Chun (1546-1615), not only reached China but were also reprinted there, and some of the works of Korean and Vietnamese poets were included in Chinese anthologies. All these books and poems, however, were written in Sinitic. Some works written in Sinitic in Korea were reprinted in Japan, but there are far fewer examples of movement in the opposite direction, and there is no sign of such works travelling between Japan or Korea and Vietnam. The one essay in this volume whose topic is not dependent upon the travel of a particular text between two or more societies in East Asia is Chapter 3 by William Hedberg. He examines the very rare but fascinating case of an attempt to translate a Japanese classic, the Taiheiki, both into more contemporary Japanese (one of a number of such intralingual translations found in Japan) and into the form of plain Chinese found in Ming and Qing-dynasty fiction. This was not, it is important to note, a case of an attempt to ‘transmit’ a Japanese work to contemporary China. What this essay reminds us forcefully is that in Japan, Korea, and Vietnam, there were no attempts to translate their vernacular works into Sinitic so that they could circulate widely, as sometimes happened in Europe when vernacular works were translated into Latin in order to share them across the ‘Republic of Letters’. In that sense, the vernacular worlds of those three societies in East Asia remained self-contained. What, then, it is appropriate to ask, was driving interlingual transactions and translations in premodern East Asia? Here we need to pay heed to the phenomenon of vernacularization, which has had an impact on East Asia no less than it has had on other areas of the globe. Vernacularization has been extensively examined by Sheldon Pollock, and his work is taken as a point of reference in several of the essays. However, Pollock’s focus is exclusively on written texts, and that seems inadequate to encompass all the ways in which Sinitic texts were vernacularized in East Asia. Since Sinitic never fulfilled the role of a spoken lingua franca and since extremely few individuals in Japan, Korea, or Vietnam became fluent speakers of

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any form of Chinese, simply reading texts in Sinitic involved at the very least vernacularization on the level of phonological articulation. Thus sutra chanting, a common practice in Buddhism, was customarily carried out according to the phonology of the local vernacular, as it still is today. Chanting, of course, is a rather different use of a text from silent reading, and reading could only be practiced, before the invention of scripts in which to inscribe the vernacular, on texts in Sinitic. In Japan, Korea, and Vietnam, techniques were developed for reading Sinitic texts in the vernacular. Similar techniques probably developed in other East Asian societies, too, but at present little or nothing is known about them. These techniques, called kundoku 訓讀 in Japanese and hundok in Korean, involved not only the vernacular pronunciation of Chinese words but also the rearrangement of the text to suit Japanese and Korean word order (subject-object-verb) and the addition of some grammatical elements in order to generate vernacular sentences. This kind of vernacular reading resulted in oral vernacular translations, but generally these translations were closely bound to the original in vocabulary and lacked some of the normal features of the vernacular language, such as verbal tenses. Reflecting on scholarly debate regarding whether vernacular reading could be considered translation, Peter Kornicki proposed that the outcome of the process of vernacular reading could be considered a ‘bound translation’, that is ‘a translation that is bound by the vocabulary of the original text’.18 This practice, however, is largely ‘foreignizing’, for it ‘retains all the vocabulary of the original, bar grammatical particles’ but does not give an explanation of the sense. Hence readers without specialist knowledge in sinology would have to consult commentaries or exegetical works. In addition to this ‘foreignizing’ translation, Kornicki discussed written vernacular translations which ‘replaced the Sinitic originals and found equivalents for difficult vocabulary’.19 The development of vernacular scripts – Japanese kana, Korean han’gŭl, and Vietnamese nôm – made it possible not only to inscribe new vernacular texts but also to record vernacular readings of Chinese texts generated as described above. As Ruth Dunnell has eloquently put it, Invention of a script was an act of state creation as well as a creation of the state. It was a politically charged event that asserted cultural claims, met strategic needs, and advanced dynastic legitimacy.20 18 Ibid., 166. 19 Ibid., p. 187. 20 Dunnell, The Great State of White and High, p. 37.

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Scripts made written translation possible, but the act of translation was not politically innocent. Rather, it put the stamp of an alien polity on an imported text through the use of vernacular script. In Korea and Vietnam, it was common for translations of imported Sinitic texts to be accompanied by the original, but not so in Japan. In all cases, however, the translation was visually, linguistically, and culturally a vernacular text, thus empowering and validating vernacular scripts. Moreover, even in cases where Sinitic was the main language of translation, regional vernaculars could be mobilized within the cultural space of the translation, as shown in Chapters 7 and 8. However, there was much variation in the extent to which the target texts sought to highlight their status as translations and in the ways in which they positioned themselves relative to the source text.

Prismatic modes of translation Matthew Reynolds has suggested that there are two major approaches to writing about translation. On the one hand, dominated by theories of equivalence and concerns over fidelity, there are the critics who conceive of translation as a ‘channel’ that carries meaning across languages. On the other hand, inspired by theories of purpose (Skopos) and translation shifts, there are writers who acknowledge change as an inevitable byproduct of translation, but rather than lamenting such transformations, they herald such ‘prismatic’ refractions as part of a creative process of discovering new dimensions of the source text as it moves through multiple cultural contexts. Major variables that might determine which of these modes may be more dominant depends on the relative standardization of the languages involved, the material medium in which such work appear (manuscript, print, digital media, etc.), and the conventions of language use. As Reynolds puts it, what divergent translations of a text over time and in different places show is that ‘language is always embedded in contexts and communities: to translate is to remake, not only in a new language with its different nuances and ways of putting words together, but in a new culture where readers are likely to be attracted to different themes’.21 In the Sinographic sphere, translators from Sinitic and from plain Chinese vernacular experimented with a range of domesticating and foreignizing approaches, but from our contemporary vantage point, we can also understand these processes as part of an unleashing of the literary potential – or in Pierre Bourdieu’s words, the ‘co-possibles’ – of Chinese texts in world literary contexts. 21 Reynolds et al., ‘Prismatic Translation’, p. 136.

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As the broader story of the diffusion of Chinese fiction in Asia as well as Europe and the US shows, one of the persistent challenges for translators was the particular genre configuration of early modern Chinese fiction. In keeping with their diverse ambitions, early modern Chinese fiction writers and critics had fashioned a polyphonic narrative medium that had no ready-made analogue in other literary cultures. In particular, such narratives did not present a single omniscient narrator but instead refracted the story through numerous forms of diegetic and extradiegetic commentary (e.g., storyteller’s manner, poetry, interlinear commentary, eyebrow commentary, etc.). Hence, translators were confronted with a dilemma: to subsume the translation under existing narrative models or to let the translation drive the invention of new narrative forms. Interestingly, however, as the different chapters in this volume show, even domesticating approaches could contribute to literary innovation in the target culture. For one, vernacularization could take yet another step and domesticate imported texts by changing names, geographies, and cultural references, as was common in Vietnam and Japan. Take Chapter 5 by Nguyễn Tô Lan, which focuses on the ‘translation’ of a miracle tale from Sinitic into a thoroughly localized and comic Buddhist play written in Vietnamese. A similar case is the Vietnamese classic, The Tale of Kieu (Kim Vân Kiều), which is in verse and was based on the Chinese novel The Story of Jin Yunqiao (Jin Yunqiao zhuan 金雲翹傳): here, a prose work was recreated as a Vietnamese verse epic, telling the same story but in accordance with Vietnamese cultural norms and with Vietnamese geographical and proper names.22 In the Japanese context, such transactions have often been termed ‘adaptations’ (hon’an 翻 案), and in the writings of Ueda Akinari 上田秋成 (1734-1809) and Kyokutei Bakin 曲亭馬琴 (1767-1848) many parallel examples can be found.23 Cases such as these exemplify the choice to veer decisively away from foreignizing translations in favor of recreating the original in the target language. Domestication, however, need not go so far as to remake the text in a local guise. As Chapter 2 by Matthew Fraleigh shows, the first complete translation of the Chinese novel The Romance of the Three Kingdoms (1689-1691) makes no attempt to retell the saga of one of the most storied periods of Chinese history in a Japanese context but instead uses a range of other domesticating strategies in terms of genre adjustment (omission 22 Isobe, ‘Saishi kajin shōsetsu no higashi Ajia shokoku e no eikyō – Jin yunqiao zhuan to Yujiaoli o rei ni’. 23 Hartman, ‘From Translation to Adaptation: Chinese Language Texts and Early Modern Japanese Literature’.

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of commentary and storyteller’s manner), mixed translation strategies (vernacular translation and kundoku glosses), script choices (mixed Kanji/ katakana vs. fully sound-glossed text with hiragana), and visual media. As Fraleigh notes, the first Three Kingdoms translation opted for the former, but did so in a lively form of Sinified classical Japanese. At the same time, the translator retained the practice of kundoku glosses for the original quotations in Sinitic. Yet, as Fraleigh argues, the resulting translation is not the sum of these parts but rather a text that eschews mediation through a kundoku-style prose for the main text by ways of incorporating Japanese tense and aspect markers, native vocabulary, and honorifics. Inspired by the resounding success of the initial publication, the translation was expanded through a lavishly illustrated version (1836-1841) that indicated pronunciations for all Sinographs, substituted some Chinese characters with Japanese hiragana, and reordered the passages in Sinitic in Japanese syntactical order in order to make it accessible to a broader audience. For another, scholars in the Sinographic sphere also sought to find ways to render the foreignness of a text. Chapter 4 by Yuan Ye offers a discussion of the ‘Translation Studies’ (yakugaku 譯學) undertaken by the well-known Japanese Confucian scholar Ogyū Sorai. Sorai explored a direct translation method that did not conceal the gap of meaning and other differences between everyday Japanese and the Chinese classics. Unlike the kundoku method, in which the Sinitic text was given without Chinese sounds and read out in a special form of Japanese, Sorai’s direct translation, as Yuan elucidates, endeavors to achieve a more organic effect of translation by ‘treating Sinitic writing in Chinese classics as written Chinese based in its own sounds, which should be translated into spoken Japanese’. In seeking to supersede the practice of kundoku reading, Sorai’s method of direct translation attempted to bridge the gap between Sinitic and everyday Japanese speech through the reconstruction of colloquial expressions in a more intrinsically ‘Chinese’ voice. Given that Chinese fiction in plain Chinese was understood to be related to colloquial registers of the language, such an insistence on ‘Chinese sound’ laid the foundation for the full-blown translations of Chinese works of fiction in eighteenth-century Japan. Alternatively, such vernacular translation could also run the gamut from ‘word-for-word glosses’ to ‘original interpretation’ within the bounds of a single work. While engaging discussions of Sinitic as an elevated literary medium, Chapter 7 by Si Nae Park on f iction glossaries in late Chosŏn Korea indicates that such glossaries could amplify ‘the expressive capacity of the written by accommodating colloquialisms’. In doing so, they carved out a space for ‘vernacular eloquence’. Korean glosses in fiction glossaries

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showcase translation as an act of interpretation by synthesizing interpretive activities with ‘word-for-word annotation at one end and exuberant free translation at the other’. And such endeavors also led to creations of new ideas in Korean glosses that did not exist in the original text. Park also illustrates that Korean glosses in fictional glossaries could adopt performative means to process the sensory features of original-language expressions and grant Chosŏn readers new localized affective experiences. Hence, the chapter highlights the creative negotiations between start text and its prismatic translation in a particular regional context.24

Vernacularization, translation, and affect In a broader context, vernacularization is characterized by generating ‘literary production in a regional language invested with idioms and representations of power’.25 Vernacularization itself is ‘a kind of indigenizing of a broad range of discursive mediums across a semiotic landscape that includes literature, arts, architecture, politics’.26 Building on Miriam Hansen’s wellknown discussion of vernacular modernism, Zhang Zhen argues that the vernacular is often ‘reconfigured as a cultural (linguistic, visual, sensory, and material) “processor” that blends foreign and local, premodern and modern, high and low, cinematic and other cultural ingredients to create a domestic product with cosmopolitan appeal’.27 Vernacularization is an affective experience conditioned by everyday life experiences and needs. In this light, vernacularization transcends the limit of textual translations, bridging the dichotomous divide between word and context, language and culture. Vernacularization releases spaces for expressions of heterogeneous voices in public arenas. Translation theory and practices, in this regard, could be reconceived through the lens of vernacularization. On the one hand, the process of vernacularization expedites the dissemination of canonical texts, knowledge, and rituals and makes them accessible for the understanding of popular readers, and conversely impacts and inspires common readers through these culturally shared systems of values, traditions, and norms. As Karen Ruffle observes, vernacularization 24 On the notion of ‘prismatic translation’, see Reynolds et al., ‘Prismatic Translation’, pp. 131-139. 25 Novetzke, The Quotidian Revolution, p. 5. 26 Ibid., p. 6. 27 Zhang, An Amorous History of the Silver Screen, p. 30; Hansen, ‘The Mass Production of the Senses’.

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could encompass a broad dimension of ‘cultural translation’ allowing the conveyance of texts, norms, and rituals into distinctively native linguistic, cultural, and socio-historical contexts, and often also including various engagements with and reforms of written textual traditions as well as oral performances.28 On the other hand, vernacularization need not be tied to the broadening of audiences, but in China and elsewhere in East Asia, the eclectic nature of mixed-register vernacular writings can also become a platform for elites to distinguish themselves from run-of the-mill ‘village pedants’.29 The theoretical lens of vernacularization can also lead to new understandings of translation as an affective practice. Translation, August Schlegel observes, allows readers to ‘enter fully into the space of another’, learn otherness, and return safely to one’s autonomous subjectivity: ‘The ability to recognize oneself in the image of a foreigner is only truly praiseworthy when one has autonomy to retain in the process, and does in fact retain it.’30 Translation amplifies and transforms subjective experiences of reflectivity and empathy, and simultaneously empowers the translators and readers by engaging them in critical inquiries and interpretations about the aesthetic, political, and ideological foundations of texts. Several studies in this volume call attention to new understandings of translation and affect in pre-1900 Asian contexts and invite further investigation of ‘the translatability of affective states’ and the intersection between translation theory and affect theory.31 Shankar evokes Raymond Williams’s seminal interpretation of affect as conveying ‘structures of feeling’ and argues that translation studies could be expanded by considering the translatability of the codes and aspects of human affective and cognitive experiences. Defining translation as ‘an act of interpretation’ represented by a ‘careful provisionality’, Shankar calls attention to the ‘“formal rendition of affect” … in terms, texts, genres, and narratives’.32 Comparative affect studies in translation endeavors might ‘interpret differences as well as similarities in the codes of affect across cultures’.33 Translation can in this sense be understood as a method of inquiry that aims not only to transfer meaning across language boundaries but also to reconnoiter possibilities of new affective meanings that are generated at concrete moments of intercultural or even intracultural encounters. 28 Ruffle, ‘A Bride of One Night’, pp. 121-44. 29 Ding, Obscene Objects. 30 Cited in Robinson, Western Translation Theory, p. 218. 31 Shankar, ‘Languages of Love’, p. 65. 32 Ibid., p. 71. 33 Ibid., p. 71.

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A salient example of the productive intersection of translation and affect studies is found in Chapter 8 by Xiaoqiao Ling and Young Kyun Oh on Mun Hanmyŏng’s approach to Sinitic Literacy in his Master Hut’an’s Collated and Annotated Edition of the Western Wing 後歎先生訂正註解西廂記 (preface 1886). Ling and Oh argue that Mun, in his ‘Chipchu’ glosses, strives to open up ‘an affective dimension of reading’ by ‘reorganizing the linguistic realities’. Specifically, the parallel narratives that Mun provides after his ‘Chipchu’ glossing transform the cognitive parameters of the text in order to ‘prescribe a reading that enacts the anticipated emotional experience as a regulatory means of self-cultivation’. Mun evokes ‘historical knowledge and shared public sentiments to Mun and his own community’ in his explanation of the dramatic moments in the play. Similarly, Patricia Sieber’s chapter on the Huajian ji 花箋記, an early modern Cantonese-inflected songbook, argues that the deployment of Cantonese linguistic elements in the text and in the paratextual examination essays envisioned a new poetics of sentiment that translated freely across Sinitic, topolect, and mixed-register writings in an effort to invent a new heterosocial, sentimentally authentic writing life within a community of discerning and appreciative readers. Hence, in their expansive linguistic and imaginative reach, such mixed-register texts could refract familiar and new affective experiences enmeshed in manifold linguistic, cultural, and historical modalities.

Manifestations of a polycentric aesthetics Translation practices in this volume manifest a translation aesthetics marked by polycentric negotiations of identity, canon, and the state. A ‘polycentric aesthetics’, Ella Shohat and Robert Stam propose, transcends culturally embodied perspectives and accommodates reciprocity, relativization, and even the reversal of perspectives. In this light, a polycentric translation aesthetics incorporates innovative practices that take place ‘on the borders of cultures, communities, and disciplines’ and encompass multiple sites and processes of regional and transregional meaning-making and identity formation. In addition, a polycentric translation aesthetics also takes into consideration the polytemporal relations and experiences in the process of translation. An example of a polycentric approach to translation is Hedberg’s chapter on Okajima Kanzan’s Chinese Explication of ‘The Annals of Pacification’ discussed above. Kanzan reversed the direction of translation and the rhetoric of accessibility, and instead presented a two-tiered translation of

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the original classical Japanese text that included a plain Chinese-language ‘explication’ and a Japanese-language ‘popularization’. By transposing a Chinese narratological template onto a familiar narrative and combining intralingual and interlingual translation, Kanzan’s work presents and synthesizes polyperspectival and polycentric negotiations of style, genre, and literary historiography. Another example of such a polycentric perspective is Chapter 6 by Ross King. The author argues that a situated study of ‘The Western Wing Glossarial Complex’ and literary vernacularization challenge the modernist narrative of the triumph of han’gŭl over sinography, proposing a ‘cosmopolitan’ mode that transcends the teleological discourses of the modern nationstate in its place. As Homi Bhabha notes, ‘To write the story of the nation demands that we articulate that archaic ambivalence that informs the time of modernity.’34 Chapter 9 by Xiaolu Ma also shows how the emergence of the modern Japanese and Chinese written standards were refracted through polycentric translation practices. In her examination of two pioneers of modern language reform movements – Futabatei Shimei in Japan and Wu Tao in China – she foregrounds the role of polydirectional translation practice in the fashioning of a new written standard for both Japanese and Chinese that more closely mirrored a spoken standard language. In particular, her chapter deals with the Russian-language translations of these men. While Futabatei translated directly from Russian, a language whose written and oral registers evinced closer proximity than Japanese did at the turn of the nineteenth century, Wu Tao made a relay translation based on Futabatei’s attempts to transpose the language of everyday conversation into the mainframe of literary narration. Futabatei introduced Western-style punctuation marks, Japanese-style past tense, and new rhythmical syntax into his prose translation, which met with enthusiastic acclaim among the younger generation of writers. Wu Tao similarly sought to capture the Japanese-mediated Russian text in a newly conceived Chinese vernacular idiom in contrast to the standard practice of adopting Sinitic to render foreign literature. However, in Ma’s telling, Wu Tao’s relay translation also indexes the success of Futabatei’s rendition of a short story by Maxim Gorky through Wu’s struggles to adequately capture the most colloquial aspects of Futabatei’s version. In doing so, her chapter illustrates how a simple binary notion of ‘interlingual’ translation may not adequately capture the plurality of prose styles available in Japan prior to the full-fledged adoption of a national standard in the twentieth century. 34 Bhabha, The Location of Culture, p. 204.

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An ecological view of difference As Lawrence Venuti argues, the eff icacy of translation depends on the cultivation of discursive heterogeneity. Discursive heterogeneity, for Venuti, allows a translator to choose texts to ‘redress patterns of unequal cultural exchange’, to minoritize dominant cultural forms, and to challenge the function of translation as assimilation. Instead, translation ethics ‘aims to signify the autonomous existence of that text behind (yet by means of) the assimilative process of the translation’.35 The chapters by Fraleigh, Hedberg, and Yuan illustrate how discursive heterogeneity in translation contests assimilationist ethics and opens up new spaces for diverse linguistic, narratological, and aesthetic choices and experiments. Fraleigh’s chapter demonstrates how the translation of Tsūzoku sangokushi both shifts focus from the linguistic and formal features to the narrated historical content and prioritizes the source text’s ‘internal hybridity’. The translation revives a discursive heterogeneity by resorting to a variety of features in Japanese such as the system of honorif ics, while forgoing the effort of introducing the stylistic features of Chinese vernacular narratives. Discursive heterogeneity, for Hedberg, allows the translator to construct an imagined readership, experiment with the untranslatable, and explore the rich apertures between genre expectations and literary historiography and between narrative appeal and historical veracity. Okajima Kanzan’s translation of Taiheiki engi into Chinese vernacular fiction engages a heterogenous discursive stance by presenting ‘the gap between Chinese engi and Japanese tsūzoku, modern “fiction” and eighteenth-century “explication” that is of most value to the modern reader of Taiheiki engi’. In Yuan’s chapter, Ogyū Sorai’s ‘Translation Study’ (yakugaku) departs from the kun gloss, exploring the discursive heterogeneity between everyday Japanese language and the Chinese classics in various translation methods; his promotion of tōwa study brings a keen awareness of the heterogeneous Chinese topolects. Sorai’s translation methods recall Venuti’s observation that translation ‘should seek to invent a minor language that cuts across cultural divisions and hierarchies’.36 These three chapters elucidate how translators have explored a translation ethics that prioritizes linguistic and cultural differences and relies on discursive heterogeneity as a means to counterbalance the assimilative process of translation. 35 Venuti, ‘Translation, Heterogeneity, Linguistics’, p. 94. 36 Ibid., p. 95.

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Korean translations of classical Chinese drama and fiction, as shown by the chapters by King, Park, and Ling and Oh, contribute to understandings of an alternative modernity, which is different from the notion of modernity envisioned by the nation-state discourse. As Arif Dirlik argues, ‘adding the adjective “alternative” to modernity has important counter-hegemonic cultural implications’.37 Alternative modernity encourages a re-articulation of issues of cultural difference, problematizes the fetishization of difference, and contests any ‘hegemonic spatial, temporal and developmentalist limits of the modernity’.38 The shared interest of the three chapters is the process of vernacularization and translation in Chosŏn Korea. Each study explores how translations in Chosŏn Korea contested and resituated canonical Sinitic texts and traditions and allowed the Chosŏn audience – elite or popular – to gain a dynamic and conversant experience in reading and interpretation. Ross King’s examination of the Xixiang ji Glossarial Complex recalls Venuti’s aforementioned discussion of ‘minoritizing translation’, which is ‘“never to acquire the majority”, never to erect a new standard or to establish a new canon, but rather to promote cultural innovation’ by promoting the variables within the target language.39 King’s study of the marginalized position of traditional xiaoshuo foregrounds a theoretical stance in exploring the margins of the page, including Chosŏn readers’ practice of ‘paratextual and often partial’ translation activities – that is, glossing, lexical annotation, and commentary, which gesture towards an early modern Sinographic cosmopolitan culture. For King, such practices address marginal and underexplored spaces in the history of Korean vernacularization, which could not be easily assimilated in the narrative of han’gŭl’s triumph over sinography in the discourse of the modern nation. Park and Ling and Oh show, like King, that early modern Korean annotations, glossing, and fictional glossaries for late Ming and early Qing literature elude and problematize nation-state paradigms underlying literary historiography. Instead of cultivating a new national canon in Chosŏn Korea, such practices call for a transnational consideration of the potential of literary Chinese and of the possibility of ‘rendering it into a vocalizable language’. For Ling and Oh, Mun Hanmyŏng’s presentation of orality and performativity in his rendering of The Western Wing unsettles graphocentrism by connecting Sinitic with spoken Korean and reconfigures the sutures of the two new spaces of creative interpretation. Park argues 37 Dirlik, ‘Thinking Modernity Historically’, p. 6. 38 Ibid. 39 Venuti, ‘Translation, Heterogeneity, Linguistics’, p. 93.

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that vernacular Korean glosses in f ictional glossaries induce a form of vernacular eloquence by using ‘written mimetic speech elements to make the language more expressive’. The contrast between the inarticulacy of Sinitic and the eloquence of vernacular Korean resists the homogenizing discourse of ‘the modern nation-centered literary project’ that advocates the unification of writing and speech. While the above chapters could be considered in two clusters based upon translation-related practices in Korea and Japan respectively, the chapters problematize teleological and geocentric discourses of national identity and modernism. As Michael Cronin observes, ‘the single nation-language-culture of national literary ecologies produces strange pathologies of definition and confinement’. 40 Cronin argues that whereas national languages and cultures are often instrumentalized for political homogenization, translation practices contest various forms of national language ecologies, and instead envision an ecological dwelling that embraces linguistic and cultural plurality and diversity. Cronin’s ecological notion of difference in translation studies is productive in the current discussion, as it emphasizes the translator’s self-reflexivity about their relatedness. In other words, an ecological vision allows the translator to shift from the ethnocentric or geocentric paradigms to a form of ecological vision that prioritizes situated knowledges, intersubjective connections, and the shared realm of compassion and feelings. The above chapters are meaningful in introducing an ecological notion of difference, which deconstructs logocentric and graphocentric understandings of languages and histories while promoting the value of discursive heterogeneity, alterity, and transnationalism.

Conclusion In sum, these chapters do much to elucidate the many variables that go into the making of translation and the formation of translation ecologies in the early modern Sinographic sphere. As the chapters show, plain Chinese narrative played a crucial role in diversifying translation repertoires in Japan, Korea, and Vietnam. The fact that plain Chinese was a mixed-register literary medium challenged existing translation modalities built around Sinitic both through its diversified language use and its particular genre characteristics. While we do not advocate a teleological outcome for such translation endeavors, it is nevertheless evident that such a broadening of translation norms – or 40 Cronin, ‘Translation Studies and the Common Cause’, p. 4.

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to put it another way, the refinement and pluralization of vernacularization strategies – over the course of the early modern period formed an important repertoire of modalities that modern reformers could draw upon and define themselves against. In other words, perhaps precisely because translation from Sinitic and the mixed-register vernacular had played such an important role in literary innovation over the centuries, we can see resonances between early modern uses of translation and modern linguistic experiments. Moreover, even as dynastic China had translated very little from the vernacular cultures of its neighbors, their facility with such translational vernacularization processes would end up facilitating China’s own adoption of a modern written vernacular. Of course, modern reformers often railed against the constraints of traditional language practices. But in light of recent scholarship that revisits the legacy of the strategically antagonistic rhetoric of early twentieth-century reformers, we can perhaps now reconsider in a more historically nuanced fashion how polycentric and polytemporal translation processes in the early modern Sinographic sphere interfaced with the discursive constructions of language, nation, and modernity in a polyphone world.

Bibliography Asō Isoji 麻生磯次, Edo bungaku to Chūgoku bungaku 江戸文學と中國文學. Tokyo: Sanseidō, 1955. Bhabha, Homi. The Location of Culture. New York: Taylor & Francis, 2012. Clements, Rebekah. A Cultural History of Translation in Early Modern Japan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Cronin, Michael. ‘Translation Studies and the Common Cause’. Modern Languages Open 1.23 (2018): 1-7. Damrosch, David. What is World Literature? Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003. Denecke, Wiebke, Wai-yee Li, and Xiaofei Tian, eds. The Oxford Handbook of Classical Chinese Literature (1000 BCE-900 CE). New York: Oxford University Press, 2017. Ding, Naifei. Obscene Things: Sexual Politics in Jin Ping Mei. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002. Dirlik, Arif. ‘Thinking Modernity Historically: Is “Alternative Modernity” the Answer?’ The Asian Review of World Histories 1.1 (2013): 5-44. Dunnell, Ruth. The Great State of White and High: Buddhism and state formation in eleventh-century Xia. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1996. Liu, Lydia H. Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity: China, 1900-1937. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995.

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Gregory, Scott W. ‘“The Wuding Editions”: Printing, Power, and Vernacular Fiction in the Ming Dynasty,’ East Asian Publishing and Society 7 (2017): 1-29. Hansen, Miriam. ‘The Mass Production of the Senses: Classical Cinema as Vernacular Modernism,’ Modernism/ modernity 6.2 (1999): 59-77. Hartman, Nan Ma. ‘From Translation to Adaptation: Chinese Language Texts and Early Modern Japanese Literature’. PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 2014. Hedberg, William C. The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction: The Water Margin and the Making of A National Canon. New York: Columbia University Press, 2019. Hill, Michael Gibbs. Lin Shu, Inc.: Translation and the Making of Modern Chinese Culture. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Hung, Eva Tsoi, and Judy Wakabayashi. ‘Introduction’. In Asian Translation Traditions, edited by Eva Tsoi Hung and Judy Wakabayashi, pp. 1-16. New York: Routledge, 2014. Isobe Yūko 磯部祐子. ‘Saishi kajin shōsetsu no higashi Ajia shokoku e no eikyō – Jin yunqiao zhuan to Yujiaoli o rei ni’ 才子佳人小説の東アジア諸国への影響 – 『金雲 翹伝』と『玉嬌梨』を例に, in Isobe Akira 磯部彰, ed., Higashi Ajia shuppan bunka kenkyū: Kohaku 東アジア出版文化研究：こはく, pp. 263-76. No place or publisher: 2004. Jakobson, Roman. ‘On Linguistic Aspects of Translation’ (1959). In On Translation, edited by Reuben Authur Brower, pp. 232-239. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013. Kornicki, Peter Francis. Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts in East Asia. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018. Lartey, Emmanuel Y. Pastoral Theology in an Intercultural World. Cleveland: Pilgrim Press, 2006. Ma, Ning. The Age of Silver: The Rise of the Novel East and West. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Mair, Victor. ‘Buddhism and the Rise of the Written Vernacular in East Asia: The Making of National Languages,’ Journal of Asian Studies 53.3 (1994): 707-751. Nappi, Carla. ‘Full. Empty. Stop. Go.: Translating Miscellany in Early Modern China’. In Early Modern Cultures of Translation, edited by Karen Newman and Jane Tylus, pp. 206-220. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015. Novetzke, Christian Lee. The Quotidian Revolution: Vernacularization, Religion, and the Premodern Public Sphere in India. New York: Columbia University Press, 2016. Park, Si Nae. The Korean Vernacular Story: Telling Tales of Contemporary Chosŏn in Sinographic Writing. New York: Columbia University Press, 2020. Pollard, David. Translation and Creation: Readings of Western Literature in Early Modern China, 1840-1918. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing, 1998.

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Pollock, Sheldon. The Language of the Gods in the World of Men: Sanskrit, Culture, and Power in Premodern India. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006. Reynolds, Matthew, Sowon S. Park, and Kate Clanchy. ‘Prismatic Translation’. In Creative Multilingualism: A Manifesto, edited by Katrin Kohl et al., pp. 131-151. Cambridge: Open Books Publisher, 2020. Robinson, Douglas. Western Translation Theory from Herodotus to Nietzsche. New York: Routledge, 2002. Rolston, David L. Traditional Chinese Fiction and Fiction Commentary: Reading and Writing Between the Lines. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997. Ruffle, Karen G. ‘A Bride of One Night, A Widow Forever: Gender and Vernacularization in the Construction of South Asian Shi’i Hagiography’. PhD dissertation, University of North Carolina, 2007. Salguero, Pierce C. Translating Buddhist Medicine in Medieval China. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014. Shang, Wei. ‘Writing and Speech: Rethinking the Issue of Vernaculars in Early Modern China’. In Rethinking East Asian Languages, Vernaculars, and Literacies, 1000-1919, edited by Benjamin Elman, pp. 254-301. Brill: Leiden, 2014. —. ‘Jin Ping Mei and Late Ming Print Culture’. In Writing and Materiality in China: Essays in Honor of Patrick Hanan, edited by Judith T. Zeitlin and Lydia H. Liu with Ellen Widmer, pp. 187-238. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2003 Shankar, S. ‘The Languages of Love: An Essay on Translation and Affect,’ Comparative Literature 69.1 (2017): 54-73. Shohat, Ella, and Robert Stam. ‘Narrativising Visual Culture: Towards a Polycentric Aesthetics’. In The Visual Culture Reader, edited by Nicholas Mirzoeff, pp. 27-49. New York: Routledge, 1998. Sieber, Patricia. ‘A Flavor all Its Own: Some Theoretical Considerations on Sanqu Songs as Mixed-Register Literature,’ Journal of Chinese Literature and Culture 8.1 (2021): 203-35. Sieber, Patricia, and Regina Llamas, eds. How To Read Chinese Drama: A Guided Anthology. New York: Columbia University Press, 2022. Venuti, Lawrence. The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation. Shanghai: Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press, 2004. —. ‘Translation, Heterogeneity, Linguistics,’ Le festin de Babel 9.1 (1996): 91-115. Wong, Wang-chi Lawrence, ed. Towards a History of Translating: In Commemoration of the 40th Anniversary of the Research Centre for Translation, The Chinese University of Hong Kong. Hong Kong: Research Centre for Translation, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, 2013. Zhang, Zhen. An Amorous History of the Silver Screen: Shanghai Cinema, 1896-1937. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005.

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About the authors peter kornicki is Emeritus Professor of Japanese at Robinson College, University of Cambridge. He previously taught at the University of Tasmania and Kyoto University. His monographs include The Book in Japan (1998) and Languages, Scripts and Chinese Texts in East Asia (2018). He is a Fellow of the British Academy. patricia sieber is an associate professor of Chinese and director of the Translation and Interpreting Program at Ohio State University. She is the author of Theaters of Desire: Authors, Readers, and the Reproduction of Early Chinese Song-Drama, 1300-2000, the lead editor of How To Read Chinese Drama: A Guided Anthology (Columbia University Press, 2022), and a coeditor of How To Read Chinese Drama in Chinese: A Language Companion (Columbia University Press, forthcoming 2023). li guo teaches Chinese and Sinophone literature and culture as well as Asian cultures at Utah State University. She is the author of Women’s Tanci Fiction in Late Imperial and Early Twentieth-Century China (Purdue University Press, 2015), and Writing Gender in Early Modern Chinese Women’s Tanci Fiction (Purdue University Press, 2021).

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On Not Being Shallow Examination Essays, Songbooks, and the Translational Nature of Mixed-Register Literature in Early Modern China Patricia Sieber Abstract This essay treats ‘mixed-register writing’ (typically called ‘vernacular Chinese’, ‘plain Chinese writing’, baihua 白話) as a hybrid medium that self-consciously incorporates linguistic elements from different strata of Literary Sinitic, vernacularized Sinitic, and textualized topolect. The chapter examines how a commentaried version of the Qing-dynasty songbook Huajian ji 花箋記 (The Flowery Notepaper, 1713) mediates between the broadly conceived genre of examination essays written in Literary Sinitic and popular songbooks written in Literary Cantonese. In reframing such a compositional process as ‘translation’ subject to different kinds of norms and purposes, the chapter shows how the deliberately polyvocal nature of such texts opened a space for literary innovation in China proper as well as in the broader Sinographic sphere. Keywords: translation norms, intralingual translation, Sinitic, mixedregister writing, topolect

Introduction What constitutes a translation is always subject to norms within a given language community. As Theo Hermans observes, the term translation ‘appeals to a recognizable and circumscribed category, both a known concept and a socially acknowledged practice’.1 Ever since Roman Jakobson’s seminal division of translation into ‘intralingual’ (rewording), ‘interlingual’ 1

Hermans, ‘Norms of Translation’, p. 10.

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch01

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(translation proper), and ‘intersemiotic’ (transmutation) approaches, 2 scholars have sought to define translation through both prescriptive and descriptive methods. While the lion’s share of such scholarly efforts has been devoted to interlingual translation in European-language contexts, some scholars have sought to place practices of translation on a continuum of practices of ‘rewriting’ across all three of Jakobson’s categories. Most famously, perhaps, André Lefevere argued that what he termed ‘rewriters’ – a terms designed to capture the breadth of translational activities – constituted the ‘motor force behind literary evolution’, subject to ideology and poetic aesthetics.3 In a recent surge of interest in intralingual translation, scholars have paid more attention to how practices of translational rewriting shaped the transition to modern written standards within modernizing empires and nation-states. 4 Such investigations show that the emergence of modern written forms of language was not only mediated through interlingual forms of rewriting5 but also depended heavily on intralingual approaches. Such rewriting involved the translation of ‘classical texts’ into modernized written ‘vernaculars’ while accommodating new ways to bridge ‘speech’ in its geographically distinct formations within the newly evolving written standards. Thus, rather than positing translation as transfer within a binary system of language, such descriptive studies situate translational agency within a web of language resources, literary norms, and socio-political exigencies. Such a historically contextualized approach – shaped by an emphasis on ‘translation shifts’ and the importance of the ‘target culture’s systems’6 – allows for a more expansive understanding of how different translational modes may intersect within and beyond the conf ines of particular language communities. In seeking to attend to the complexity of the language situations within states and between states within the Sinographic sphere, Ross King has proposed the term ‘ecology’ as a way to move beyond the entrenched but misleading idea of ‘diglossia’.7 In a similar vein, Shang Wei problematized the efforts of modernizing Chinese elites to rigidly separate Chinese linguistic 2 Jakobson, ‘On Linguistic Aspects of Translation’, p. 127. 3 Lefevere, Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame, pp. 2-6. 4 Albachten, ‘Intralingual Translation as “Modernization” of the Language’, pp. 257-71. 5 Gunn, Rewriting Chinese. 6 On the descriptive approach to translation studies and its conception of ‘translation shifts’ and ‘poly-systems theory’, see Pym, Exploring Translation Theories, pp. 62-64 and Rosa, ‘Descriptive Translation Studies (DTS)’, pp. 94-104. 7 King, ‘Ditching Diglossia’, pp. 1-19.

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forms into a ‘vernacular’ standard (baihua 白話) and a ‘classical’ standard (wenyan 文言).8 Crafted in the wake of the collapse of the dynastic political system and its privileging of a classically inflected form of ‘Literary Sinitic’,9 such a division signaled a new understanding of how written forms were thought to relate to spoken forms. While the rapprochement between written and spoken forms proved to be eminently useful in creating a national written standard in the context of nation-building,10 Shang argues that the genealogic projection of a bifurcation between a living ‘spoken vernacular’ and ‘dead classical writing’ onto the entire literary patrimony has impeded a proper appreciation of how different forms of written and spoken Chinese intersected with one another in propelling new literary genres (e.g., chantefables, plays, and novels) to the forefront of literati interest in dynastic China. In Shang’s view, what distinguishes dynastic genres in what he calls ‘plain Chinese writing’ (typically called ‘vernacular’ or ‘colloquial’ literature) is not their reproduction of speech but their ability to be ‘encyclopedic’ in their approach to accommodating classical and informal genres.11 In this essay, I will build on these ideas and propose that ‘plain Chinese writing’ or what I prefer to call ‘mixed-register writing’12 can be understood as a ‘translational medium’. To be sure, literati in dynastic China did not characterize their work around ‘plain Chinese writing’ as ‘translation rigidly conceived’, in Matthew Reynold’s words.13 However, if we pay close attention to literati writings, particularly the paratextual genre known as ‘embedded commentary’ (pingdian 評點), it becomes apparent that many writers self-consciously blended classically inspired forms with popular styles of writing, thus creating, as happened many times in the history of translation around the world,14 a new literary medium. Accordingly, if we hone in on the diverse linguistic elements of ‘mixed-register literature’, we find that such mixed language use could straddle what otherwise might be mutually unintelligible forms of language, because discreet textual elements belonged to either different strata of Literary Sinitic, different forms of the 8 Shang, ‘Writing and Speech’, pp. 251-304. 9 On Sinitic as a state-centered graphic technology in use in a pan-Asian context, see Kornicki, Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts in East Asia, pp. 15-20. 10 On the usefulness of a linguistically mediated form of nationalism, see Weng, ‘What is Mandarin?’, pp. 611-633. 11 Shang, ‘Jin Ping Mei and Late Ming Print Culture’, pp. 187-238. 12 Sieber, ‘A Flavor All Its Own’, pp. 203-35. 13 Reynolds, Translation, p. 87. 14 Ibid., p. 5. On the creation of the Buddhist hybrid Sinitic at an earlier point in China, see Mair, ‘Buddhism and the Rise of the Written Vernacular in East Asia’, pp. 707-751.

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dynastic standard of ‘official speech’ (guanhua 官話),15 different generic strata and semantic realms of plain Chinese writing, or diverse topolects.16 At the same time, we also become aware that such linguistic elements were not stand-alone building blocks that were randomly borrowed. Instead, semantic and syntactical choices were tightly correlated with particular literary genres. While script variations and calligraphic styles were largely bounded within the corpus of standard Sinitic, the conventions of particular genres played an outsized role in delineating appropriate language choices. Hence, any consideration of intralingual mediation also needs to take stock of the often prismatic refashioning of genre:17 Both classical genres and popular genres were rhetorically refracted into a literary language that understood itself as being ‘neither too bookish nor too commonplace’ (buwen busu 不文不俗).18 In order to examine how ‘mixed-register writing’ can be conceived as a dynamic translational medium inflected by literary genre and language registers, this essay will explore diegetic and extradiegetic practices19 surrounding a ballad-style songbook narrative from the Guangdong region, the Huajian ji 花箋記 (The Romance of the Flowery Notepaper, hereafter The Flowery Notepaper). A minor masterpiece in the words of one modern critic,20 The Flowery Notepaper is equally well-known among linguists and literary historians on account of the fact that it is the earliest extant text (1713) to contain substantial traces of Cantonese-inflected topolect. From its early modern beginnings to contemporary times, The Flowery Notepaper has been transmitted in multiple textual and oral forms in dynastic and modern China as well as within the broader Sinographic sphere and the contemporary Chinese diaspora.21 This text is neither marked as a translation within the 15 Coblin, ‘A Brief History of Mandarin’, pp. 537-552. 16 For an example of such unintelligibility in the context of Beijing opera, see Shang, ‘Writing and Speech’, p. 277. 17 On the notion of ‘prismatic translation’ in opposition to ‘channel translation’, see Reynolds, Park, and Clanchy, ‘Prismatic Translation’, pp. 131-151. 18 On the emergence of this phrase in Yuan-dynasty qu-song-related criticism, see Sieber, ‘A Flavor All Its Own’, pp. 209-10. 19 On translational norms as ‘textual’ and ‘extratextual’, see Toury, ‘The Nature and Role of Norms in Translation’, pp. 168-181. I adopt the language of f ilm studies to draw a distinction between diegetic (story proper) and extradiegetic (embedded commentary) forms of writing. 20 Snow, Cantonese as Written Language, pp. 80-81. 21 I have consulted original editions extant in the Bibliothèque National de France (Paris), the Robert Morrison Collection in SOAS University Libraries (London), and in the Neuman Collection at the Bavarian State Libraries (Munich). All citations in this chapter will be to the modern variorum edition edited by Leung, Huajian ji huijiao pingben. On the transformation

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source culture nor can we postulate the existence of a stable start text. Yet I will argue that extant commentaried editions can be seen as the result of two forms of translation: on the classical end of the language spectrum, the text blended the rhetoric of the ‘examination essay’ with the ‘love tropes’ of written drama and fictional narrative, while on the popular end of language use, the text accommodated topolect conventionally associated with oral-connected performance genres to inflect both the text proper and paratextual ‘tongue-in-cheek examination essays’ (youxi baguwen 遊戲八 股文). However, as the discussion will show, such textual maneuvers can be explained away neither as strategies of legitimation for a new literary genre nor as an oral residue indicative of the genre’s performative roots. Instead, I will suggest that such literary moves amounted to a set of translational norms that were put in the service of literary innovation.

Changing norms within early modern Chinese print culture The European-derived taxonomies of the Latin/vernacular divide, though powerfully deployed by modernizing elites in twentieth-century China in an effort to build a sense of national belonging via the notion of a shared spoken standard, appear to be an inadequate if not outright misleading concept in the context of dynastic China. For one, in terms of the Sinitic script, we are dealing with at least three dimensions of linguistic representation, namely script, vocalization, and speech. In other words, in straddling an often standardized script and deeply localized forms of speech, vocalization is its own form of intralingual translation. Typically, in thinking about language modalities, vocalization tends to get short shrift because it does not fit within the inherited, May-Fourth-mediated model of an opposition between spoken ‘baihua’ (白話) and written ‘wenyan’ (文言) forms of language.22 However, if we take into account that recitation (dushu 讀書) was the standard way of reading the Confucian corpus,23 the importance of vocalization for textual instantiation becomes instantly apparent. Moreover, it would appear that forms of vocalization were inflected by regional standards. Given the regionalized phonology of such readings,24 of The Flowery Notepaper into the Tale of the Flowery Notepaper (花箋傳) in Vietnam, see Liu Zhiqiang, ‘Huajian ji de Yuenan gaixie ben’, pp. 41-44. 22 Shang, ‘Writing and Speech’. 23 Yu, ‘Character Recognition’, pp. 1-39. 24 Shang, ‘Writing and Speech’, pp. 285-291.

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the linguistic gulf between regionally inflected songbooks and the standard texts of the Confucian canon may in fact be much narrower than we typically have been taught to imagine. Rather than seeing the ‘regional’ or the ‘local’ purely in hierarchical binaries of high/low or elite/popular, we might be well-advised to view the enunciation of all kinds of texts in terms of a continuum of regionally inflected literary practices. In other words, far from being a ‘vernacular spoken’ foil to an ‘ossified written language’, in the case of vocalization, regional forms of pronunciation could routinely insinuate themselves into standard reading practices. Thus, the processes of vernacularization evident elsewhere in the Sinographic sphere also obtained in dynastic China. By the same token, we should not assume that all forms of written, regionally inflected writing transparently represented ‘local speech’ or constituted a form of ‘oral residue’. A case in point is the textual corpus of song genres originating in the Southern region of Guangdong. By the seventeenth century, distinct Cantonese performance traditions began to find their way into print in Guangdong.25 These forms, most notably the so-called ‘wooden fish books’ (muyushu, 木魚書), ‘southern songs’ (nanyin 南音), ‘dragon boat songs’ (longzhou 龍舟), and ‘love songs’ (yue’ou 粵謳), referred primarily to different performance styles, and while some texts could be sung in multiple forms, some broad distinctions nevertheless obtained. For instance, the ‘wooden fish songs’ tended to have a more narrative orientation compared to the lyrical ‘southern songs’. Even though the songs were typically held in low esteem among the educated classes, legend had it that failed examination candidates were responsible for their composition. At the same time, all these forms exhibited Cantonese elements to varying degrees. On the colloquial end, the ‘dragon boat songs’ were the most regionally inflected, with not only a higher percentage of Cantonese elements (25%) but also a tendency to use an overarching Cantonese syntactical framework enriched by the insertion of a classical and plain Chinese lexicon. On the other end of the continuum, the wooden fish books tended to make limited use of Cantonese (5% of all characters); moreover, these texts typically inserted such regionalisms into a syntactical framework governed by standard forms of Chinese. However, irrespective of the extent of Cantonese elements found in each genre, Don Snow has proposed that all of these song forms make use of an artificial literary language specific to performance genres.26 25 See Leung, Xianggang daxue suocang muyushu yanjiu, pp. 221-27. 26 Snow, Cantonese as a Written Language, p. 85. Thus, even though some of these phonetic loan characters went on to become the standard characters for the same function words in modern

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Yet, even within a single story cycle of a regionally inflected corpus, genre expectations, language ideology, and audience needs created substantial differences between successive textual manifestations. A two-beauties-onescholar ballad (caizi jiaren 才子佳人)27 modeled on The Story of the Western Wing 西廂記, China’s most famous love comedy, The Flowery Notepaper already circulated in multiple annotated editions in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century.28 Over the course of the late eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries, more ‘commentary’ as well as ‘essay’ and ‘performance editions’ were published.29 The earliest edition (1713), now extant in a beautifully produced ‘orphan edition’ (guben 孤本) in the National Library of France, followed famed critic Jin Shengtan’s (1608-1611) model of a commentaried ‘book of genius’ (caizi shu).30 Together with the paratextual apparatus of prefaces, prechapter, and copious interlinear commentary, The Flowery Notepaper acquired a new title, that is, the Eighth Book of Genius. As was typical for the newly invented genre of ‘genius literature’, a failed and otherwise obscure examination candidate by the name of Zhong Daicang 鐘戴蒼 (fl. 1713) was responsible for launching what was hitherto primarily a regional text within a literary taxonomy with empire-wide currency. Cantonese writing, for the purposes of this discussion, I want to guard against any ready-made teleology of an inexorable march of the spoken language serving as the basis for the script. 27 The story is set in Changzhou 長洲 (Suzhou), the epitome of a fashionable city in the Ming dynasty. While modeled on the overall plot of Xixiang ji 西廂記 (The Story of the Western Wing), the story nevertheless modifies the motivation of the main protagonists, Scholar Liang and the Beauty Yaoxian. For Liang, he makes a point of moving to Suzhou to seek out a beauty under the pretext of seeking close contacts with study companions, thus ascribing an intentionality to his quest that was absent in Student Zhang, the main male protagonist in The Western Wing. At the same time, Yaoxian, the beauty whom he accidentally encounters in a garden adjacent to his aunt’s, is not amenable to the sexual proximity that Zhang desires. Her parents on the other hand, in contrast to the two-faced Madame Cui in The Western Wing, are quite keen on making Liang their son-in-law prior to any examination success. Thus far from being characterized as a lecher, Liang’s desire for female company is read as an attribute of his ‘gallant style’ that is validated by the older generation. Not only does the prospective father-in-law authorize the construction of a passage between the two mansions, but when the youngsters meet again, they make secret marriage vows. After many trials and tribulations, they are happily reunited together with a second wife. 28 In a dialogue between Zhong Daicang, the commentator of the Eighth Book of Genius and an imaginary interlocutor, the commentator points out that several previously annotated versions were already in existence. See Leung, Huajian ji, p. 60. 29 These characterizations are mine, based on what can be surmised on their primary contextual affiliations. However, one functionality may not preclude another. On the characteristics of these different editions, see Sieber, ‘Location, Location, Location’, pp. 142-148 and 157-160. 30 On Jin Shengtan’s method of commentary, see Rolston, Traditional Chinese Fiction and Fiction Commentary.

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Arguably, in terms of the prestige of its genre of origin, The Flowery Notepaper was the most humble aspirant yet to this alternative literary canon.31 Not only was it a ‘songbook’ (geben 歌本) of regional provenance that was still actively performed, unlike some of the other contenders for genius status, The Flowery Notepaper was a relatively new work devoid of the legitimizing sheen of the relative antiquity that The Romance of the Three Kingdoms or The Story of the Western Wing enjoyed. The fact that The Flowery Notepaper was based on standard mixed-register syntax might have facilitated inclusion in such an empire-wide canon of alternative belles-lettres. To provide a sense of the flavor of the text, the opening section of the text is given with underlined phrases echoing plain Chinese writing, while the ones in bold hark more closely to the linguistic sensibilities of classical poetry. Standing up and leaning on the steep railing – taking in the cool evening breeze. The autumn wind blows over the scent of white lotuses. One just sees the moonlight of a crescent moon like water. A tale has it that tonight is when the Heavenly Offspring meets with the Oxherd. 起凭危欄納晚凉 納晚凉 秋風吹送白蓮香 白蓮香

只見一鉤新月光如水 新月光如水

人話天孫今夜會牛郎。32

The Flowery Notepaper went further than the other genius texts in its incorporation of topolect. For example, in another passage in the opening chapter, the text features a recurring negation deriving from Cantonese topolect and reads as follows: Mountains and rivers have no feelings, with which to aid [lovers] in meeting up, If someone is full of feeling, but untrustworthy, it is appropriate to forget each other. 山水無情能聚會

多情唔信肯相忘。33

31 On the notion of an alternative canon of non-scriptural texts, see Sieber, Theaters of Desire, pp. 149-152. 32 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 90. 33 Ibid.

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With all of these linguistic features in place, Zhong’s coinage of the Eighth Book of Genius was adopted in the Cantonese world of letters and beyond. By the second half of the eighteenth century, a new type of edition of The Flowery Notepaper that I label an ‘essay edition’ encompassed additional paratexts. Specifically, such editions began to include ‘tongue-in-cheek examination essays’. Importantly, to my knowledge, the first such edition to appear originated with the famous Mustard Seed Publishing House located in Nanjing (芥子園藏版), a major publishing hub far beyond the Cantonese-speaking region of Guangdong. Not only does such a provenance speak to the transregional circulation of the text itself, but given the high production standards of that edition,34 we have reason to think that the text initially addressed itself to an educated audience in the Jiangnan region, even if subsequent essay editions were published in Guangdong as well.35 The nearly twenty essays were signed by someone with the studio name Eryou zhai 二酉齋.36 Interestingly, the topic lines within The Flowery Notepaper, to which such essays addressed themselves, often contain Cantonese function words, and perhaps even more strikingly, some of the essays themselves make use of Cantonese lexical items. Given that such topolect would not have been allowed on examination essays written for the express purpose of passing the exams, we have reason to think that such terms were not used accidentally but in the interest of creating certain aesthetic effects. Hence, the genre of examination essays broadly conceived – seemingly a bastion of classical language practice without any analogue in the spoken domain37 – would seem to lend itself particularly well for a reconsideration 34 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 21. A copy of that edition survives and is kept at Leiden University. 35 I have consulted original essay editions in the Robert Morrison Collection at the School of Oriental and African Studies (London). The essays were not grouped in a prefatorial chapter or listed in an appendix; instead, they were featured at the end of the individual chapters to which they addressed themselves. Thus, it is fair to conclude that these essays became an integral aspect of the overall reading experience of those particular editions. In fact, some of the mid-nineteenth century editions included the essays in the table of contents, suggesting that they had become an appealing and perhaps expected feature for prospective buyers of such works. 36 During this time, Eryou was a common moniker for bibliophiles. A possible candidate for the authorship of these essays may be a certain Yan Baoren 嚴豹人, a well-known bibliophile favoring the rare and eclectic, who was active in Suzhou during the Qianlong era (r. 1736-1796) and took Eryouzhai as his studio name. On Yan Baoren, see Lu Wenchao 陸文弨 (1717-1796), ‘Wujiang Yan Baoren Eryouzhai ji’ 吳江嚴豹人二酉齋記, 25.1a-2b. 37 Des Forges’s groundbreaking book on the genre of ‘modern prose’ during the Ming and Qing dynasties makes it clear that styles varied widely during this time period, precisely because the form was deeply connected with topical concerns on the one hand and individual distinctiveness on the other. He also notes that works written in this genre ranged from actual essays written during the examination, essays originally written for such a purpose but subsequently edited

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of the significance of simultaneously enjoining standard classical, plain Chinese, and Cantonese elements within the confines of a single written text. I suggest that such choices were driven by the translational norms of the literary elite, mediating as they did between literary genres (essay vs. ballad) and between written language forms (classical vs. plain vs. topolect). I argue that the examination-style essays were not enlisted in a quest to establish a ‘vernacular’ literary tradition at the expense of the ‘classical’ registers of language. Instead, the translational borrowing of Cantonese-inflected markers within the classical medium of the essay formed part and parcel of another kind of project delineated in the commentary to The Flowery Notepaper, namely, to fashion a supple, expressive, and decidedly literary language of feeling that could range freely across classical, plain Chinese, and regional registers. The commentary designated such a style as a ‘gallant brush’ (bimo fengliu 筆墨風流), which, in its explicit address to both talented men and poetically inclined beauties, was designed to contrast favorably against the mindless, implicitly regionalized vocalization of the classics and the mechanical writing of uninspired, topolect-free examination prose that transpired in purely homosocial contexts.38 Thus, the integration of different language registers together with a blurring of genre boundaries created an expanded sense of what a cross-fertilized literary medium – that is, mixed-register writing in the ‘books of genius’ format – was and what it could do.

Translating Sinitic as stylishness Upon the advent of modernity, perhaps no Chinese literary genre sustained a more abrupt reversal of its critical fortunes than the examination essay. Having risen to prominence in the fifteenth century, the examination essay (primarily known as ‘modern prose’ shiwen 時文 in Ming and Qing writings, and less frequently as the so-called ‘eight-legged essay’, baguwen 八 股文) attracted copious critical attention throughout the dynastic period.39 Despite the variety of styles embraced over the course of the Ming and for publication, and essays written independent of any examinations on a wide variety of topics. See Des Forges, Testing the Literary. 38 Des Forges notes that the genre of the examination essay had both ardent proponents in the Ming and Qing as well as some detractors. See Des Forges, Testing the Literary. 39 Elman, A Cultural History of the Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China and Des Forges, Testing the Literary, pp. 1-11. Des Forges makes clear that the most common Ming/Qing designation was ‘modern prose’ in contrast to the modern usage that gravitated toward the ‘eight-legged

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Qing period, such essays normally stayed within the idiom of Literary Sinitic. Typically, such an official essay addressed itself to a quotation from a Neo-Confucian edition of The Four Books (sishu 四書) or from another Confucian classic and included passages written from the first-person point of view of the sages, thus inviting the essay writer to imagine themselves as the author of the classics. In this act of imaginative projection (sheshen chudi 設身處地), essay writing overlapped with the narrative strategies of fiction and the focalizing techniques of drama, a feature acknowledged by contemporaneous literati.40 As many failed examination candidates turned to publishing to sustain themselves, composing and anthologizing essays could also be a means to build a literary reputation. 41 And for some literati, essay writing could become a source of literary creativity both in terms of style and content. For example, the thematic scope of essays expanded to include playful tongue-in-cheek works on iconic plays such as The Story of the Western Wing and The Lute (Pipa ji 琵琶記). 42 At the same time, Jin Shengtan 金聖嘆 (1608-1661), the most influential practitioner of ‘embedded commentary’ (pingdian 評點), began to discuss The Water Margin and The Story of the Western Wing in terms of essay writing techniques. For example, he designated individual scenes in The Western Wing as ‘essays’ rather than as ‘acts’.43 In this way, the boundaries between official forms of writing and the previously vernacularized genres of fiction and drama became increasingly porous, inviting further and deliberate rapprochement in either direction. Relative to earlier pingdian practitioners, the commentators of The Flowery Notepaper took this translational rhetoric to new heights. In the paratextual comments, the tensions between the lack of official success in the examination system and literary acclaim attained through other channels are discussed in a very overt fashion that indexes the emotional toll of repeated failures and the struggle to make sense of life in the face of what seemed the only worthy, yet frustratingly elusive goal for male literati. In the 1713 preface to The Flowery Notepaper, the writer, Zhu Guangzeng 朱 廣曾, a friend of the commentator, situated Zhong Daicang’s commentary within the demands of the examination system. On the one hand, Zhu essay’ in order to strategically mischaracterize this form as a formalistic exercise that had neither literary nor conceptual value. 40 Wu, ‘Constructing a Playful Space’, pp. 517-520. On the complicated maneuvers of moving between different points of view within the confines of a single essay, see Des Forges, Testing the Literary, pp. 121-149. 41 Chow, Publishing, Culture, and Power in Early Modern China. 42 Wu, ‘Constructing a Playful Space’. 43 Jin, ‘Du Diliu caizi shu Xixiang ji fa’, Jin Shengtan piben Xixiang, 15 (item #25).

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pointed out that in preparation for the examinations, literati were droning on for years on end. In their single-minded pursuit of examination success, they were liable to put aside all the ‘refined, playful, and marvelous books’ (yaqu qishu 雅趣奇書), with the result that their official essays (zhiyi 制藝) were extremely dull and clichéd. Instead, the most desirable quality in prose, what Zhu termed a ‘spirited urbanity’ ( fengliu xiaosa 風流瀟灑), was entirely lacking. On the other hand, he noted that most famous men were in agreement that the reading of The Water Margin (Shuihu zhuan 水滸傳) and The Story of the Western Wing resulted in substantial improvements in examination essay composition. Zhu singled out one aspect in particular for which such reading was helpful, namely the ability not to be shallow (buqian 不淺). Yet, Zhu was not content with simply offering his friend’s Eighth Book of Genius as yet another pedagogical tool for the improvement of other people’s essay writing. Instead, Zhu created a translationally minded apologia for why an imprint in mixed-register Chinese qualified someone as part of an officially uncredentialed but textually ingenious writing elite that harked all the way back to the illustrious examples of Li Bai 李白 (701-762) and Du Fu 杜甫 (712-770). Zhu commended Zhong as someone whose essay writing was extremely accomplished, exemplifying the quality of ‘spirited urbanity’ thanks to an unrivalled command of the flow of writing. He partly attributed Zhong’s versatility to the fact that he had read very widely across a wide array of writings, including philosophy, history, and songs with an attentive diligence that allowed him to have new insights. Thus in Zhu’s view, much of the authority of Zhong’s commentary was derived from his reputation as an essay writer. At the same time, Zhu was at pains to reconcile Zhong’s talent with the fact that he had yet to pass the examinations. He quoted Zhong at length on the emotional distress that had ensued over dedicating his whole life to ‘eight-legged essays’ without any tangible achievements and the corollary need for an ‘obsession’ (pi 癖) to relieve his frustration. However, rather than simply presenting Zhong’s commentary as an extraneous diversion, Zhu made an even bolder claim. In alluding to the practice of publishing successful examination essays, Zhu observed that even though Zhong’s essays were not otherwise publicly accessible, by virtue of reading his commentary on The Flowery Notepaper, it was possible to know the quality of his essays. Through this work, in Zhu’s telling, Zhong had entered the ranks of those who had passed the examinations, even if some philistines did not recognize the value of a work like The Flowery Notepaper. Zhu went on to argue that since examination success was ultimately a matter of fate, encountering The Flowery Notepaper commentary was like reading a

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successful examination essay, even if it was so rarified that few examiners would recognize its attainment. In a similar vein, Zhong’s own preface presented The Flowery Notepaper commentary as a work that was designed to simultaneously mimic and transcend the writing of examination essays. Deeply perturbed by what can be inferred to be his repeated examination failures into his early thirties,44 Zhong lamented the fact that in the absence of examination success, it was difficult to make one’s talent known. 45 At the same time, he observed that his own commentary relied on the common essay writing technique of the ‘unflattering contrast’ (wenzhang xingji zhi fa 文章形擊之法) in order to highlight the shortcomings of previous commentaries on The Flowery Notepaper. 46 Rather than waiting to be recognized by an examiner, Zhong presented himself as a discriminating reader who had been able to identify one particularly unusual songbook among dozens of texts of its kind and subject it to annotation and printing. Thus in mirroring two activities commonly associated with the examination essay – annotation (pi 批) and printing (ke 刻) – Zhong turned his project into an attempt to define a new kind of literary masculinity: on the one hand, he treated The Flowery Notepaper like an extended essay and commented on it as such; on the other hand, he deeply sympathized with the hero’s desire for emotional fulfillment irrespective of examination success. Zhong noted that thanks to this commentary, he had been able to discover the spirit (ling 靈) of prose (wenzhang 文章) and commune with the ancients (guren 古人), particularly the author (zuozhe 作者) of The Flowery Notepaper. In doing so, he felt that despite his own lack of talent, he was able to create pleasure (kuai 快) both for himself and for the author. Thus, Zhong placed his commentary within a dual framework: on the one hand, it could be put in the service of an examination essay pedagogy (yi 益), on the other hand, it unfolded in a realm of a shared pleasure (kuai) outside of an institutional framework. Hence, the preface revealed a ready familiarity with the mechanisms for official recognition but also expressed the desire to transcend that system through the participation in a communion with the ancients (guren) and with future commentators through the notion of a trans-dynastic and trans-spatial community of talented men and women (caizi 才子). Accordingly, 44 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 122. In his commentary, Zhong refers to poetry he wrote when he was 15, when he first learnt how to write poems, which he notes is now already 17 or 18 years ago. This means he must have been about 33 when he wrote The Flowery Notepaper commentary. 45 He noted that when he read about the character’s quest for examination success, he inadvertently started to cry profusely. See Leung, Huajian ji, pp. 90 and 122. 46 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 60.

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Zhong sought to insert himself into the ranks of a writing elite unbounded by numerical limitations and yet distinct from the many ‘vulgar brushes’ (subi 俗筆). As Zhong put it, talent was the true hallmark of licentiate status rather than the sartorial symbol of a scholar’s cap.47 Zhong’s commentary contains primarily three kinds of observations: comments on the narrative structure of the songbook, examples of Zhong’s writing in a range of poetic forms, and some anecdotal information about the commentator tied to his reading and writing experiences. By far the largest number of comments address specific literary techniques. What distinguishes Zhong’s approach from other commentaried editions is the illustrative use of particular scenes to elucidate specific techniques. Borrowing from the language of essay criticism,48 he discussed emphatic, thick description (chong 重 vs. buchong 不重), straightforward vs. roundabout narration (shunbi 順筆 vs. bu shunbi 不順筆), incidental vs. deliberate description (xian 閒 vs. jingying 經營), surface vs. in-depth description (youqian rushen 由淺入深), foreshadowing (lailong fumai 來龍伏脈), uncanny likeness (moshen zhuiying 摹神追影), ingenious foil ( juemiao peichen 絕妙陪襯) and unfavorable contrast (xingji zhi fa 形擊之法), innuendo (teshu zhi fa 特書之法), and the importance of a single character. 49 For virtually every technique, he referred to at least one specific scene and in some cases, he discussed literary aspects of a passage in detail. For example, when Zhong sang the praises of a particular chapter, ‘The Main Maid Looks at the Moon’ (‘Zhubi kanyue’ 主婢看月) that he had loved since childhood, he identified a number of specific writing techniques: It is not simply me who says that the two maids Yunxiang and Biyue are genuine in the way they are described; if I were to say that before the talents and the beauties as well as the doltish men and women, they would concur and cry out that this is so. When it comes to the alternation between real and unreal, surface and in-depth description, close-ups and 47 See Leung, Huajian ji, pp. 59-61. 48 If we turn to noted Qing scholar Liu Xizai 劉熙載 (1813-1888), we f ind a shared critical vocabulary in his discussion of the craft of writing examination essays (zhiyi 制藝): verisimilitude (xiao 肖), emphatic and brief description (youchong youqing 有重有輕), contrast ( fanchu gongji 反處攻擊), straightforward and roundabout narration (wenzhi shunbi 文之順筆), the structural importance of a single character (yizi weizhu 一字為主), the alternation between segments that are direct and indirect ( fanzheng 反正), surface and in-depth description, as well as made-up and real (xushi 虛實) and straightforward and roundabout narration. See Liu Xizai, ‘Lun yi’, in Liu Xizai lunyi liuzhong, pp. 164-174. 49 For a finding list of these terms, see Rolston, How To Read the Chinese Novel, pp. 341-355.

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distant views, the many imaginative vistas with innumerable twists and turns – that really sums up the art of essay writing.50

In addition to highlighting particular techniques, Zhong was also very concerned with the overall number of sections that constituted a broader unit. He often commented on how each section related to the next one, another rhetorical concern featured in essay criticism. Hence, having transposed analytical tools from the craft of essay writing, Zhong could plausibly claim that his commentaried songbook deepened the understanding of the nuts and bolts of examination essay composition for civil service aspirants ( juyejia 舉業家). Yet Zhong, much like his friend Zhu Guangzeng, did not present his edition as a how-to manual for improving one’s odds at the examinations. Instead, he put such a translational borrowing of techniques in the service of an exploration of ‘urbane stylishness’ ( fengliu 風流), one of the defining aesthetic values of the romantic corpus written in mixed-register Chinese. This term had surfaced as early as the late twelfth century to denote a new kind of literatus: someone who was not only intimately familiar with the relational realm of love but who turned such knowledge into riveting tales of romance.51 In Zhong’s view, what made The Flowery Notepaper attractive was precisely that it dealt with beauties and talents in a way that led to a genuine appreciation of what ‘urbane stylishness’ meant. ‘Stylishness’ operated at multiple levels of the text. First, both the male protagonist and the main female protagonist fell under the rubric of ‘urbanity’.52 As Zhong noted, the two maids of the main female protagonist Yaoxian amplified her two main attributes, namely the maid Biyue underscored her ‘propriety’, while the other maid, Yunxiang, underlined her ‘stylishness’.53 In Zhong’s telling, the deep commitment of the pair to each other made them ‘stylish’, thus correlating this characteristic with depth of emotion in the manner of the late Ming cult of affect. At the same time, contrary to modern readings that might naturalize such feelings as a common state of affairs, Zhong maintained that such deep fondness and steadfastness in affection was in 50 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 177. 51 For an early instance of this new ideal of masculinity, see the opening section of the Xixiang ji zhugongdiao in Dong Jieyuan, Guben Dong Jieyuan Xixiang ji, p. 11. On the codif ication of such a sensibility in Ming-dynasty writings on Yuan playwrights, see Sieber, Theaters of Desire, pp. 77-79 and Chang, ‘Jia Zhongmin’s Sanqu Songs in the Supplement to the Register of Ghosts’, pp. 59-88. 52 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 77. 53 Ibid., p. 156.

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fact a rarity in real life and hence deserved to be emulated by real people. He claimed to have heard when he was young that unless a literatus (dushuren 讀 書人) had a copy of The Western Wing and The Flowery Notepaper on his desk, he should not call himself a literatus, an opinion with which he concurred.54 Third, the story itself was thought of as ‘stylish’ not only because it dealt with a romantic subject but because it approached that topic with the proper measure ( jinliang 斤兩) in everything. Fourth, Zhong also ascribed the quality of stylishness to the author.55 However, what created the most genuine effect of ‘urbane stylishness’ was the writing itself. He lamented that people would just sing the songbook without realizing just how ‘urbane’ the writing really was.56 In order to address this state of affairs, whenever he considered the writing truly excellent, Zhong did not rely on existing terms of appreciation but instead marked the text with the phrase ‘stylish brushwork’ (bimo fengliu 筆墨風流). Hence, if we approach mixed-register Chinese writing as a translational medium, it is important to point out that commentators, or, pace André Lefevere, rewriters such as Zhong Daicang and Zhu Guangzeng did not treat their version of The Flowery Notepaper as an inferior copy or a pale imitation of official essays. To the contrary, they viewed the mixed-register text as a more perfect instantiation of these principles of composition. Rather than laboring under the shadow of being an inadequate replica, imitation, or paraphrase,57 such generic transposition was cast as an enrichment, similar to what Friedrich Schleiermacher had, in a different context, proposed as the possible outcome of successful interlingual translation.58 In other words, in Zhong and Zhu’s view, the ability of mixed-register Chinese writing to accommodate the rhetoric of different generic forms sets it apart from standard genres that could run into the problem of being ‘dull and clichéd’. If the intralingual move from a genre in Literary Sinitic could stem the tide of mindless repetition, their commentaried Flowery Notepaper also differentiated itself against the ‘vulgar commonplaces’ of the popular songbooks. Nevertheless, contrary to what we might expect from such a positioning against ‘vulgarity’ – often a shorthand for informal language use – Zhong’s version did not militate against topolect per se but instead exemplified a translational stance vis-à-vis a genre situated at the colloquial end of the written spectrum. 54 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 67. 55 Ibid., p. 76. 56 Ibid., p. 156. 57 For the paradigmatic statement on translation as a ‘copy’ in the Anglophone tradition of translation criticism, see Dryden, ‘From the Preface to Ovid’s Epistles (1680)’, p. 38. 58 Schleiermacher, ‘On the Different Methods of Translating (1813)’, pp. 62-63.

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Translating topolect as innovation In the history of plain Chinese writing, topolect evolved only slowly as a textually marked feature. Among the different topolects with early modern antecedents, the Wu topolect from the Jiangnan region, the Minnan topolect from Fujian, and Cantonese from the Guangdong region found their way into the textualized traditions of song and drama from at least the fifteenth century onward. However, even by the nineteenth century when regional identity assumed greater importance among Cantonese literati,59 such works were still not all that numerous.60 In dynastic China, Chinese lexicographic sources with an exclusive focus on Cantonese seem to either have been far and few between or have not survived. In lieu of full-blown dictionaries, Chinese literati, both native and visiting, had compiled lexical lists of Cantonese expressions. For example, Qu Dajun 屈大均 (1630-1696), the famous Cantonese literatus and poet, included Cantonese expressions as part of his published jottings on the region,61 a work that was readily available in the book market of early nineteenth-century Guangzhou.62 In that list of what he called ‘local sounds’ (tuyin 土音), Qu included primarily nouns that pertained to family relations, professions, trades, and life stations, everyday activities, topography, measuring words, and the like. In a very limited fashion, Qu also incorporated some syntactical information such as some of the most common negatives (wei bu yue wu 謂不曰吾 [sic]) and interrogatives (wen ru he yue dian yang 問如何曰點樣). A century later, after sojourns in Guangdong (1774-75, 1777-1780), Sichuan native Li Diaoyuan 李調元 (1734-1803) compiled many Guangdong-related works, one of which incorporated Qu’s vocabulary.63 Some of these lexical 59 Miles, The Sea of Learning. 60 In the Chinese Chrestomathy of the Canton Dialect, American missionary E.C. Bridgman commented on the existence of Cantonese texts as follows: ‘The books written in this dialect are but few, and they are sometimes accompanied by glossaries, containing explanations of the dialectal words and phrases’ (p. ii). 61 On Qu Dajun, see Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (1644-1911) vol. 1, pp. 201202. The work in question is entitled Guangdong xinyu 廣東新語 (preface 1700). The relevant section is found in the ‘literary section’ (wenyu 文語) under the entry of ‘local idioms’ (tuyan 土 言) ch. 11, 21B-28A (copy in the Bavarian State Library acquired in 1830/31 by C.F. Neumann). 62 The work figures in Morrison’s collection (see West, Catalogue of the Morrison Collection of Chinese Books, 63), in Carl Friedrich Neumann’s 1830/31 acquisitions (author’s archival work), and in Caleb Cushings’s 1843/44 purchases (see Cushing, ‘Catalogue of the Chinese Books’, Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Personal Miscellany, Box 377, folder 2). 63 On Li Diaoyuan, see Hummel, Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period, vol. 1, pp. 486-488. For the list, see ‘Cantonese dialect expressions’ (‘Guangdong fangyan’ 廣東方言), Guangdong biji, 1.3b-10a (copy in the Bavarian State Library acquired by C.F. Neumann in 1830/31).

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items overlapped with words found in The Flowery Notepaper – most notably the section on family relations. Hence, we can surmise that the nonstandard language found in The Flowery Notepaper did not simply escape notice but implicitly distinguished itself from other written forms. Of course, it would be tempting to read the presence of Cantonese function words and the occasional lexical item as an index of an erstwhile female audience at performances or for Zhong’s implied gentry beauties. However, the commentary itself points in a different direction. For one thing, Zhong excoriated typical local songbooks for their ‘disorderly’ (luan 亂) lines; others he despised on account of the fact that they offered merely ‘pretty wording’ without abiding by any ostensible literary principles (wenli 文理). In his estimation, it was not only its intricate narrative techniques that distinguished The Flowery Notepaper from such popular works but also the naturalness of its language (tianran 天然). One aspect of such naturalness was the absence of stock phrases that characterized other songbooks.64 Another facet consisted of the skillful use of tone and wording (kouwen 口 吻) for the purposes of characterization.65 In Zhong’s view, such naturalness made the ballad singable and lent itself to the accompaniment with a clapper. In Zhong’s eyes, a performance was in and of itself a potentially sublime form of pleasure; he also noted that good singing brought out the literary qualities of the text, and as such performance could serve a literary purpose. Hence, for Zhong, it was hackneyed phrases and the lack of singability that marred other songbooks, but he did not lament the inclusion of topolect as other critics of song and drama had done in the past.66 Perhaps the clearest indication that an aestheticized approach could encompass Cantonese elements is found among the passages that served as topics for the tongue-in-check essays by Eryouzhai. The point of view of the essays, though offering a more dispassionate perspective than the songbook itself, often echoed the points made by Zhong Daicang’s comments. Most noteworthy about these essays is that they for the most part adopted the conceit of speaking in the voice of someone. The essays contained in The Flowery Notepaper adopted first-person perspectives for all the major characters, including Student Liang, Yaoxian, and her two maids. Furthermore, the tone of the essays suggested that the reader was meant to identify with the point of view of the person, whose perspective was being portrayed in 64 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 118. Cf. Leung, Huajian ji, p. 178. 65 Ibid., pp. 151 and 157. The characters in question are the mother-in-law and the father-in-law as well as Student Liang. 66 See for example, Zhu Quan, ‘Qionglin yayun xu’, Qionglin yayun, vol. 426, p. 784.

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order to explore the nuances of female and male sentiment that made the underlying text of The Flowery Notepaper ‘a treasure’ (baoshu 寶書). Thus, the essays represented a kind of culmination of the ‘stylish urbanity’ that Zhong sought to engender in his approach to the examination essay and the songbook tradition. Zhong’s efforts at stylistic hybridity had focused on blending the critical conventions of essay writing and the natural language of songbooks, but his own commentary was written in Literary Sinitic. Meanwhile, Eryouzhai went a step further in blending Literary Sinitic and written topolect at the level of language use: regional phrasing formed part and parcel of the actual essay responses. In the example given below, the words in bold denote a regional use of a third-person pronoun. When a lovesick Student Liang frets over the inaccessibility of his beloved Yaoxian, the line in the story of the songbook reads: ‘Today I am in the South, she is in the North, Even though we long for each other, I have no path to entrust my sentiments to the remote realm [where she dwells].’ 今日我在南佢 佢在北， 縱有想思無路寄遐方。67

Like other lines with a sentimental focus, this passage served as a springboard for a playful tongue-in-check essay structurally modeled on the conventions of ‘modern prose essays’. In this instance, as in several of the other lines that became the topic for an attached tongue-in-cheek essay, a Cantonese expression figured in the original passage. However, insofar as such usage could hark back to an older stratum of standard classical Chinese poetry,68 the presence of such a term might not be seen as particularly jarring. Moreover, as if to highlight the presence of an element suspended between contemporaneity and archaism, the essay repeated the same Cantonese term ( ju 佢, bolded in the translation below) throughout. In other words, for classically trained readers, an archaized classical register and contemporary regionalism could blend seamlessly into one another, once again highlighting the capacious quality of mixed-register Chinese writing:

67 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 150. 68 This particular character was interchangeable with another homophonous character 渠. The semantic field of that character extends to the use of a ‘third-person pronoun’. For an example, see the phrase ‘I will be fated not to ever meet with him again’ (quhui yong wuyuan 渠會永無緣) from the famous Han-dynasty ballad ‘The Peacock Flew Southwest’ (Kongque dongnan fei 孔雀東 南飛) anthologized in the Six Dynasties anthology New Songs from a Jade Terrace (Yutai xinyong 玉台新詠). See https://fanti.dugushici.com/ancient_proses/70560 (accessed 10 November 2020).

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Today, even though I am amidst the chessboard and she is in the garden, even if one were circumspect, the wildest stirrings of the imagination could not fail to be aroused; today, even if I am in the Yao family residence and she is in an outer quarter [separated by] what seems like a short distance, one might liken it to [the difficulties of] how the fisherman of yore sought after the ford. How did fate arrange for me to be in the South and for her to be in the North? … However, as I am where I am and she is where she is, a short distance turns into a separation of a thousand miles.69

In oscillating between different registers, these essays do not make use of such topolect in order to create a written standard for an oral language in the manner of the modern language reform movements discussed in Chapter 9. Instead, in close resonance with Zhong’s commentary itself, these essays embody a quest for a ‘supple and gallant brush’ that can capture all possible nuances of feeling. The writing style indexes the ability to range freely across all possible linguistic resources – the natural, the ancient, the unusual, the accentuated. In other words, the style represents a high/low synthesis of a literary sentimentalism that draws on Cantonese markers as one resource among others in a quest for authenticity and recognition among a community of self-appointed free spirits. A peculiar convergence of an expansively conceived, experimental rhetoric of essayistic writing, a romanticized cult of feeling, and potentially archaizing regionalisms served to instantiate a new poetics of sentiment. To be sure, passing the examinations required the mastery of standard classical texts within normative language bounds that militated against mixed-register Chinese and against topolect; however, in the view of the literati involved with the fashioning of mixed-register Chinese writing as a literary medium, the truly educated could afford to sport linguistic elements that would have gotten them disqualif ied in the actual examinations. Such inclusive practices served as a hallmark of learning that exceeded the pedantry of ordinary or orthodox minds who were routinely derided as mere ‘village tutors’. Far from being a ‘vulgar residue’, regionalisms could serve as a ‘high-brow’ mark of a broadly learned pursuit of letters, one of the many ‘unintended consequences of classical literacies’ identified by Benjamin Elman.70 69 Leung, Huajian ji, p. 131. 70 Benjamin A. Elman, ‘Unintended Consequences of Classical Literacies for the Early Modern Chinese Civil Service Examinations’, pp. 198-219.

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Conclusion This chapter turns assumptions about Chinese texts within the Sinographic sphere inside out. Typically, when we think about translation in a Chinese context, we either look at Chinese texts translated into other vernaculars, as examined in Chapters 2 through 8, or foreign texts translated into Chinese, as discussed in Chapter 9. However, despite the recognition that written Chinese came in many flavors over the many millennia of writing in Sinitic, we typically do not treat these different forms of Chinese as distinct enough from one another as warranting translation. Yet, as any casual student of the literary corpus of dynastic China knows, different forms of writings require a high degree of very specialized linguistic knowledge, regardless of whether such writing embodied rarified classical essays, iconic playtexts and fictional narratives, or songs inflected by topolect. Rather than naturalizing conversancy with such forms under a generalized rubric of ‘Chinese’ proficiency, this essay introduced a translational approach typically associated with the circulation of such texts among China’s Sinographic neighbors to revisit how we think about the composition of mixed-register texts within China proper. Using a translational framework to approach a commentaried text like The Flowery Notepaper allows us to better appreciate its stylistic complexity, while highlighting the fact that particular editions imparted new meanings to the transpositions of recontextualized Literary Sinitic and stylized colloquial elements. In reframing such composition as a process of ‘translation’ subject to different kinds of norms and purposes, this chapter has shown how the deliberate admixing of linguistic registers amounted neither to a rejection of Literary Sinitic nor to an indiscriminate endorsement of an oral corpus. Instead, the commentaried Flowery Notepaper orchestrated a new poetics of sentiment that translated liberally across different prose, play, and song genres for the benefit of an imagined community of readers: they were neither literati deafened by endless vocalizations nor students blinded by mere sartorial distinctions of official recognition nor uneducated listeners of random, vulgar, or error-riddled retellings. Rather than seeing the resulting ‘translation’ as an inferior approximation of an endlessly deferred original, in the eyes of a significant subset of Qing literati, the resulting literary medium and the associated texts represented the best of what Chinese literary writing had to offer. Furthermore, a translational approach also highlights the possibility that the boundaries between intralingual and interlingual uses of such texts were more porous than we might otherwise think. Of course,

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literary and translational practices throughout the Sinographic sphere varied widely, as shown in the chapters in this volume. Yet if we draw attention to the polyvocal nature of such mixed-register texts within Ming and Qing Chinese contexts, they can be treated not simply as much coveted imports from the dominant culture within the Sinographic sphere, but reconsidered as part of a transregional literary ecology intent on deconstructing the interpretive monopoly of state-sponsored literary institutions.71 Hence, one of the inherent attractions of such texts for would-be translators in the Sinographic sphere may well have rested in the dynamic tension between ‘canonical’, ‘literary’, and ‘vulgar’ elements that they, like their counterparts in dynastic China, could creatively mine for various kinds of literary experiments. In short, situating Ming and Qing textual practices within a translational framework brings out otherwise obscured resonances between the literary cultures of dynastic China and its Sinographic neighbors and allows us to distinguish more clearly between attempts at linguistic innovation in dynastic and modern China respectively.

Bibliography Albachten, Özlem Berk. ‘Intralingual Translation as “Modernization” of the Language: The Turkish Case’. Studies in Translation Theory and Practice 21: 2 (2013): 257-271. Bridgman, E.C. Chinese Chrestomathy of the Canton Dialect. Macao: Samuel Wells, 1841. Chang, Wenbo. ‘Jia Zhongmin’s Sanqu Songs in the Supplement to the Register of Ghosts’. Journal of Chinese Literature and Culture 8:1 (2021): 59-88. Chow, Kai-wing. Publishing, Culture, and Power in Early Modern China. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004. Coblin, W. South. ‘A Brief History of Mandarin’. Journal of the American Oriental Society 120: 4 (2000): 537-552. Cushing, Caleb. ‘Catalogue of the Chinese Books’. Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Personal Miscellany, Box 377, folder 2. Des Forges, Alexander. Testing the Literary: Prose and the Aesthetic in Early Modern China. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2021. 71 On early modern fiction as a countercultural voice, see Ma, The Age of Silver: The Rise of the Novel East and West. For the use of The Flowery Notepaper in intra-European contestations of class-based literary authority, see Sieber, ‘Location, Location, Location’, p. 139.

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Dong Jieyuan 董解元. Guben Dong Jieyuan Xixiang ji 古本董解元西廂記. Shanghai: guji chubanshe, 1984. Dryden, John. ‘From the Preface to Ovid’s Epistles (1680)’. In The Translation Studies Reader, edited by Lawrence Venuti, pp. 38-42. London and New York: Routledge, 2012. Elman, Benjamin A. A Cultural History of the Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2000. —. ‘Unintended Consequences of Classical Literacies for the Early Modern Chinese Civil Service Examinations’. In Rethinking East Asian Languages, Vernaculars, and Literacies, 1000-1919, edited by Benjamin A. Elman, pp. 198-219. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2014. Gunn, Edward. Rewriting Chinese: Style and Innovation in Twentieth-Century Chinese Prose. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991. Hermans, Theo. ‘Norms of Translation’. In The Oxford Guide to Literature in English Translation, edited by Peter France, pp. 10-15. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Hummel, Arthur, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (1644-1911). Washington: Library of Congress, Orientalia Division, 1943-44. Jakobson, Roman. ‘On Linguistic Aspects of Translation’. In The Translation Studies Reader, edited by Lawrence Venuti, pp. 126-131. London and New York: Routledge, 2012. Jin Shengtan 金聖嘆. Jin Shengtan piben Xixiang ji 金聖嘆批本西廂記. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1986. King, Ross. ‘Ditching Diglossia: Describing Ecologies of the Spoken and Inscribed in Pre-Modern Korea’. Sungkyun Journal of East Asian Studies 15:1 (2015): 1-19. Kornicki, Peter Francis. Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts in East Asia. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018. Lefevere, André. Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame. London and New York: Routledge, 2017 [1992]. Leung Pui-chee. 梁培熾 . Huajian ji huijiao pingben 花箋記會較評本. Hong Kong: Jinan University, 1998. —. Xianggang daxue suocang muyushu yanjiu 香港大學所藏木魚書敘錄與研究. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University, 1978. Li Diaoyuan 李調元. Guangdong biji 廣東筆記. Copy in the Bavarian State Library acquired by C.F. Neumann in 1830/31. Liu Xizai, ‘Lun yi 論藝’. In Liu Xizai lunyi liuzhong 劉熙載論藝六種. Chengdu: Ba Shu shushe, 1999. Liu Zhiqiang 劉志強. ‘Hua jian ji de Yuenan gaixie ben: Huajian zhuan shulun’ 花 箋記的越南改寫本：花箋傳述論. Dongnanya zongheng 東南亞縱橫 (2011: 6): 41-44. Lu Wenchao 盧文弨. ‘Wujiang Yan Baoren Eryouzhai ji’ 吳江嚴豹人二酉齋記. In his Baojing tang wenji 抱經堂文記, vol. 1842-1849. SBCK. Shanghai: Hanfenlou, 1919.

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Ma, Ning. The Age of Silver: The Rise of the Novel East and West. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Mair, Victor. ‘Buddhism and the Rise of the Written Vernacular in East Asia: The Making of National Languages’. Journal of Asian Studies 53: 3 (1994): 707-751. Miles, Steven. The Sea of Learning: Mobility and Identity in Nineteenth-Century Guangzhou. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006. ‘The Peacock Flew Southwest’. https://fanti.dugushici.com/ancient_proses/70560 (accessed 10 November 2020). Pym, Anthony. Exploring Translation Theories. London and New York: Routledge, 2010. Qu Dajun 屈大均. Guangdong xinyu 廣東新語 (preface 1700). Copy in the Bavarian State Library acquired in 1830/31 by C.F. Neumann. Reynolds, Matthew. Translation: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Reynolds, Matthew, Sowon S. Park, and Kate Clanchy. ‘Prismatic Translation’. In Creative Multilingualism: A Manifesto, edited by Katrin Kohl et al., pp. 131-151. Cambridge: Open Book Publisher, 2020. Rolston, David L. How To Read the Chinese Novel. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990. —. Traditional Chinese Fiction and Fiction Commentary: Reading and Writing Between the Lines. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997. Rosa, Alexandra Assis. ‘Descriptive Translation Studies (DTS)’. In Handbook of Translation Studies, edited by Yves Gambier and Luc van Doorslaer, vol. 1, pp. 94104. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 2010. Schleiermacher, Friedrich. ‘On the Different Methods of Translating (1813)’. Trans. Susan Bernofsky. In The Translation Studies Reader, edited by Lawrence Venuti, pp. 43-63. New York: Routledge, 2012. Shang Wei. ‘Jin Ping Mei and Late Ming Print Culture’. In Writing and Materiality in China: Essays in Honor of Patrick Hanan, edited by Judith T. Zeitlin, Lydia H. Liu with Ellen Widmer, pp. 187-238. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2003. —. ‘Writing and Speech: Rethinking the Issue of Vernaculars in Early Modern China’. In Rethinking East Asian Languages, Vernaculars, and Literacies, 1000-1919, edited by Benjamin A. Elman, pp. 251-304. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2014. Sieber, Patricia. ‘A Flavor All Its Own: Some Theoretical Considerations on Sanqu Songs as Mixed-Register Literature’, Journal of Chinese Literature and Culture 8:1 (2021): 203-235. —. ‘Location, Location, Location: Peter Perring Thoms (1790-1855), Cantonese Localism, and the Genesis of Literary Translation from the Chinese’. In Sinologists as Translators in the Seventeenth to Nineteenth Centuries, edited by Lawrence

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Wang-chi Wong and Bernhard Fuehrer, pp. 127-167. Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press, 2015. —. Theaters of Desire: Authors, Readers, and the Reproduction of Early Chinese Song-Drama. New York: Palgrave, 2003. Snow, Don. Cantonese as Written Language: The Growth of a Written Chinese Vernacular. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2004. Toury, Gideon. ‘The Nature and Role of Norms in Translation’. In The Translation Studies Reader, edited by Lawrence Venuti, 3rd edition, pp. 168-181. London and New York: Routledge, 2012. Weng, Jeffrey A. ‘What is Mandarin? The Social Project of Language Standardization in Early Republican China’. Journal of Asian Studies 77: 3 (2018): 611-633. West, Andrew C. Catalogue of the Morrison Collection of Chinese Books. London: School of African and Oriental Studies, 1998. Wu, Yinghui. ‘Constructing a Playful Space: Eight-Legged Essays on Xixiang ji and Pipa ji’. T’oung Pao 102: 4-5 (2016): 503-545. Yu Li. ‘Character Recognition: A New Method of Learning to Read in Late Imperial China’. Late Imperial China 33: 2 (2012): 1-39. Zhu Quan 朱權. Qionglin yayun 瓊林雅韻. In SKQS, 4th ser., vol. 426. Jinan: Qilu chubanshe, 1995.

About the author patricia sieber is an associate professor of Chinese and director of the Translation and Interpreting Program at The Ohio State University. She is the author of Theaters of Desire: Authors, Readers, and the Reproduction of Early Chinese Song-Drama, 1300-2000 (Palgrave MacMillan, 2003), the lead editor of How To Read Chinese Drama: A Guided Anthology (Columbia University Press, 2022), a co-editor of How To Read Chinese Drama in Chinese: A Language Companion (Columbia University Press, forthcoming 2023), and the guest editor of “The Protean World of Sanqu Songs,” a special issue of the Journal of Chinese Literature and Culture (8:1, 2021).

2

A Faithful Translation Tsūzoku sangokushi, the First Japanese Translation of Sanguozhi yanyi Matthew Fraleigh Abstract Tsūzoku sangokushi (A Popularized History of the Three Kingdoms, 1689-91) was one of the first complete translations of Luo Guanzhong’s Sanguozhi yanyi to appear in any language. Its influence on Japanese literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was evident across a broad range of genres. This paper examines the context in which Tsūzoku sangokushi was translated and what it can tell us about Japanese readership of Chinese texts just prior to the explosion of interest in vernacular fiction. The paper argues that the translation of Tsūzoku sangokushi was motivated not so much by interest in the work as an exemplar of vernacular narrative but rather for its lively account of a story loosely based on historical events. Keywords: Chinese vernacular narrative, popularization, script choice, Japanese translation

Romance of the Three Kingdoms (Sanguozhi yanyi) has enjoyed a broad readership in its original format and in various adaptations throughout East Asia for centuries, and Japan is no exception. A complete translation of the text into Japanese was published as Tsūzoku sangokushi [A Popularized History of the Three Kingdoms] in Kyoto between 1689 and 1691, the second complete translation of the text to be realized, following the Manchu version roughly four decades earlier.1 The book was an immediate hit, with other 1 We know that Sanguozhi yanyi had been imported to Japan by at least the beginning of the seventeenth century, for it is listed in a 1604 record of the books Confucian scholar Hayashi Razan 林羅山 (1583-1657) had read. Other bibliographies and library catalogs indicate that by 1700, at least five different editions of Sanguozhi yanyi had been imported to Japan; see Ueda, ‘Nihon

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch02

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translations quickly emerging to ride the coattails of its success.2 The tremendous popularity that Tsūzoku sangokushi enjoyed and the deep impression it made on the reading public are evident in the numerous digest versions, cross-media adaptations, and even irreverent parodies that proliferated in various genres through the end of the Edo period and beyond. Nearly a century and a half after its appearance, the translation had lost none of its vitality, for its text was used, essentially unchanged, as the basis for Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi [A Popularized History of the Three Kingdoms: An Illustrated Book], published in the late 1830s. Adorned with some 400 exquisite illustrations by Katsushika Hokusai’s disciple Katsushika Taito II, the new presentation of the now classic translation soon became a bestseller, its more accessible format bringing the work into the hands of an even wider audience.3 Though Tsūzoku sangokushi is complete and largely faithful to the original, the translation is neither literal nor scrupulous. As we will see, there are some omissions, embellishments, and rearrangements, and it is hardly free of errors. Nevertheless, it is a testament to the translation’s high caliber that it remains in print today, in spite of the fact that numerous other complete and more accurate modern Japanese translations have been published over the years. 4 This surprising longevity can be attributed at least in part to specific approaches the translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi employed: a set of choices that are best understood in light of the literary and linguistic context in which the work appeared.5 As the first published Japanese translation of a major vernacular Chinese work, Tsūzoku sangokushi was in many ways ahead of its time. A generation ni okeru’, pp. 1-5. Moreover, while Tsūzoku sangokushi is the first complete translation, a 1662 text called Ijinshō, attributed by some to Nakae Tōju 中江藤樹 (1608-48), contains translations of a few episodes from the novel; see Tokuda, Kinsei kindai shōsetsu, pp. 52-64. 2 Tokuda, Nihon kinsei shōsetsu, pp. 70-107; Nagao, ‘“Zenki tsūzokumono” shōkō’, p. 41. 3 On the illustrations in Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi, which are sometimes erroneously attributed to Katsushika Hokusai himself (who used the sobriquet Taito at an earlier stage in his career before ceding it to his disciple, who became known as Taito II, in 1820), see Suzuki, Ehon to ukiyoe, pp. 239-243, and Ueda, ‘Nihon ni okeru’. 4 A ‘collector’s edition’ (aizōban) of Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi, using the Bunzan translation, was published in 2005-06: Ochiai, ed., Kanpon sangokushi. 5 The translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi is named as ‘Bunzan of Konan’ in the work’s preface, and in keeping with the text’s own attribution, I have chosen to refer to him as a single individual in this paper. I should note that Tokuda Takeshi has proposed that ‘Bunzan’ is a collective name for a pair of brothers who were monks and active translators in late seventeenth century Japan. As Nagao Naoshige has demonstrated, however, it is more precise to say that ‘Bunzan’ refers to the elder brother alone. That being said, there is abundant evidence that both brothers (and perhaps others) contributed to the translation of Tsūzoku sangokushi. I discuss this complicated issue later in this section of the paper.

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after the text’s appearance, Japan would witness a tremendous boom in Tōwagaku (the study of spoken Chinese). Beginning in the second decade of the eighteenth century, several speaking societies were formed where eager learners sought the direct tutelage of Qing émigrés or the guidance of those whose work in commercial or diplomatic interpretation had given them some competence in spoken Chinese. Amid the stimulus that such new attention to Chinese as a spoken language brought, some traditionally schooled Confucian scholars such as Ogyū Sorai (1666-1728) came to advocate radically new linguistic approaches to canonical Chinese texts: rejecting conventional methods of approaching Literary Sinitic through the long-established kundoku reading technique and insisting instead on the importance of encountering Sinitic texts in their unmitigated foreignness.6 Intertwined with these developments was the emergence of interest in Chinese vernacular fiction. At first, many readers looked to these texts principally as a means to attain competence in the spoken Chinese language: an endeavor that was often part of a larger philological project to engage with canonical Literary Sinitic texts. But from the 1720s onward, the study of vernacular fiction and the acquisition of facility with spoken Chinese increasingly became seen as worthy goals in and of themselves. Whether motivated mainly by a desire to employ vernacular knowledge as a means of shedding light on the distant textual past or instead as a window on contemporary China, numerous scholars active through the first half of the eighteenth century collectively compiled a host of reference materials for the study of the spoken language and for reading vernacular texts. Their efforts are apparent in the meticulous translations of and commentaries on celebrated works of vernacular fiction, such as Shui hu zhuan and Xi you ji that appeared from the late 1720s through the 1760s.7 Inasmuch as Tsūzoku sangokushi came many years before the emergence of the discipline of Tōwagaku, prior to the development of an audience interested specifically in reading vernacular fiction, and at a time when the work’s translator could not yet avail himself of the reference materials that became abundant just a few decades later, the translation and publication of Tsūzoku sangokushi might seem something of an anomaly. Yet in other respects, Tsūzoku sangokushi was very much the product of its time, as the particular strategies that the translator adopted in rendering the 6 For a translation and discussion of ‘Yakubun sentei’, a key expression of Sorai’s ideas, see Emanuel Pastreich, ‘Grappling with Chinese Writing’; and Yuan Ye’s contribution to this volume. 7 For a thorough examination of Japanese scholars’ efforts to study and translate Shui hu zhuan in the mid-eighteenth century, see William C. Hedberg, ‘Reclaiming the Margins’ and ‘Separating the Word and the Way’.

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text into Japanese reveal. This paper examines the context in which Tsūzoku sangokushi was translated and what it can tell us about Japanese readership of Chinese texts just prior to the explosion of interest in vernacular fiction. Focusing on the approach of the translator in omitting certain passages, supplementing others, and reshaping the overall structural organization of the text, I argue that the translation of Tsūzoku sangokushi was motivated not so much by interest in the work as a formal or linguistic exemplar of vernacular narrative but rather for its lively account of a story loosely based on historical events. In contrast to the early modern Japanese translators of Chinese vernacular fiction active in later generations, the translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi made little effort to introduce unfamiliar locutions to his readers or to enlighten them about characteristic generic features of Chinese vernacular narrative. The translator’s privileging of content over form is evident not only in the particular approaches he employed but also in paratextual features of the text such as its preface. Yet in spite of his apparent lack of interest in highlighting the source text’s status as a vernacular text, the translator was sensitive to its internal hybridity. Moreover, he was keenly aware of his target language’s multiplicity of registers and endeavored to exploit certain features of Japanese, such as an elaborate system of honorifics, that made the narrative come alive for his readers.

Tsūzoku sangokushi and early translations of popular Chinese historical tales Tsūzoku sangokushi is the first of a group of translations from Chinese historical fiction that were made and published in quick succession in Japan from the late seventeenth to the early eighteenth century. This body of Japanese translations has been given various names by scholars. Some use a term found in contemporary bibliographies, referring to the category as gunsho 軍書 (military works), for many of the texts focus on narratives drawn from periods of conflict and upheaval in Chinese history. One eminent authority on early modern Japanese literary negotiations with vernacular Chinese fiction, Tokuda Takeshi, has proposed a more precise term, tsūzoku gundan 通俗軍談 (popularized military tales), indicating that they are translations (or, especially in later stages, adaptations) of vernacular novels that trace Chinese historical episodes: either yanyi 演義 (Jp. engi; ‘explication’) or jiangshi 講史 (Jp. kōshi; ‘historical recounting’).8 As the tsūzoku in Tokuda’s 8 Tokuda, Nihon kinsei shōsetsu, pp. 9-61.

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term highlights, these translated texts were intended as ‘popularizations’, and this feature is also central to the term that another prominent scholar, Nagao Naoshige, has proposed for the category: zenki tsūzokumono 前期通俗 物 (early popularizations).9 Whether defined in terms that highlight their distinctive subject matter or instead focus upon their chronological primacy in Japanese literary history, the body of Japanese translations of Chinese historical fiction that Tokuda and Nagao describe, a group of texts with Tsūzoku sangokushi as its forerunner, can be meaningfully contrasted with the translations of vernacular fiction that began to appear after the boom in vernacular study. Part of this shift from yanyi to non-yanyi sources can be explained in terms of accessibility. While Sanguozhi yanyi is typically classified as a vernacular novel, like many other yanyi works it contains far fewer colloquial expressions than a work such as Shui hu zhuan (Outlaws of the Marsh, or The Water Margin).10 One of the principal reasons that Sanguozhi yanyi and other historical texts were translated at this early stage in Japanese engagement with vernacular works is their relative amenability to translators still not fully at home with the particular linguistic forms and conventions of Chinese vernacular fiction.11 So who was (or were) the translator(s) of this text? The translation’s preface itself identifies it as the work of a certain Bunzan 文山 of Konan 湖南, about whom virtually nothing is known, though the toponym Konan presumably refers to the area south of Lake Biwa.12 In this 1689 preface, Bunzan explains 9 Nagao, ‘“Zenki tsūzokumono” shōkō’, p. 40; see also Nagao, Honpō, p. 154. 10 As Takashima Toshio points out, the frequency of vernacular expressions in Romance of the Three Kingdoms is relatively low for a vernacular narrative. Noting that there were very few Japanese competent in spoken Chinese at the time the translation appeared, he explains, ‘The reason why it was nevertheless possible to translate Romance of the Three Kingdoms is because Romance of the Three Kingdoms is a vernacular narrative that makes very little use of vernacular expressions’; Takashima, ‘Bunzan’, p. 50. 11 The best analysis of the translator’s competence with vernacular Chinese locutions is Nagao Naoshige, ‘Edo jidai Genroku-ki ni okeru’, pp. 38-56, which painstakingly catalogues the various ways in which the translator handled numerous colloquial forms; see also Nagao, Honpō, pp. 232-54. Nagao concludes that the translator had good familiarity with many common vernacular particles and constructions but was less sure-footed when it came to special vernacular senses of certain substantives. Nagao makes the reasonable inference that a major source of the translator’s facility with vernacular phrasing came from his exposure to records of Zen masters’ sayings. For a less charitable view, see Takashima, ‘Bunzan’. 12 Nagao Naoshige speculates that Konan may refer to Ōmi 近江 province towns such as Ōtsu, Awazu, or Zeze; see Nagao, ‘Tsūzoku sangokushi jussaku’, note 1. I might note that the preface to Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi gives the toponym associated with Bunzan as Kōnan 江南, rather than Konan 湖南. This may simply be a mistake, but given that 江 was used as an abbreviation for Ōmi (as in the province’s Sinif ied name Gōshū 江州), it seems possible to read Kōnan as

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what motivated him to undertake the work, indicates his sources, and also suggests his intended audience: 夫史所以載道垂鑒於後世也。故君臣之善悪、政事之得失、邦家之治亂、人才之可

否、無一而録焉。凡讀史者、讀至其忠處、便思自己忠與不忠、讀至其孝處、便思 自己孝與不孝、而不忘勸懲警懼之心、則修身之要、豈外焉哉。嗚呼漢室傾頹之

日、宦官弄權、而壞亂國經、奸雄鷹揚、而割據州郡。偉哉照烈、身起于涿郡、結 義桃園、顧賢草廬、創成大業、而使天下猶知有漢、其功可謂大也矣。痛哉。後主

失德、而讒佞毀忠、遂爲亡虜、而社稷一旦休、豈不惜哉。予毎讀史未嘗不嘆息痛

恨於此間。況三國人才之盛、後世鮮及焉。而其眞僞曲直炳然於百千載之後者乎。 故暇日本於東原羅貫中之説、參考陳壽之傳、而講演文義、分爲五十卷、目之曰通 俗三國志。 始于漢建寧、終于晉大康。雖俚詞曼説不足以發蘊奧，要使幼學易解 焉而已。洛汭有嘉長翁、淳樸而好古、與予結方外之交、累次請予、鋟諸梓而流後

昆矣。實雖不免剡藤可憐之誚、讀之者、苟有善以爲勸、惡以爲警、則幸予之原志 也哉。元祿已巳孟夏湖南文山識

History conveys the Way, leaving instructive examples for future generations. This is why when it comes to the good and evil of lords and vassals, the successes and failures of government affairs, the order and disorder of states, and the acceptability and inadequacy of human abilities, there is not a single thing that history does not record. For those who read a history, when they come to a section showing earnest loyalty, they will contemplate their own earnest loyalty or lack thereof. When readers come to a section that discusses filial piety, they will think about their own filial piety or lack thereof. To never lose one’s mindfulness about rewards and punishments, warning and fear, is the essence of cultivating the self. How can it be anything other than this? Alas, in those days when the Han imperial house declined and fell, the eunuchs wielded their authority to disturb and disorder the continuity of the state. Scheming opportunists fierce and mighty divided the realm by force. How awesome was Zhaolie [i.e., Liu Bei], who came from Zhuo prefecture, concluded a pact of loyalty in the Peach Garden, sought out a worthy at his grass hut, and achieved a great enterprise that made all under heaven realize that the Han still existed. His deeds can be called magnificent. How heart-rending that his successor lost virtue and that slanderous and obsequious individuals destroyed loyalty ultimately making him prisoner. With this, the altars of the state were temporarily suspended: how can this be anything but meaning ‘southern Ōmi’, thus lending additional support to the identification of Bunzan with the Ōmi area.

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regrettable!? Whenever I have read the histories, I have without fail sighed in anguished pain over this section. This is especially true because the Three Kingdoms era was replete with talented men: such that few later eras have seen its equal. Their truth and falsity, their propriety and corruption are shiningly clear hundreds or thousands of years later. For this reason, in my leisure time, based upon Luo Guanzhong of Dongyuan’s account, I have consulted with the treatment of Chen Shou, and expansively discoursed upon the text’s meaning. I have divided the work into 50 chapters and given it the title A Popularized History of the Three Kingdoms. It begins with the Jianning era of Han and concludes with the Daikang era of Jin. Although rustic diction and wild theories do not merit the expenditure of learning, I have only sought to make the text easier to understand for young learners. In the capital region there is an old man named Kachō.13 A pure and honest man who is fond of antiquity, he has formed exceptional bonds of friendship with me. He has repeatedly asked me to allow the text to be carved into woodblocks and disseminated to the world. Truly though I shall be unable to escape the criticism of having wasted precious paper, if those who read this are able to take the instances of good as sources of encouragement and the instances of evil as sources of chastisement, then such fortune will be in accord with my original intention.

An essay by Tanaka Taikan (1710-35), a scholar and early enthusiast of Chinese vernacular fiction, provides the only other extant information on the circumstances of the text’s translation: Among recent works in the national language [i.e., Japanese], there is one called A Popularized History of the Three Kingdoms [Tsūzoku sangokushi]. It is a translation from Luo Guanzhong’s Explication [Yanyi] into the national language. It was written by a Tenryūji monk named Gitetsu 義 轍, but his courtesy name is unknown. … He had a younger brother who was also a monk. The latter’s courtesy name was Getsudō 月堂, but his name is unknown. It seems that Gitetsu created the first draft, but he died before the work was completed. Getsudō continued the task and brought it to completion, ultimately having it published.14 13 The term Rakuzei 洛汭 may refer to the Kyoto region as a whole or may refer more specifically to an area near the confluence of two rivers. 14 The first to call attention to Taikan zuihitsu in relation to Tsūzoku sangokushi was Ishizaki Matazō, who concluded from the passage quoted here that the younger brother Getsudō continued the work of his late brother Gitetsu and eventually published the translation, and that ‘Bunzan’ referred to the younger brother; see Ishizaki, Kinsei Nihon, p. 160.

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If Taikan’s account is accurate, then it would seem that ‘Bunzan’, whose name and seals appear at the end of the preface to Tsūzoku sangokushi, is a kind of collective term of reference for the two brothers Taikan identifies as the text’s translators, Gitetsu and Getsudō. Tokuda Takeshi has marshalled both internal and external evidence to make a strong case that Gitetsu and Getsudō are identical to a pair of brothers named (Mubaiken) Shōhō 夢梅 軒章峯 and (Shōkōken) Kian 称好軒徽庵, who translated Zhen Wei’s Xi Han tongsu yanyi as Tsūzoku Kan So gundan 通俗漢楚軍談 in 1695. According to the colophon of this latter work, its first seven juan were translated by the elder brother, Shōhō, and the last eight by the younger brother, Kian, after Shōhō had died. In addition to the close resemblance between these circumstances and those that Taikan describes for the translation of Tsūzoku sangokushi, Tokuda notes several distinctive stylistic features that further link the two translations, such as the fact that both aim at a faithful rendition of the text into classical Japanese but nevertheless preserve certain famous aphorisms and sayings in Literary Sinitic (with kundoku glosses). Moreover, a colophon by the younger brother Kian to Ryō Kan kiji [A record of the Former and Latter Han], a translation of Quan Han zhizhuan that he went on to publish independently in 1699, indirectly suggests a further link between the brothers and Tsūzoku sangokushi.15 Finally, Tokuda compares the sections of Tsūzoku Kan So gundan translated by Shōhō with those translated by Kian and concludes that the elder brother esteems concision and faithfulness to the original text while the younger brother occasionally expands or embellishes: a stylistic difference that he finds reproduced in two contrasting types of translation approaches that are employed in Tsūzoku sangokushi as well. 15 In the preface, Kian writes, ‘Ever since the era of the three sovereigns and the five emperors, the good and evil deeds of men have been conveyed in historical records. These all serve as guidelines for cultivating the self, as standards for the proper mind. Already many years have passed since my predecessor [先人], concerned that these works were difficult for young learners to understand, undertook to discourse upon the individuals of the Han, Chu, and Three Kingdoms periods, adding glosses and explanations, and had these printed and disseminated throughout the world. I have regretted that there was a section missing from them, and so I have taken advantage of leisure time to record the events of the four hundred odd years of the Former and Latter Han, giving the result the name A record of the Former and Latter Han.’ In interpreting Kian’s colophon, Tokuda argues that the ‘predecessor’ is Kian’s elder brother Shōhō. The two texts Kian attributes to this predecessor can furthermore be identified with the translated texts Tsūzoku Kan So gundan and Tsūzoku sangokushi, and in at least the former case, we know that Shōhō and Kian both contributed to that translation. Given the Qin to early Han focus of the former text and the post-Han focus of the latter, Kian’s justification for translating a volume concerned with the Former and Latter Han to fill in a ‘missing’ section of Chinese history makes sense.

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Several of Tokuda’s findings have been substantiated by the work of Nagao Naoshige, who concurs that the brothers Gitetsu and Getsudō are Shōhō and Kian. Yet it is important to note that Nagao rejects one of Tokuda’s central contentions and has provided solid evidence that ‘Bunzan’, the individual who signed the preface to Tsūzoku sangokushi, refers solely to the elder brother, Shōhō, and not to both brothers, as Tokuda had concluded. By deciphering the highly stylized inscriptions on the seals adorning Bunzan’s preface to Tsūzoku sangokushi (reading ‘Shōhō’ and ‘Mubaiken’) and those appearing after (Mubaiken) Shōhō’s preface to Tsūzoku Kan So gundan (reading ‘Bunzan’ and ‘Mubaiken’), Nagao furnished the clinching proof that identified ‘Bunzan’ and (Mubaiken) Shōhō as a single individual. Nagao also cast further doubt upon the reliability of Taikan’s account, showing how its version of events is difficult to reconcile with datable clues from the brothers’ extant translations. Concluding that Taikan zuihitsu cannot be taken at face value, Nagao wondered if perhaps, when Taikan made reference to the brothers’ collaborative translation of Tsūzoku sangokushi, he was actually recalling the way in which the brothers divided the work of translating Tsūzoku Kan So gundan.16 Nagao’s finding that ‘Bunzan’ is a sobriquet used specifically by the elder of the two brothers, rather than a collective term for them both, appears to be unshakable. Yet in the numerous articles that he has published on the text over succeeding years, Nagao seems to have gradually come to embrace a more collaborative vision of the brothers’ translation enterprise, even in relation to Tsūzoku sangokushi.17 He has gone on to elucidate, for example, that the brothers’ styles, Mubaiken and Shōkōken, both derive from the world of Three Kingdoms.18 In other words, even though the preface of 16 Nagao, ‘“Zenki tsūzokumono” shōkō’, esp. pp. 42-47; Nagao, ‘Tsūzokumono kenkyūshi ryaku’, p. 61. In the latter article, Nagao notes that Meiji literatus Kōda Rohan came close but did not quite decipher the seal inscription; see pp. 48-49. See also Nagao, Honpō, pp. 162-9, 177, and 160-1. 17 Nagao, ‘Edo jidai Genroku-ki’, part 1, esp. pp. 53-4; Nagao, ‘Edo jidai Genroku-ki’, part 2, esp. pp. 12-16. In 2019, Nagao published his several decades’ worth of articles on Three Kingdoms in Japan in revised form as a book: Honpō ni okeru Sangokushi engi juyō no shosō. Because I wrote this paper prior to that book’s appearance, I have maintained my references to the research Nagao originally published in article form while also adding cross-references to corresponding sections of his monograph as appropriate. Here, the relevant sections of the book are pp. 256-58 and pp. 278-86. 18 Nagao, ‘Kinsei ni okeru’, pp. 65-7. The elder brother Shōhō’s sobriquet Mubaiken 夢梅軒 refers to Lou Zibo, also known as ‘The Hermit who Dreams of Plum Blossoms’ 夢梅居士, a recluse who presents himself to Cao Cao at the outset of Chapter 59 to recommend a strategy; see TK pp. 687-690. The younger brother Kian’s sobriquet Shōkōken 称好軒 refers to an episode in Chapter 35 concerning Sima Hui and his tendency to exclaim ‘Good!’ frequently; see TK, pp. 417-19.

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Tsūzoku sangokushi attributes the work to a single individual – the elder brother ‘Bunzan’, i.e. (Mubaiken) Shōhō – the translation was probably not the work of a single hand. The younger brother, (Shōkōken) Kian, seems to have played a more than trivial role in the text’s creation, and not simply as one who finished the last installments after his brother’s demise.19 If Bunzan (by which I mean the attributed translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi, whose younger brother seems to have contributed substantially to the effort) was still not fully at home with the distinctive locutions and conventions of vernacular narrative, such unfamiliarity could only have been more pronounced in the case of the readers of his translation. Rather than foreground the linguistically or generically unfamiliar to an audience whose interest in it had yet to be piqued, Bunzan sought for the most part to present the text in forms of Japanese that would be recognizable and seem natural to his readers. This is not to say, however, that the result is homogeneous, for the translation in fact exploits a range of target language registers that parallel distinctions within the source text itself. While a vernacular narrative, Romance of the Three Kingdoms quotes many famous speeches, documents, and poems that appear in earlier Literary Sinitic historical works, beginning with Chen Shou’s Sanguozhi (The History of the Three Kingdoms).20 The Japanese translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi chose to reproduce the novel’s quotations from earlier sources intact, adding kunten marks to indicate how they could be read according to kundoku practice.21 In the fifth installment, for example, when Yuan Shao is chosen to lead the confederation that will fight against Dong Zhuo, he offers a pledge, the text of which appears in Chen Shou’s The History of the Three Kingdoms. This pledge text is quoted verbatim in Romance of the Three Kingdoms and is also reproduced intact, with kunten marks, in Tsūzoku sangokushi.22 The 19 A clear statement of this conclusion is in Nagao, ‘Tsūzokumono kenkyūshi ryaku’, p. 62. Another hypothesis that Nagao has proposed is that the translation came from a ‘workshop with Bunzan (i.e. Shōhō) at its center’; see Nagao, ‘Edo jidai Genroku-ki’, part 1, p. 54; and Honpō, p. 257. 20 Chen Shou’s The History of the Three Kingdoms was read in Japan from the very earliest period of literacy. A passage from the Shoku Nihongi mentions that the emperor ordered a copy of the text sent to Dazaifu in 769, and the 720 Nihon shoki also quotes from the text. Zakō Jun has in fact even argued that the organization of the Nihon shoki was itself informed by that of Chen Shou’s history; see Zakō, Sangokushi to Nihonjin, ch. 1. 21 The translator did not necessarily always return to the original source of the quoted material, for he repeats errors in the quoted texts appearing in Romance of the Three Kingdoms that he would not have committed had he quoted directly from The History of the Three Kingdoms; see Nagao, ‘Tsūzoku sangokushi jussaku’, p. 126. 22 LZS I:245, V:5a; ETS I: 108, maki 2; cf TK 61. I cite Sanguozhi yanyi using the pagination of Tokuda Takeshi’s modern parallel edition, which pairs the photo-reprinted Li Zhuowu text and

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translation’s numerous duplications of Romance’s quotations from earlier Literary Sinitic materials in fact enabled Tokuda Takeshi to pinpoint the translator’s source text as Li Zhuowu xian sheng pi ping San guo zhi, an edition of Romance of the Three Kingdoms containing Li Zhuowu’s commentary.23 By reproducing in this way the novel’s quotation of Literary Sinitic letters, memorials, and other formal documents, the translation emphasizes a distinction in register between these written texts and the surrounding narrative. For this main narrative text that constitutes the bulk of the translation, the translator chose a Sinified form of classical Japanese. Consider Liu Bei’s first encounter with Zhang Fei in the opening chapter, which the original narrates as follows: 隨後一人、厲聲而言曰：「大丈夫不與國家出力、何故長嘆！」

Just then, someone called out in a stern voice: ‘A real man who does not exert himself for his state has no reason to heave such long sighs.’24

The Japanese rendition of this interaction is quite similar; many words from the original appear in the translation, with a few minor shifts of phrasing to make the passage clearer as Japanese: 後よりおおいなる聲をあげて、 「大丈夫の士、國のために力を出ださずして何事を か長嘆するぞ」と詞をかくる者あり。25

From behind there was somebody who raised a booming voice to say: ‘A real man who does not exert himself on behalf of his country has no reason to heave such long sighs.’ the printed text of Tsūzoku sangokushi; I also provide the original pagination of the Li Zhuowu text. For ease of reference, I note the relevant section in Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi and in Moss Roberts’s translation of Three Kingdoms. 23 It was Meiji literatus Kōda Rohan (1867-1947) who f irst speculated that a text from Li Zhuowu’s line was the source of Tsūzoku sangokushi. Tokuda’s more thorough analysis led him to conclude that the translator used a text identical to one now held by the Hōsa Library; this text is reprinted in LZS. While Nagao Naoshige concurs that a Li Zhuowu edition was the source for the translation, he has also raised a few points of discrepancy that make it seem that the particular variant of the Li Zhuowu text employed by the translators was perhaps closer to one held by the Shōryōbu; see Nagao, ‘Tsūzoku sangokushi jussaku’, esp. pp. 119-21. Nevertheless, as Nagao concedes, neither match is perfect, and there is some indication that the translator consulted multiple editions. See also Nagao, Honpō, pp. 189-92. 24 LZS I: 196, I:5b; cf TK 11. 25 ETS I: 14, maki 1.

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To take two examples from this passage, the term daijōfu 大丈夫 had first entered Japanese with its original sense of ‘a real man’ intact, but had subsequently acquired distracting alternative senses in the late medieval period; the translator’s slight shift to daijōfu no shi 大丈夫の士 makes the meaning unambiguous. Similarly, kokka 國家 in the sense of state (and metonymically the Emperor) was a well-known usage in Japan, but additional Edo period meanings (as a rank of daimyo for example) had accrued to the word; the translator’s choice of kuni 國 resolves any uncertainty. These two examples may seem trivial, but they reveal an important feature of the text’s translational approach. If the translator had instead chosen to use these two Chinese terms from the novel unmodified, his readers may have been momentarily jarred but they would surely have been able to surmise the intended meanings, which remain latent in Japanese. Yet rather than meticulously preserving the original diction and thereby modeling authentic Chinese usage, the translator instead chose to create a smooth reading experience of the text as Japanese.26 In other words, the translation is not intended to instruct the reader in normative Chinese usage for familiar terms nor does it attempt to introduce the reader to unfamiliar locutions. As this passage shows, the style of Japanese that the translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi employed for the main narrative is a rather Sinified form of classical Japanese, but it is neither pure kanbun kakikudashibun nor kundokutai.27 By this I mean first of all that, in contrast to some later approaches to translating vernacular Chinese where the diction of the original text was scrupulously preserved and new kundoku glosses were fashioned to deal with vernacular turns of phrase, there is no attempt in 26 In his brief description of the Bunzan translation, Emanuel Pastreich notes that it ‘puts emphasis on domesticating the source rather than introducing unfamiliar Chinese equivalents’; see Pastreich, The Observable Mundane, p. 63. See also Venuti’s discussion of Friedrich Schleiermacher’s classic distinction between ‘domesticating’ and ‘foreignizing’ approaches to translation in Lawrence Venuti, The Translator’s Invisibility, pp. 15-16. 27 Scholars such as Saitō Mareshi and Kotajima Yōsuke have provided a useful distinction between kakikudashibun (also called kundokubun, a Japanese rendition that is produced by applying the kundoku methodology of interpretive reading to a given Sinitic text) and kanbun kundokutai (or simply kundokutai, a style of Japanese similar to what would be produced through the application of kundoku but where there is no Sinitic text whence the Japanese rendition is derived). For example, when Fukuzawa Yukichi wrote the early Meiji bestseller Gakumon no susume (An Encouragement of Learning, 1871) he wrote it in kanbun kundokutai (the Japanese text he authored is the original text, it does not derive from a Sinitic source); see Kotajima, Nihon kindaishi, pp. 12-13; and Saitō, p. 92. The translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi was of course working with an original text, but his translation both departs from the original’s sentence structure and also incorporates Japanese words that are not used in kanbun reading practice.

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Tsūzoku sangokushi to offer one-to-one equivalents of lexical items from the original text. Moreover, while the translation’s style uses a high degree of Sinitic vocabulary and grammatical structures derived from kundoku, its sentences often incorporate Japanese tense and aspect markers, native vocabulary, and other Japanese linguistic forms that would not be produced through conventional kundoku reading practice. In the example above, the relative lack of colloquial locutions in the original sentence means that it could easily have been rendered by the translator into something closer to straightforward kakikudashibun, and yet such an approach is eschewed in favor of a more idiomatic Japanese narrative line. In general, the content of the translation comes very close to a complete translation of the original text, though there are some consistent omissions. Whereas the original novel contains many instances of poems composed by later individuals about the episodes depicted, Tsūzoku sangokushi dispenses with these entirely. On the other hand, the translation does preserve intact the original text (with kunten) of the poems that are held to have been composed or recited by the characters, the contemporaneous children’s songs that are occasionally referenced as prophesies, and other instances where verse is somehow directly implicated in events unfolding at the diegetic level.28 In other words, it is only the extradiegetic poems that the narrator of Romance of the Three Kingdoms adduces that are systematically excised from the translation. A characteristic feature of vernacular narratives, such extradiegetic poems are often introduced by a formulaic expression such as, ‘A later person wrote a poem praising this’ 後人有詩讚曰, but this and other generic features of Romance of the Three Kingdoms as a vernacular text were not preserved in the translation. Perhaps the most obvious differences are structural. The base Li Zhuowu text comprises 120 hui, each of which is divided into two parts with a sevencharacter title for each half. These headings are largely preserved in Tsūzoku sangokushi, which with rare exception translates the headings into Japanese in such a way as to closely maintain the original wording. Yet the entire text of Tsūzoku sangokushi has been rearranged from its original format to comprise fifty maki, each individual maki containing about five or six of the original’s sub-units. A much more significant shift is that within each 28 For example, when Former Emperor Shao and his mother are in captivity, their poetic compositions are quoted verbatim in the translation (LZS I:233-34, IV:3a-4a; ETS I:83-88; cf TK 49-50); similarly the contemporaneous children’s ditty concerning the Emperor’s exodus to Luoyang (LZS I:224, III:7b; ETS I:63; TK 39) or another concerning the potential relocation of the Emperor to Chang’an (LZS I: 256, VI.1b; ETS I:129, maki 2; TK 72) are both quoted verbatim in the translation.

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of the discrete titled units drawn from the Li Zhuowu text headings, the boundaries of the narrated content have been reshaped. Specifically, one consistent choice made by the translator was to eliminate the suspenseful chapter endings that characterize many vernacular narratives. For example, the original’s first installment ends just after the three brothers have gallantly entered into battle to assist Imperial Corps Commander Dong Zhuo, who is being attacked by Zhang Jue, one of the Yellow Bandit leaders. Though the brothers have saved his life, Dong Zhuo arrogantly dismisses them as soon as he learns of their relatively low station, which leads to a dramatic climax: 張飛大怒曰：「我等親赴血戰、救了這廝、到覷人如無物！吾不殺之、難解怒氣！」 提刀入帳來殺董卓。試看董卓性命如何、且聽下回分解。

Zhang Fei was infuriated and said, ‘We risked our lives in bloody combat to save that wretch, but he looks down on us like we’re nothing! Unless I kill him, I won’t be able to resolve my anger!’ Sword in hand, he made to enter Dong Zhuo’s enclosure and kill him. What will be the fate of Dong Zhuo? Listen to the next chapter and find out.29

The translation Tsūzoku sangokushi adheres closely to the content and language of the original but removes the exciting, suspended resolution: 張飛おおいに怒り、 「われら血を流して大敵を破り、彼が辛き命を救いたるに、た

とえ恩賞こそなくとも、何とて芥のごとくに軽んずるぞ。われこの賊を殺さん」と

て、矛を舞わして入らんとするを、関羽急に引きとどめ、玄徳諫めて申されけるは、

「彼は官高き朝廷の臣、ことに許多の軍馬を領す。われらもしこれを殺さば、か ならず謀叛人と呼ばわるべし」

Zhang Fei was infuriated and said, ‘We shed our blood defeating a great adversary in order to save his hateful life. He doesn’t have to offer any reward, but why should he look down on us like trash!? I intend to kill this scoundrel!’ Wielding his halberd, he made to enter Dong Zhuo’s headquarters but Guan Yu suddenly stopped him and Xuande remonstrated saying, ‘He is a vassal of the court with a high office and has many soldiers and horses. If we kill him, we will certainly be called traitors.’30 29 LZS I:202, I:12a. cf TK 18. 30 ETS I:26, maki 1.

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In the original, the resolution of the climax only comes in the first lines of the next installment, which resumes the action after a brief explanation of Dong Zhuo’s background and his haughty demeanor: 自來驕傲於人、以至張飛性發、欲殺董卓。關公急抱住。玄德叱之曰：「我等皆白 身之人、他是朝廷命官、掌握許多人馬。汝今殺之、將欲反耶？」

Arrogant by nature, he lorded over others, and this sparked Zhang Fei’s anger, making him want to kill Dong Zhuo. Lord Guan suddenly stopped him short and Xuande scolded him, saying, ‘We are all men of no status. He is an official with the court’s mandate and he is in charge of many men and horses. If you kill him, then won’t you be committing rebellion?’31

Whereas the cliffhanger of the original is removed in the translation by shifting the resolution of the dramatic situation from the successive installment to the previous, the reverse strategy is evident in the cliffhanger that ends the second installment. In the original, an indecisive He Jin solicits opinions about how to handle the eunuchs, and after listening to two conflicting strategies is surprised to hear another voice level an objection: 傍邊一人鼓掌大笑曰：「此事易如反掌、何必多議!」視之、乃曹操也。進曰：「有何 高見？」不知曹操甚話來且聽下回分解

Beside him another man clapped his hands and laughed out loud: ‘This matter is as simple as turning over your hand; what need is there to debate it?’ Those present looked and saw that it was Cao Cao. He Jin said, ‘What kind of great strategy do you have?’ If you do not know what Cao Cao said, then listen to the next episode and find out.32

The original keeps us waiting until the next installment to hear Cao Cao declare: 宦者之禍古今皆有

The scourge of the eunuchs has been with us in the past as in the present.33 31 LZS I:204, II:1a. cf TK 19. 32 LZS I:216; II:12b. cf TK 33. 33 LZS I:217; III:1a. cf TK 34.

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In Tsūzoku sangokushi, by contrast, the entire scene involving He Jin’s consultation with his officers is shifted to the beginning of the next section, where Cao Cao’s interjection is narrated as follows: 一人手を打っておおいに笑い、 「このこときわめて易し、長詮議無用なり」と言うも のあり。諸人これを見れば曹操なり。何進問うていわく、 「汝いかなる計かある」曹 操答えて、 「内官の禍は古今みなかくのごとし」

There was another man who clapped his hands and laughed, saying, ‘This matter is extremely simple. There is no need to debate it at length.’ Those assembled looked and saw that it was Cao Cao. He Jin asked, ‘What kind of scheme do you have?’ Cao Cao replied, ‘The scourge of the eunuchs has always been like this from the past to the present.’34

These changes are systematic and complete; all of the cliffhanger endings that appear in the original text have been removed in Tsūzoku sangokushi. Why did the translator expend considerable effort to rearrange the beginnings and endings of each section to eliminate these cliffhanger endings? While these changes to the structure of the text might seem to deprive readers of one of the main thrills of reading vernacular fiction, it is important to remember that an audience specifically interested in vernacular narrative did not yet exist in Japan. Like the translator’s removal of the extradiegetic poems, his rearrangement of narrative content to do away with these suspenseful chapter breaks suggests that these formal features of vernacular narrative were not deemed essential or definitive generic characteristics; an audience not yet familiar with vernacular fiction conventions would not have been disappointed by their absence but might have been confused, or even put off, by their presence. Inasmuch as Tsūzoku sangokushi was billed as a popularization of a historical narrative, the cliffhanger endings might have struck serious readers as an unbecoming remnant of more plebeian oral performance traditions, for example, and the extradiegetic poems might have seemed a superfluous and unsubstantiated departure from the text’s narrative world.35 More than formal fidelity to the original’s suspenseful chapter breaks, the translator privileged the narrated content itself. Putting aside aesthetic 34 ETS I:50-51, maki 1. 35 Zakō Jun suggests that Bunzan’s removal of these vestiges of oral performance may have been undertaken to make the work appear more respectful to a samurai readership; see Zakō, Sangokushi to Nihonjin, pp. 82-83. Compare this to the approach Okajima Kanzan took a few decades later in Taiheiki engi, ending each hui suspensefully, as discussed by William Hedberg in this volume.

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questions, it is undeniable that the result of deleting such interruptions was a more coherent account of any given episode: one in which the presentation, exposition, and resolution of a given conflict occurred together. The possibility that clarity and coherence was a motivating factor is suggested by the fact that various other types of revision seem to have been intended to make the resulting translation more logical and easier to follow. A wellknown example concerns an episode from Cao Cao’s campaign against Zhang Xiu. With the men on his march short of water, Cao Cao concocted a plan to allay their thirst, telling them that just ahead lay a plum grove: a trick that induced them to salivate in expectation and forget their thirst. In the original, this episode is recounted by Cao Cao retrospectively in Chapter 21, but in Tsūzoku sangokushi it is instead incorporated into the narrative context of the campaign itself.36 Coherence, completeness, and intelligibility also guided the translator in the additions he made to the translation. In some cases, he filled in missing information, adding relevant dates that he had gleaned from historical texts. In other cases, he inserted asides to remind the reader who characters were and what connection their previous deeds may have had upon their present circumstances. In the sixth chapter of the original, for example, Sun Jian retrieves the imperial seal from the body of a woman who has jumped into a well to protect it amid the chaos. Yuan Shao learns that Sun Jian has taken the seal and confronts him, but Sun Jian swears to Heaven that he does not possess the seal. In the following chapter, Sun Jian pursues Lu Gong and unwittingly steps into an ambush: 堅拍馬追趕呂公。見道交雜。不知去處。堅欲上山。山上石子亂下、林中亂箭倶 發。堅體中石、箭、腦漿迸流、人馬皆死于峴山之内。壽止三十七歳。時漢獻帝初 平三年。歳在辛未。十一月初七日。

Jian struck his horse and chased after Lu Gong. He saw that the path became twisted and he couldn’t see where Lu had gone. Jian started to climb the mountain when from atop the mountain came a wild cascade of boulders and from within the woods came a torrent of arrows let fly at once. Jian’s body was struck by the rocks and arrows, his brains dashed from his head. Both man and horse died on Mt. Xian. He was just thirty-seven years. The time was the third year of Chuping in the reign of 36 The retrospective account of the episode in the original is LZS II:172, 21:2b; ETS II:260, maki 9; TS 258. The inclusion of the episode in the contemporaneous narrative is ETS II:170, maki 7; cf LZS II:132-33, 17:12a-b; TS 218-19.

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Emperor Xian of Han. The year was the eighth in the cycle. The seventh day of the eleventh month.37

The translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi renders this section with a few important additions: ここにいたりてたちまち敵のゆくえを見失い、馬を打って真平地に上らんとすると

き、大石をなげおろすこと蝗の飛ぶが如く、四方の林の陰より矢をはなつこと雨よ りもしげければ、憐れむべし孫堅、大石にうたれて、頭を微塵にくだかれ、身に立

つ矢は蓑の毛のごとく、三十騎の兵とみな一緒に滅びにける。その年三十七歳、と きに初平三年辛未十一月七日なり。これまことに先年玉璽を盗みしとき、詐りて誓 いをなしたる天罰にやと思い合されて恐ろしけれ。

Reaching this point, he suddenly lost sight of where the enemy had gone. He struck his horse and just as he tried to ascend the mountain, great boulders were thrown down like a flying swarm of locusts, and from the shadows of the woods, arrows were let fly harsher than a downpour. Pitiful was Sun Jian, struck by giant boulders, his head dashed to pieces, and the arrows sticking out of his body like the stalks of a straw raincoat. He and his thirty mounted soldiers all perished there. He was thirty-seven years. The time was the third year of Chuping. The year was the eighth in the cycle. The seventh day of the eleventh month. How frightening, for this truly seemed as though it was divine punishment for the time when he made a false pledge after stealing the imperial seal in an earlier year.38 [Emphasis added]

In addition to adding the three figurative embellishments indicated in italics, the translator incorporated the material in the underlined section to remind readers of Sun Jian’s earlier actions in the narrative and to encourage them to reflect upon his eventual fate in light of them. As I have mentioned, the translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi was more focused on the narrated historical content of Romance of the Three Kingdoms than he was on its particular features as a vernacular text. In spite of the occasional additions and deletions, the translation is on the whole faithful to the original. Yet unlike later Japanese translators of vernacular fiction who would preserve a nearly one-to-one correspondence between lexical items in the original and the translation, the translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi made 37 LZS I:275; VII:10b; cf TK 91. 38 ETS I:173; vol. 3.

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little effort to introduce unfamiliar vernacular vocabulary. He similarly dispensed with characteristic features of vernacular narratives such as suspenseful divisions of chapters and the incorporation of extradiegetic poems. On the whole, it seems reasonable to conclude that the translator attached little importance to the source text’s status as a vernacular narrative; the reading culture of the time had yet to evince specific interest in vernacular fiction as a genre. Yet as his different strategies for translating the original’s quotation of earlier written materials (which are reproduced with kunten) and the original basic narrative (which is rendered into a heavily Sinified though natural Japanese) show, the translator was clearly mindful of the presence of multiple registers in the source text and endeavored to recreate such variety in his translation. Let us examine one further way in which the translator of Tsūzoku sangokushi created such diversity in his translation: resourcefully exploiting the elaborate system of Japanese honorifics. In a dramatic scene from chapter four of the original, Li Ru poisons the Emperor and his mother, Empress He: 帝與母何后、正在樓上嗟嘆、宮女報李儒至、帝大駭。儒執鴆酒與帝曰：「春日融 和，董太師特上壽酒。」少帝泣曰「何相逼如是也」儒曰「壽酒無疑」太后曰：「既

云壽酒，汝當先飲。」儒怒曰：「汝母子特不 飲耶？」呼左右持短刀白練於前曰：「 壽酒不飲，可領此二般！」唐妃跪告儒曰：「妾身代帝飲酒， 願公可憐母子性命。

」儒叱曰：「量汝何等，可代王死？」儒舉酒與何太后曰：「你可先飲！」后槌胷大罵 何進無謀之賊、構引董卓入京，致有今日之禍。

The Emperor and his mother Empress He were just then lamenting their situation in an upstairs room. A palace lady came to report that Li Ru had arrived. The Emperor was greatly startled. Li Ru took the poisoned wine and presented it to the Emperor, saying, ‘The spring weather is fine and bright; Dong Zhuo has made a special offering of this longevity wine.’ Emperor Shao tearfully said, ‘Why do you press us like this?’ Li Ru responded, ‘It is longevity wine, without a doubt.’ The Empress said, ‘You have already said it’s longevity wine, you ought to drink some first.’ Li Ru angrily said: ‘Why don’t you and your mother drink this?’ He called to his attendants and had them lay a short sword and some white silk in front. ‘If you don’t drink this longevity wine, then you can take these two!’ Kneeling before Li Ru, Consort Tang said, ‘I shall drink the wine in place of the Emperor: I pray that you will have mercy on the lives of mother and child.’ Li Ru rebuked her saying ‘Who do you think you are that you can die in place of the prince?’ Li Ru took the wine and presented it to Empress He, saying ‘You drink it first!’ The Empress beat her breast and

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loudly cursed He Jin as a reckless scoundrel who had let Dong Zhuo into the capital and brought about the present calamity.

The Tsūzoku sangokushi translation closely follows this sequence of events, but one of the interesting features is the translator’s subtle and shifting differentiation of honorific verbs and suffixes. In the translation below, I indicate humble forms with an underline and honorific forms with italics. このとき、何太后は弘農王と楼上に居たまいしが、宮女きたり、 「李儒が参りて候」 と言いければ、 「何事にか」と驚きたまうところに、李儒みずから毒の酒をたずさえ

きたり、弘農王にすすめて申しけるは、 「春の日融融としておもしろきおりにて候ゆ え、御心をも慰めたてまつれとて、董卓よりこの酒を送られて候」とて杯を捧げしか

ば、弘農王泣いてのたまいけるは、 「これはよも酒にてはあらじ。かならず命を縮む

る毒なるべし」李儒がいわく「これは壽酒と申して命を延ぶる薬にて候。すみやか にきこし召さるべし」何太后ののたまわく、 「汝まことに壽酒ならば、みずから試み

てのちに献れ」李儒眼を怒らしていわく、 「汝なんぞ早く飲まざる。この酒を飲まず

んばこの二色を受けよ」とて、兵に命じて練絹の縄と、短き刀とを取り出だしけれ ば、唐貴妃涙にむせんでいわく「妾ねがわくはこの酒を飲んで二人の御命にかわ

るべし」李儒声を荒らげ叱っていわく、 「汝なにものなれば彼らが命に代わらんと

言えるぞ」とて、盃をとりて何太后にすすめ、 「汝まず早く飲め」と責めければ、何 太后胸を打ちてのたまいけるは、 「わが兄何進は計なき匹夫にて、董卓を都の内 へひき入れ、かかる禍をし出だせり」

Just then, Empress He and Prince Hongnong were reposing upstairs. A palace lady came and said, ‘Li Ru has come for an audience*.’ Just as they were wondering with surprise ‘What can it be?’ Li Ru arrived personally bearing the poisoned wine. Presenting it to Prince Hongnong, he said, ‘I have been dispatched with this wine by Dong Zhuo,* who commanded me saying “It being such a lovely time of warm spring sunlight,* offer this up to soothe their majesties’ hearts.”’ Having said this, he offered up the wine, and Prince Hongnong uttered tearfully, ‘This is surely not wine. It must certainly be a poison that will shorten one’s life.’ Li Ru said ‘It is called longevity wine and is a medicine that extends one’s life.* You ought to partake of it at once.’ Empress He uttered, ‘If it truly is longevity wine, then try it yourself and then offer it to us!’ Anger showed in Li Ru’s eyes as he said, ‘Why don’t you hurry up and drink it? If you don’t drink this wine, then you’ll accept these two items!’ When he then ordered a soldier to take out a silken rope and a short sword, Consort Tang tearfully sobbed, ‘Pray that I might drink of this wine and thus spare the august lives of these two.’ Li Ru’s voice was rough as he berated her, saying ‘Just

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who do you think you are to propose that your life could take the place of theirs?’ Taking cup in hand, he thrust it toward Empress He, pressuring her, ‘You drink this now!’ Empress He beat her breast and uttered, ‘My brother He Jin was a simple man who made no plans for the future, but he took Dong Zhuo into the capital and brought about this calamity.’

Consider the ways in which the characters’ act of speaking is signified in the above passage: the translation has Li Ru use the humble form mōsu (to say) three times; the translation records the palace lady’s act of speech with the neutral iu (to say); and the speaking of the Empress and Emperor is narrated using the super-honorific notamau (to say). Yet it is not simply that characters automatically adjust their language in accord with the status of those whom they address or about whom they speak. The honorifics instead can be modulated to heighten the drama and add depth to the depiction. In this scene, when Li Ru initially offers the poisoned wine to their majesties, he uses the super-honorific kikoshimesu (to eat or drink), yet as they rebuff his offer, he becomes increasingly frustrated and hostile, switching to the plain form nomu (to drink) and eventually to the more brazen imperative form nome. In this short passage, there are also four instances (indicated with asterisks) where characters use the copula sōrō, a polite form that is common in oral recitations such as Noh. In Tsūzoku sangokushi, this word does not occur in the narrative itself but only in the speech of the characters. We find in this translation almost no desire to import colorful turns of phrase from Chinese vernacular narratives, introduce them to readers with phonetic guides and explanatory glosses, and thereby enrich the linguistic resources of Japanese. Such strategies would await the boom in spoken Chinese language studies in the next generation and the appearance of Japanese translators who would marshal their increasingly thorough knowledge of vernacular locutions to foster and cater to an audience interested in reading vernacular narrative as such. But that does not mean the translator was indifferent to or unaware of the vernacular vividness of his source. The above passage suggests one way in which the translator attempted to draw upon the Japanese language’s own multiple registers and capabilities to bring the text to life.

The impact of Bunzan’s translation Through decades of painstaking research, Nagao Naoshige has given us a detailed understanding of the reception history of Romance of the Three

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Kingdoms in Japan’s early modern period. One of Nagao’s key sources for charting the successive stages of its reception is the large body of Sinitic poetry composed by Edo period intellectuals on topics drawn from the world of Three Kingdoms (whether originating in Chen Shou’s The History of the Three Kingdoms, from Romance of the Three Kingdoms, or from other sources). In an article examining Japanese depictions of Guan Yu, for example, Nagao identifies four distinct phases that reflect shifts in the dominant images of Guan Yu, in the primary sources that were the source of these images, and in Japanese scholars’ attitudes toward the use of these materials.39 In the first phase, corresponding to 1615-88, Nagao notes that knowledge of Romance of the Three Kingdoms was limited among Japanese intellectuals but that Ōbaku émigré monks as well as artisans whom they brought with them to Japan provided one conduit for the transmission of Chinese cultural practices such as the veneration of Guan Yu as well as distinctive visual representations of him. 40 While Confucian scholars of the time continued to make reference to Guan Yu in their poetic works, the episodes they invoked derived exclusively from Chen Shou’s official history and not from Romance of the Three Kingdoms. Nagao identifies the appearance of the Bunzan translation of Romance of the Three Kingdoms as the start of the second stage (1688-1736), noting that with it ‘the Japanese reception history of Romance of the Three Kingdoms got its proper start.’41 While some Confucian scholars who ran private academies began to refer to episodes from Romance of the Three Kingdoms in their poems, Nagao discerns a persistent reluctance on the part of Confucian scholars associated with the official centers of learning and historiography to use episodes and references to anything other than Chen Shou’s official history. In the third stage (1736-1804), awareness of Romance of the Three Kingdoms came to be evident in various forms of vernacular cultural production in Japan, stimulated in part by the re-printing of the Bunzan translation in 1750 and 1785 as well as the appearance of derivative works. The impact of Romance in the visual arts, for example, is attested to by a comment in Gatan keiroku 畫譚鶏肋 (Some trivial discussions of art), a 1775 work of criticism in which the author, Nakayama Kōyō 中山高陽 (1717-80), observes that the depictions of Guan Yu that his contemporaries are creating are not based upon the 39 Nagao, ‘Edo jidai no kanshibun ni miru Kan U’; see also Honpō, pp. 323-50. 40 As further evidence for the limited knowledge about the cultural significance of Guan Yu, Nagao notes how at some point around 1664, a puzzled Mito domain scholar named Oyake Shosai 小宅処斎 (1638-74) asked the Ming refugee Zhu Shunshui 朱舜水 (1600-82) to tell him who Guandi was; see Nagao, ‘Edo jidai no kanshibun ni miru Kan U’, p. 224, and also Honpō, pp. 325-26. 41 Nagao, ‘Edo jidai no kanshibun ni miru Kan U’, p. 228; see also Honpō, p. 333.

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Figure 2.1  Tsūzoku sangokushi 通俗三國

志. Tr. Konan Bunzan 湖南文山

Kyoto: Yoshida Saburōhei 吉田三郎兵衛, 1692, fascicle 1, 1a Reproduced with permission of Kyoto University Library

Figure 2.2  Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi 繪本 通俗三國志. Tr. Konan Bunzan 湖南文山

Ed., Ikeda Tōritei 池田東籬亭 Illust., Katsushika Taito 葛飾戴斗. Osaka: Gungyokudō 群玉堂, 1836-1841. Shohen 初編, fascicle 2, 1a Reproduced with permission of Waseda University Library

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proper history by Chen Shou but refer instead to episodes in Romance of the Three Kingdoms. In the final stage (1804-1868), Nagao sees the continued popularity and influence of Romance of the Three Kingdoms as something of an exception to a broader trend of waning interest in vernacular Chinese narrative during these years. One reason for this continued interest was the appearance of the lavishly illustrated Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi from 1836 to 1841. The text of this illustrated edition is the Bunzan translation; however, whereas Bunzan had written in a combination of sparsely glossed Sinographs and katakana (see Figure 2.1), the illustrated edition recast the script in completely glossed Sinographs and hiragana (see Figure 2.2). The Bunzan translation also made occasional use of short phrases in literary Sinitic glossed with kunten reading marks, but the illustrated edition put these in Japanese syntactical order and occasionally replaced Sinographs with their vernacular Japanese readings. While the visual appearance of the two texts is strikingly different, it is important to note that the discrepancy is one of script alone; the two texts would be recited out loud identically.42 In his preface, the collator of the text, Ikeda Tōri 池田東籬 (1788-1857), explained his motivation: 夫誌者記事也。欲易讀而易曉。元祿間。有江南文山子。譯三國志。名曰通俗三 國志。梓行既久。盖又爲童蒙史學者。設讀史之階梯。及復文之考案也。故國字 漢字。幷用楷書。閭巷童子。仍或不能讀。余常有憾焉。適有浪速書肆。群玉堂主

人。亦思之。乃欲代以草書。使以易讀。請余校正之。余善其志同於余。慫慂從 之。業卒之後。主人更使蠖窟子。書之。將壽梨棗。仍恐童子難讀。復使戴斗子。圖

畫之。以雜於篇間。題曰繪本通俗三國志。冀使兒童。翫其繪而曉其書。盖其意。 猶因好色好戰。以説仁義者乎。刻成乞序。遂識其由云。旹天保六年歳在乙未秋

What is chronicled here is a record of events. To make them easier to read and easier to apprehend, a certain Bunzan of Kōnan in the Genroku period translated (Romance of the) Three Kingdoms, giving it the name A Popularized History of the Three Kingdoms. The work was surely intended for youthful and uneducated students of history, providing these learners with a ladder to the reading of history and also a device for practicing 42 For example, the f irst sentences of Figure 2.1 and Figure 2.2 would both be read aloud as “Tsuratsura hōka no kōhai o miru ni inishie yori ima ni itaru made chi kiwamaru toki wa sunawachi ran in iri, ran kiwamaru toki wa sunawachi chi ni iru”; (Carefully surveying the rise and fall of countries, it has always been true from antiquity to the present that once order reaches a peak, disorder comes, and once disorder reaches a peak, order comes).

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their composition of Literary Sinitic [復文 Jp. fukubun]. For this reason, regular script was used for both Japanese and Chinese graphs. But many of the kids you might encounter on the street are still unable to read it. I have often regretted that this is the case, but it just so happened that the proprietor of the Osaka bookseller Gungyokudō also had the same thought. He wanted to substitute grass script to make it easier to read. He asked me to collate and verify the text. I was fortunate that his intention coincided with mine. Incited, I undertook the task. After I completed the work, the proprietor then gave it to Mr. [Uchiyama] Kakkutsu to write out. We were just about to give it longevity in printing blocks but we were concerned that it would still be difficult for children to read. And so we had Mr. Taito draw illustrations for it that we could intersperse throughout the text. We named the text A Popularized History of the Three Kingdoms: An Illustrated Book. It was our hope that young people would enjoy the pictures and thereby come to understand the book. I wonder if this intention of ours might be compared to using one’s fondness for amorous or military matters to discourse upon benevolence and righteousness? When the blocks were completed, I was asked for a preface and so I have written this account of the circumstances. The sixth year of Tenpō, when the year was thirty-second in the cycle [1835]. 43

The terms ‘regular script’ 楷書 (Ch. kaishu; Jp. kaisho) and ‘grass script’ 草書 (Ch. caoshu; Jp. sōsho) of course refer to two styles of Sinographic writing, but Ikeda’s preface states that the earlier published version had used the ‘regular script’ for both Sinographs and for Japanese kana. What he must mean by this is that the earlier text had combined ‘regular script’ Sinographs with katakana whereas his new edition would combine ‘grass script’ Sinographs and hiragana. In other words, each pair of kanji and kana script styles is seen to go together, constituting a set; he frames katakana as a Japanese analogue of regular script Sinographs and hiragana as a Japanese analogue of grass script Sinographs. Though it may be difficult for modern-day readers of Japanese to believe that the cursive hiragana in Figure 2.2 could really be much easier to read than the katakana in Figure 2.1, it reflects the contemporary reality that katakana, which had been standardized centuries before hiragana would be, was nevertheless rarely used in popular works, 43 ETS 1:1, 1a-2b. A typeset transcription of the calligraphed preface can also be found in Yokoyama, Yomihon no kenkyū, 748. The latter transcription is useful but I think mistaken in two places: here I have corrected its 政国字漢字 to 故国字漢字 and its 余善甚志同於余 to 余善其志 同於余.

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remaining associated with Sinological and medical scholarship. 44 The argument advanced about expanded readership in the preface reflects the contemporaneous predominance of cursive hiragana script in published Japanese literary texts. Perhaps the choice to recast Bunzan’s plain katakana into cursive hiragana indicated a further advance in the penetration of Romance of the Three Kingdoms into Japanese cultural practice. Though ostensibly intended for an uneducated audience, this late-Edo illustrated edition of Bunzan’s translation received additional endorsement from one of the period’s great Sinologues, the poet and historian Rai San’yō (1781-1832). After the first two (of eight) installments of the illustrated edition had been published, Rai San’yō contributed a preface to the beginning of the third installment of Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi. Lavishing praise on Romance of the Three Kingdoms, which he contrasted to Shui hu zhuan, Jin ping mei, and Xi you ji for its basis in fact, San’yō noted his frustration that only the first quarter of the work had thus far been reissued in the illustrated edition. A version of Romance of the Three Kingdoms that did not narrate the deeds of Zhuge Liang was like a rendition of Taiheiki (Chronicle of the Great Peace) lacking a full accounting of Kusunoki’s affairs, he observed, and continued: 近有謀續成者、而來乞序於余。門人以其俗陋、難之曰「淸士大夫有謬引此中一

事為典、猶招人嗤譏、況為之序也」。余聞而哂曰「許之。今人動擧其迂僻經義、

陳熟詩文、無痛痒於世者、梓而行之。纔掲一紙、人輒思睡。視之此書、孰俗陋、 孰雅正、孰臭腐、孰神奇。吾寧舍彼取此」。

But recently someone intending to continue the publication came and asked me to contribute a preface. One of my disciples criticized the proposal on the basis of the work’s vulgarity and baseness, saying ‘There was a Qing scholar who once made the mistake of citing an episode that appears within that text and treating it as though it were a proper locus classicus. If even something like that can invite people’s scornful derision, then just think what writing a preface would mean!’ Hearing this I laughed and said, ‘Let me do it. These days people are liable to take up their wayward interpretations of the classics, their stale prose and poetry, or other things of no interest to the world, and publish and circulate them. Just lifting up a single sheet of paper makes a person want to go to sleep. Compare them to this book: which one is vulgar and base and which one is elegant and proper? Which one is fetid and rotten and which one is spirited and marvelous? I think I would prefer to abandon those and take this.’ 44 See Peter Kornicki, ‘Japan’s hand-written culture’, esp. pp. 279-81.

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The objection raised by San’yō’s disciple recalls the reluctance that some earlier Japanese Sinological historians had shown in incorporating reference to Romance of the Three Kingdoms in their Sinitic poetry, choosing instead to confine their allusions to episodes and phrases with proper precedent in Chen Shou’s official history. Yet San’yō boldly rejects this division. As Nagao’s analysis of the reception of Romance of the Three Kingdoms during the Edo-period shows, Bunzan’s translation had a singularly important role in spreading knowledge of the text and its world beyond a handful of isolated individuals and into the wider realm of cultural production. 45 San’yō’s unabashed enthusiasm for Romance of the Three Kingdoms and his support for this new edition of Bunzan’s translation of the text would ensure the further popularization of the work into the Meiji period and beyond. Among representative works of late imperial Chinese popular fiction, Romance of the Three Kingdoms has relatively fewer uses of vernacular expressions. The text’s comparative proximity to Literary Sinitic was clearly an important factor that facilitated the translation of this text into Japanese before the emergence of specialized scholarship on vernacular Chinese. Appearing several decades prior to the explosion of interest in Chinese vernacular fiction in Japan, the Bunzan translation of Romance of the Three Kingdoms thus targeted an audience whose interest in the genre itself had yet to be awakened. Rather than modeling vernacular Chinese usage to a Japanese audience that sought to learn about its distinctive linguistic and stylistic features, Bunzan favored a smooth ‘familiarizing’ approach to translation that elided many characteristic features of vernacular Chinese fiction such as extradiegetic poems and cliffhanger chapter endings. Yet Bunzan’s translation also showed his attentiveness to differences in register within the original, and he drew upon such resources as honorific language to recreate that vividness in Japanese.

Bibliography Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi 繪本通俗三國志. Trans. Bunzan 文山. Ed. Ikeda Tōri 池田東籬. Illus. Katsushika Taito 葛飾戴斗. (Osaka) Shinsaibashi-Bakurō-machi: Gungyokudō, 1836-1841. 75 vols. LZS Li Zhi 李贄. Li Zhuowu xian sheng pi ping San guo zhi / Ri Takugo Sensei hihyō sangokushi 李卓吾先生批評三国志. Photographic reprint of: Ke Li Zhuowu ETS

45 In a subsequent article tracing representations of Zhuge Liang, Nagao confirmed the same four-stage pattern that he discerned in his analysis of the figure of Guan Yu; see Nagao Naoshige, ‘Edo jidai no kanshibun ni miru usen kankin.’ See also Nagao, Honpō, pp. 389-411.

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pi dian san guo zhi quan xiang bai nian hui 刻李卓吾批点三国志全像百廿回 and Tsūzoku sangokushi. Ed. Tokuda Takeshi 徳田武. Taiyaku Chūgoku rekishi shōsetsu senshū 対訳中国歴史小説選集 4. Tokyo: Yumani shobō, 1984. 6 vols. TK Luo Guanzhong. Three Kingdoms: a Historical Novel. Trans. Moss Roberts. Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1994. 3 vols. Hedberg, William C. ‘Reclaiming the Margins: Seita Tansō’s Suikoden hihyōkai and the Poetics of Cross-Cultural Influence’. International Journal of Asian Studies 12.2 (2015): 193-215. —. ‘Separating the Word and the Way: Suyama Nantō’s Chūgi Suikodenkai and EdoPeriod Vernacular Philology’. The Journal of Japanese Studies 41.2 (2015): 347-71. Ishizaki Matazō 石崎又造. Kinsei Nihon ni okeru Shina zokugo bungakushi 近世日 本に於ける支那俗語文學史. Tokyo: Kōbundō, 1940. Kornicki, Peter. ‘Japan’s hand-written culture: confessions of a print addict’. Japan Forum 31.2 (2019): 272-284. Kotajima Yōsuke 古田島洋介. Nihon kindaishi o manabu tame no bungobun nyūmon: kanbun kundokutai no chihei 日本近代史を学ぶための文語文入門: 漢文訓読体の地 平. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2013. Nagao Naoshige 長尾直茂. “Edo jidai Genroku-ki ni okeru Sangokushi engi hon’yaku no ichi yōsō” 江戸時代元禄期における『三国志演義』翻訳の一様相―『通俗三国志』の 俗語翻訳を中心として. Part 1: Kokugo kokubun 国語国文 66.8 (1997): 38-56; Part 2: 67.10 (1998): 1-23. —. ‘Edo jidai no kanshibun ni miru Kan U zō: Sangokushi engi to no kanren nioite’ 江戸時代の漢詩文に見る関羽像 --『三国志演義』との関連に於いて. Nihon Chūgoku gakkaihō 日本中国学会報 51 (1999): 223-239. —. ‘Edo jidai no kanshibun ni miru usen kankin no Shokatsu Kōmei zō: Sangokushi engi to no kanren ni oite’ 江戸時代の漢詩文に見る羽扇綸巾の諸葛孔明像--『三国 志演義』との関連において. Kanbungaku kaishaku to kenkyū 漢文学解釈与研究 7 (2004): 73-103. —. Honpō ni okeru Sangokushi engi juyō no shosō 本邦における三国志演義受容の諸 相. Tokyo: Bensei shuppan, 2019. —. ‘Kinsei ni okeru Sangokushi engi: sono hon’yaku to honpō e no denpa o megutte’ 近世における『三国志演義』―その翻訳と本邦への伝播をめぐって. Kokubungaku 国 文学 46.7 (2001): 65-73. —. ‘Tsūzoku sangokushi jussaku ni kansuru ni, san no mondai’『通俗三国志』述 作に関する二,三の問題. Jōchi Daigaku kokubungaku ronshū 上智大学国文学論集 26 (1993): 117-34. —. ‘Tsūzokumono kenkyūshi ryaku: tsuketari Tsūzoku sangokushi kaidai’ 通俗 物研究史略 -- 附『通俗三国志』解題. Kanbungaku kaishaku to kenkyū 漢文学解釈 与研究 1 (1998): 45-69.

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—. ‘“Zenki tsūzokumono” shōkō: Tsūzoku sangokushi, Tsūzoku Kanso gundan o megutte’「前期通俗物」小考 : 『通俗三国志』『通俗漢楚軍談』をめぐって. Jōchi Daigaku kokubungaku ronshū 上智大学国文学論集 24 (1991): 37-54. Ochiai Kiyohiko 落合清彦. Kanpon sangokushi: Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi aizōban 完本三国志「 : 絵本通俗三国志」愛蔵版. Original work by Luo Guanzhong 羅貫中; translation by Konan Bunzan 湖南文山; illustrations by Katsushika Taito葛飾 戴斗. Tokyo: Gausu Japan, 2005-6. 6 vols. Pastreich, Emanuel. ‘Grappling with Chinese Writing as a Material Language: Ogyū Sorai’s Yakubunsentei’. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 61.1 (2001): 119-70. —. The Observable Mundane: Vernacular Chinese and the Emergence of a Literary Discourse on Popular Narrative in Edo Japan. Seoul: Seoul National University Press., 2011. Saitō Mareshi 齋藤希史. ‘Gen to bun no aida: kundokubun to iu shikumi’ 言と文の あいだ: 訓読文というしくみ. Bungaku 文学 8:6 (2007): 91-98. Suzuki Jūzō 鈴木重三. Ehon to ukiyoe: Edo shuppan bunka no kōsatsu 絵本と浮世絵 : 江戸出版文化の考察. Tokyo: Bijutsu Shuppansha, 1979. Takashima Toshio 高島俊男. ‘Bunzan wa hakuwa o yakushita no ka: Tsūzoku sangokushi nitsuite’ 文山は白話を訳したのか『通俗三国志』について. Nihongaku 日本学 19 (1992): 43-53. Tokuda Takeshi 徳田武. Kinsei kindai shōsetsu to Chūgoku hakuwa bungaku 近世近 代小説と中国白話文学. Tokyo: Kyūko shoin, 2004. —. Nihon kinsei shōsetsu to Chūgoku shōsetsu 日本近世小説と中国小説. Musashimurayama: Seishōdō shoten, 1987. Ueda Nozomu 上田望. ‘Nihon ni okeru Sangoku engi no juyō (zen’pen): hon’yaku to sashizu o chūshin ni’ 日本における『三国演義』の受容(前篇): 翻訳と挿図を中心 に. Kanazawa Daigaku Chūgokugogaku Chūgoku bungaku kyōshitsu kiyō 金沢 大学中国語学中国文学教室紀要 9 (2006): 1-43. Venuti, Lawrence. The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation. 2nd edition. New York: Routledge, 2008. Yokoyama Kuniharu 横山邦治. Yomihon no kenkyū, Edo to Kamigata to 読本の研究： 江戸と上方と. Tokyo: Kazama shobō, 1974. Zakō Jun 雑喉潤. Sangokushi to Nihonjin 三国志と日本人. Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2002.

About the author matthew fraleigh is Associate Professor of East Asian Literature and Culture at Brandeis University. He has published New Chronicles of Yanagibashi and Diary of a Journey to the West: Narushima Ryūhoku Reports from Home and Abroad (Cornell, 2010) and Plucking Chrysanthemums: Narushima Ryūhoku and the Uses of Chinese Tradition in Modern Japan (Harvard, 2016).

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Romance of the Two Kingdoms Okajima Kanzan’s Chinese Explication of ‘The Annals of Pacification’ (Taiheiki engi) William C. Hedberg Abstract This paper examines the Taiheiki engi (1719): a translation of a fourteenthcentury Japanese history into the format of Chinese vernacular fiction by the Nagasaki-born interpreter, Okajima Kanzan. Kanzan’s translation took place during the initial stage of Japanese engagement with Chinese vernacular fiction. I discuss the ways in which Chinese literary theory impacted Edo-period Japanese classical scholars’ conceptions of the educational value of Chinese texts, and Kanzan’s effort to reimagine cultural relations between China and Japan. Not simply an ironic defamiliarization of Japanese texts, the Taiheiki engi is important in its attempt to nativize Chinese rhetoric about the discursive position of Chinese narrative and place Kanzan at the front of an emergent tradition of unofficial historiography in Japan. Keywords: Edo-period translation, Chinese fiction, Okajima Kanzan, Taiheiki engi

In the area of eighteenth-century Japanese sinology, few biographies trace dominant trends in translation and literary history more closely than that of the Nagasaki-born translator, Okajima Kanzan 岡島冠山 (1674-1728). As a commercial interpreter, language instructor, and aspirant literatus, Kanzan participated in the earliest wave of vernacular Chinese translation in Edo-period Japan, and his literary activities embodied the intersection of scholastic, moral, and commercial imperatives characterizing early eighteenth-century Japanese interest in Chinese narrative. A Chinese language instructor at the prestigious Miscanthus Academy of Ogyū Sorai 荻

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch03

90 William C. Hedberg 生徂徠 (1666-1728), Kanzan was privy to the private thoughts and public

pronouncements of the period’s most influential interpreters of China, and he was involved by implication in a nexus of debates about Japan’s cultural position vis-à-vis China. As an educator, Kanzan left a remarkable legacy in his series of dictionaries focused upon the usage of ‘contemporary Chinese language’ (Tōwa 唐話). Finally, and most importantly for the scope of this chapter, Kanzan was the author of several original compositions in contemporary Chinese – an unusual venture for a man barred by historical circumstance from ever visiting China, and an enterprise demanding a creative reinterpretation of cultural and epistemological boundaries between Japan and China. In this essay, I examine Kanzan’s ambitious but ultimately incomplete magnum opus, the Taiheiki engi 太平記演義 (A Chinese Explication of the ‘Annals of Pacification’).1 Published in 1719, Taiheiki engi is a two-tiered translation of the Japanese classic history Taiheiki 太平記, a fourteenth-century chronicle of the troubled reign of Emperor Go-Daigo 後醍醐 (r. 1318-1339) and his rebellion against the Kamakura shogunate.2 Kanzan’s translation consists of two parallel texts: a Chinese-language ‘explication’ 演義 (engi) similar in style and register to the immensely popular Chinese works Sanguo yanyi 三國演義 (Romance of the Three Kingdoms) and Shuihu zhuan 水滸傳 (The Water Margin), and a Japanese-language ‘popularization’ 通俗 (tsūzoku) that rewrites the dense prose of the original Taiheiki in a simpler register of Japanese. Each printed page of Kanzan’s text is divided in half, with the Chinese engi on top and the Japanese tsūzoku running roughly in parallel below. Kanzan’s translation was incomplete, and a note on the frontispiece of the text promised that the remaining chapters of the Taiheiki would 1 The edition of Taiheiki engi consulted for this study is a woodblock text in the National Archives of Japan. As of the time of publication, scans of this edition could be accessed via https:// www.digital.archives.go.jp/. A typeset edition is included in Volume 4 of Wang Sanqing, ed., Riben hanwen xiaoshuo congkan. For ease of consultation, all quotations will refer to pagination in the Wang edition. 2 In the context of the Edo period, I use the term ‘translation’ with extreme trepidation. Leaving aside for a moment the question of consensus on the English term, it is clear that the term yaku – often selected as the closest equivalent for the English ‘translation’ – does not map cleanly onto contemporary understandings of translation. As Matthew Fraleigh demonstrates in his contribution to this volume, early modern Japanese readers seem to have had no expectations that translations would be ‘literal’ or unwaveringly faithful to the linguistic contours of the original. In the context of Edo-period cultural exchange, I favor a flexible definition of ‘translation’ offered by the scholar and translator, Michael Emmerich: ‘any change wrought upon a piece of writing intended to make it accessible to a new audience with particular needs or preferences’. Michael Emmerich, ‘Beyond, Between: Translations, Ghosts, Metaphors’, p. 52.

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be published before long. Despite this claim, Kanzan’s work remained an unfinished and unprecedented experiment with the Chinese literary vernacular, an anomalous episode in the already complex history of literary contact between China and Japan in the eighteenth century. Taiheiki engi has long been known to researchers interested in Edo-period Sino-Japanese literary exchange.3 Its reception, however, has been marked primarily by puzzlement. It is difficult to discount the quixotic dimensions of Kanzan’s foray into vernacular Chinese-language composition, and modern readers have treated the Taiheiki engi as either an ambitious but minor curiosity, or else an elaborate exercise in literary mimicry. Scholars have looked to the text’s author for illumination, only to find Kanzan a laconic and reluctant guide to his corpus. Since Kanzan himself refrained from writing prefaces, afterwords, or extended auto-commentary for his many published works, any attempt at reconstructing authorial motive must be done through the lens of his students and peers – biographers who often had vested interests in casting their teacher in a positive light. Not surprisingly, the few contemporary writings about Kanzan that survive provide a complex and contradictory portrait. He is characterized as an unrestrained bon vivant in one contemporary account, a refined and erudite participant in Edo’s scholastic circles in another, a debauched wastrel in a third description, and an underappreciated and melancholic savant in the text described in this essay.4 Ultimately, this body of description says less about the historical figure Okajima Kanzan than it does about the transitional state of Chinese language studies in the early eighteenth century. Rather than thinking of Taiheiki engi as an isolated experiment in composition, I would like to view the text as part of a larger effort at charting out a new space and trajectory for Chinese studies in Japan. As the following analysis will demonstrate, the Taiheiki engi and its prefatorial material are undergirded by a desire to recast Chinese vernacular narrative as a mode of cultural capital in Japan, a desire consonant with Kanzan’s many other projects and emblematic of the evolving scholarly interests of Edo’s sinological circles. Not simply an ironic defamiliarization of Japanese texts, the Taiheiki is important in its attempt to nativize Chinese rhetoric about the discursive position of vernacular narrative and place Kanzan at the front of an emergent (if largely invented) tradition. 3 To the best of my knowledge, the earliest discussion of Taiheiki engi may be found in Ishizaki Matazō, Kinsei Nihon ni okeru Shina zokugo bungakushi, pp. 62-94. 4 Sources consulted include the miscellany Ken’en zatsuwa and the preface to Kanzan’s 1718 reference work, Tōwa san’yō. For an analysis of the latter, see William C. Hedberg, The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction, esp. pp. 36-40.

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As mentioned earlier, Taiheiki engi was published in 1719, during a period in which Kanzan was at the peak of what little renown he would enjoy during his lifetime. Although he would become a fairly well-known figure in the scholastic circles of Kyoto and Edo, Kanzan began his life in far humbler circumstances in the relative backwaters of Nagasaki.5 According to the prefaces to his many published works, Kanzan took advantage of the city’s large number of Chinese speakers to master spoken Chinese. His facility with the language was enough for him to find work as an interpreter in both his native city and in the employ of Mōri Yoshinari 毛利吉就 (1668-1694), the third daimyo of Hagi. Life as an interpreter did not suit Kanzan, it seems, and grim employment prospects drove him east to the Kamigata region. It was during this time that Kanzan’s name first entered the literary record, with his 1705 translation of the Ming novel, Huang Ming yinglie zhuan 皇明英烈傳 (Tales of Valor from the Founding of the Ming), a chronicle of the final years of the Yuan dynasty (1279-1368) and the establishment of the Ming under its first emperor, Zhu Yuanzhang 朱元璋 (1328-1398). Kanzan’s commission came at the hands of the well-known Kyoto publisher, Hayashi Gitan 林 義端 (d. 1711). According to Gitan’s preface to the translation, he originally approached Kanzan with the hope of translating two texts, Huang Ming yinglie zhuan and the soon-to-be wildly popular Shuihu zhuan.6 Gitan’s edition of Huang Ming yinglie zhuan failed to make much of a splash, but Kanzan’s documented involvement in its translation is important in two ways: it clearly connected him with the first wave of Japanese interest in Chinese popular narrative, and it provided a stylistic template for the tsūzoku half of the later Taiheiki engi, which made use of the same language and narrative patterns as the earlier translation. The translation of Huang Ming yinglie zhuan took place against a backdrop of a larger engagement with imported Chinese texts. Fifteen years earlier, between 1689 and 1691, Sanguo yanyi – perhaps the most important model for Kanzan’s later experiment – had been translated into Japanese and initiated wide-scale interest in the translation of other recently imported Chinese texts.7 These translations were based on Chinese historical ‘explications’ 演義 (yanyi) or 5 A biography of Kanzan is presented in Emanuel Pastreich’s The Observable Mundane: Vernacular Chinese and the Emergence of A Literary Discourse on Popular Narrative in Edo Japan. 6 Preface to Tsūzoku Kō Min eiretsuden (Tales of Valor from the Founding of the Ming, 1705), in which Gitan wrote: ‘Last autumn, I requested explicated translations of Yingliezhuan and Shuihu zhuan that could be made available to all. This spring, Yingliezhuan was finished and taken to press first.’ 7 See Matthew Fraleigh’s contribution to this volume for information on the translation and publication of Sanguo yanyi.

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‘chronicles’ 志傳 (zhizhuan), works of unofficial historiography produced in large volume beginning in the late Ming.8 As the modern scholar Tokuda Takeshi has demonstrated, the language of these works ran a wide gamut from simple classical Chinese to more colloquial usage.9 Although these works have been described as early works of fiction by modern historians, the nomenclature is potentially anachronistic and problematic. The Chinese editors who wrote, rewrote, and edited these texts generally described them not as ‘fiction’ per se, but rather as attempts at making the Standard Histories (zhengshi) both more accessible to less educated readers and more attractive through the ‘slight addition of color’ 稍加潤色 (shaojia runse). It did not escape perceptive Japanese readers’ attention that their Chinese peers were effectively describing a mode of translation between the difficult language of official historiography and the simplified locutions found in later works of historical explication. However, for Japanese readers, these allegedly more accessible works presented more challenges than the Standard Histories on which they were based. While the language of classical Chinese historiography might have been challenging for Japanese readers, those with a sound classical education would have had little difficulty, especially if the text were equipped with glosses and kunten markers. In contrast, the instances of vernacular language found in works of historical explications would have posed a far greater problem for Japanese readers. As Hayashi Gitan, Kanzan’s employer, explained: As for those works belonging to the category of ‘explications of the successive ages’ (rekidai engi), there is not a residence where they are not being read or a household in which they are not expounded. These works cover events beginning in highest antiquity and reach the period up through the Yuan dynasty. But there they stop, and there is no work that touches upon the history of the Ming. In the past, I published a work entitled A Comprehensive Record of the Ming in one volume, which I [attempted to] spread throughout the world. How I resented it that rustic bumpkins and commoners were unable to penetrate its meaning! Fortunately, there was one Okajima Kanzan – a product of Nagasaki in Hizen – who had rubbed shoulders with foreign visitors and was thereby able to penetrate the colloquial language of the Chinese.10 8 For information on these genres, see Komatsu Ken, Chūgoku rekishi shōsetsu kenkyū, esp. Chapter 1. 9 Tokuda Takeshi, Nihon kinsei shōsetsu to Chūgoku shōsetsu, pp. 9-22. 10 Preface to Kō Min eiretsuden, 1705.

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In the composition of Taiheiki engi fifteen years later, however, Kanzan reversed both the direction of translation and this rhetoric of accessibility. As a rewriting of a canonical Japanese text in the style and language of Chinese explication, Taiheiki engi is essentially an experiment in illegibility – an attempt at defamiliarizing the canonical Japanese Taiheiki and transposing a familiar narrative to a foreign narratological format. It is difficult to imagine that Kanzan envisioned a wide readership for his work, and as mentioned earlier, he provided no explanation for his motives. There is one small hint (described later in this essay) that Kanzan hoped that his work would be read by Chinese readers, either abroad or in Nagasaki, but not enough information exists to make such a conclusion definitive. It is equally possible that the translation was intended to serve as a language primer, especially considering the presence of the parallel Japanese-language tsūzoku and the translation’s place among Kanzan’s other educational reference works. A final possibility is that the work was intended as a virtuosic demonstration of linguistic prowess: a hypothesis strengthened by the sentiments expressed in the work’s preface (described below) and the apparent frustration Kanzan felt as a marginal figure in the world of Edo-period classical scholarship. Regardless of Kanzan’s motives, if one were to translate a work of Japanese literature into vernacular Chinese, the Taiheiki is an altogether understandable choice, as it was a text that had been highly popular among readers since its composition in the fourteenth century and continued to attract considerable attention throughout the Edo period. Both evidence within the text and external references in contemporary diaries and records suggest that the work had approached its present structure by the early 1370s, and by 1402, the work had already sparked a tradition of commentary and disagreement beginning with the Challenge to the ‘Taiheiki’ 難太平記 by the general, Imagawa Ryōshun 今川了俊 (1326-1420?).11 This interest in the text as both a source of historical knowledge and literary enjoyment continued unabated throughout the Sengoku and Edo periods, and a variety of sources demonstrate that the text continued to garner significant attention at both official and popular levels of discourse. In the period of civil war following the decline of the Ashikaga line, the text was allegedly used as a source of military insight and treasured by no less a figure than Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豊臣秀吉 (1537-1598). A colophon to a copy of the text belonging to the Imagawa family characterized the text as ‘the Japanese Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji)’, and despite the 200-year outstanding protest against 11 For a brief bibliographic description of Ryōshun’s text and other early commentaries on the Taiheiki, see Kami Hiroshi, Taiheiki no juyō to hen’yō, pp. 1-22.

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historical inaccuracies in the text, the Taiheiki was utilized as a source text in the massive historiographical projects undertaken by the Mito domain during the Tokugawa era. With the advent of printing, accessibility to the text exploded, and it enjoyed immense popularity as a staple springboard for explication, adaptation, and dramatic representation at the popular level. Although any discussion of Kanzan’s motives in rewriting the Taiheiki must remain speculative since neither Kanzan nor his disciples provided any explanation, it may be reasonably surmised that the selection was due to both the Taiheiki’s visibility in early modern Japanese literary culture, as well as the narratological similarities between the Taiheiki and Chinese models like Sanguo yanyi and Shuihu zhuan. The first place to look for hints about Kanzan’s interest in the Taiheiki is the lengthy preface to the work, which was composed by one of Kanzan’s students, the Nagasaki physician, Moriyama Sukehiro 守山祐弘. While the hyperbole characteristic of prefaces encourages caution and skepticism, Moriyama’s text is valuable in its succinct snapshot of the state of Chinese vernacular studies in early eighteenth-century Japan. The preface begins with a genealogy for the genre of explication (engi/yanyi) and an implicit comparison between Kanzan and the Chinese playwright Luo Guanzhong 羅貫中 – the putative author of both Sanguo yanyi and Shuihu zhuan: The art of explication began with Luo Guanzong of the Yuan dynasty but continues to flourish in the present. Luo Guanzhong was a man of talent and worth in his day. However, his reputation did not equal his ability, and for this reason, his heart was ill at ease. He privately penned Sanguo yanyi and Shuihu zhuan in order to couch these matters in the text and vent his own feelings. When he showed them to his contemporaries, the foremost scholars in the land, they exclaimed, ‘Luo Guanzhong has poured his heart, soul, and half an age’s worth of valor into these two texts. [Reading them] one sees heroic prose and a flowering brilliance in their midst! As models for composing and standards for narration, they are a form unto their own.’

Though Luo Guanzhong was ultimately able to establish a reputation for himself in China, the situation, the reader is told, is markedly different in Japan, where these outstanding works have fallen through the cracks due to Japanese readers’ linguistic shortcomings: Now, in our kingdom of Japan, there are only a handful of scholars who read Luo Guanzhong’s two texts. And though they read them, they are

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only able to decipher Sanguo yanyi and do not understand Shuihu zhuan. Some purport to discuss Shuihu zhuan, but I do not have faith in them.12

At this point in the preface, Okajima Kanzan appears on the stage, and the reader is told that Kanzan composed the Taiheiki engi as a substitute effort, a way of establishing a scholarly reputation for himself in a world unable to recognize his talent. Moriyama wrote that ‘Kanzan’s Fate was against him, and he was unable to advance a single inch in his position’, and that ‘stirred by calumny and slander’, he undertook the composition of the Taiheiki engi as a way of ‘following the example of Luo Guanzhong and fulfilling [his] life’s humble ambition’. There is perhaps a grain of truth to Moriyama’s romantic portrait of Kanzan. It seems that Kanzan was indeed dissatisfied with his position as a language interpreter at Ogyū Sorai’s academy and harbored ambitions of establishing a reputation as a classical scholar himself. Kanzan studied classical scholarship with both Sorai and the bakufu academician Hayashi Hōkō 林鳳岡, but the historical record suggests that he was unsuccessful in his efforts. The painter and kanshi poet Hattori Nankaku 服部南郭 (1683-1759) emphasized Kanzan’s position as an outsider by describing Kanzan as a ‘Chinese guest wandering amidst the Japanese’ but immediately undercut this ambiguous praise by stating that he had heard Kanzan possessed very little ‘scholastic aptitude’ (gakusai).13 If Moriyama’s somewhat histrionic claim is to be believed, then the selection of the Taiheiki as a target of translation is understandable, since the entire history centers on the complex issues of recognition and legitimation that emerged during Japan’s fractured fourteenth century, beginning with the Emperor Go-Daigo’s ascension to the throne in 1318, his unsuccessful campaigns against the Kamakura shogunate, his exile and subsequent return to power, and the short-lived restoration of imperial hegemony. The body of the Taiheiki engi itself consists of thirty chapters (kai 回 in the Chinese text and dan 段 in the Japanese) that begin with a brief history of the Kamakura bakufu prior to the reign of Emperor Go-Daigo and end with the stage appearance of the soon-to-be usurper Ashikaga Takauji 足利尊氏. As mentioned earlier, the translation is divided into two parts: the vernacular Chinese occupies the top half of the page, while the Japanese simplification of the original text runs roughly along the bottom. The fact that the Japanese-language simplification must account for the representation of 12 Wang Sanqing, p. 217. 13 Recounted in Yanagisawa Kien, Hitorine, p. 192.

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verb conjugations and honorific suffixes creates a somewhat longer text, and the final pages of each of the five fascicles are used for ‘spillover’ in which the remaining Japanese-language text occupies the full area of the page. Although the parallel structure of Kanzan’s text creates an aesthetically satisfying illusion of concordance between the texts, these areas of overflow are indicative of the latent tensions and discordances between genre and narrative representation that underlie the text as a whole. At its most effective, Kanzan does an admirable job of reproducing the original text in such a way that these points of disjuncture are minimized. A comparison of the Chinese- and Japanese-language rewritings of the opening of the early chapter, ‘The Son of Heaven Installs an Imperial Consort in the Kōkiden Palace’ presents a representative look at the manner in which Kanzan attempts this dual representation: The story goes: When the emperor Go-Daigo was on the imperial throne, the lay monk Taira no Takatoki, the former governor of Sagami, and the ninth-generation grandson of Taira no Tokimasa, governor of Tōtōmi, served as regent for the shogun in Kamakura. He held power over the major affairs of state in the realm and oversaw the shogunal forces. His force impinged upon that of the various lords, and his power and authority shook all within the four seas. For this reason, all the lords in the realm served Takatoki as their master.14 話說後醍醐帝在位時。遠江守北條四郎平時政第九代之孫。前相摸守平高時入道 崇鑑。在鎌倉為將軍輔佐。乃掌管國家大事。總督天下兵馬。勢壓群侯。 威振四 海。因此各鎮諸侯盡皆主事之。

ここに後醍醐天皇御在位の時、遠江の守北條四郎平時政第九代の孫、前の相模 の守平時政入道崇鑑、鎌倉に在て、将軍の補佐となり。国家の大事を掌て、天下

の兵馬を督、勢ひ諸侯を圧して、威四海に振ふ。此れに因て、諸国の諸侯主の如 に敬ひ事ふ。

Or, by way of second example, the scene in which the Emperor Go-Daigo has a premonition of the arrival of his most stalwart warrior, Kusunoki Masashige 楠木正成: 14 Wang Sanqing, p. 221. For passages in which the engi/tsūzoku halves of Kanzan’s work are being compared, I have provided the original text for both. In cases where only one passage is discussed, the reader is directed to the edition edited by Wang Sanqing, or else the scans of the original text cited above.

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That night, the emperor closed his eyes and was suddenly visited by a dream in which he saw an enormous tree growing in front of the imperial palace. The tree was unusually luxuriant, and the south-facing bough was even more so. Underneath, the hundred civil and martial officials were lined up in two rows. Although the throne was set up facing south, it remained unoccupied. The emperor thought to himself, ‘Who will be asked to sit on the imperial throne?’ As he was considering this, he suddenly saw two immortal lads prostrating themselves in front of the emperor. Tears streaming, they said, ‘At present, Your Majesty is persecuted by the military families, and it is hard to find an imperial haven in the realm. Is there anyone who does not abhor this? However, we have specially provided this south-facing seat for Your Majesty’s use – please, sit and rest at ease for a while.’ When they finished speaking, the two immortals ascended to Heaven. The emperor called out for them to remain longer, but he suddenly awoke. In the end, it was nothing more than a ‘dream of Nanke!’15 當夜帝纔合眼。忽夢見紫宸殿前有一株大樹木。乃異常茂盛而南枝更榮。其下 文武百官列於兩班。又朝南高設御座。尚未有人坐焉。帝暗忖曰。設御座。請誰

坐耶。正猜疑之際。忽見兩個仙童雙雙拜伏於帝前。灑淚而奏曰。今陛下被武家 迫逼。普天之下四海之內難以容身。誰不恨之哉。但此朝南御座特為陛下設之。 且請少坐安歇。言訖。上天而去了。帝忙叫二童且留。忽然驚醒。 乃南柯一夢。

此夜の御夢に紫宸殿の前に一株の大木あり、尋常ならず茂盛にして、南へ指たる

枝殊に栄たり。其下に文武百官両班に列座す、又南に朝て高く御座を設けるが未

だ座したる人はあらず。主上御夢心地に御座を設たるは誰をむかへて、坐せしめん

がためやらんと疑しく思召す所に、仙童二人忽然として現出て、乃主上御前に拝伏

して、申やう、今陛下東夷が為に逼迫られ玉ひて、普天の下四海の内御身を容玉ふ 所なし。誰がこれを恨みざらんや。 但此南に朝たる御座は陛下の御為に設たる者

なり。少く此に坐し玉ひて、御休息なり玉へと云訖て遥かの天へ上りけり。主上忙く 両人の童子暫留れよと呼玉ふと、ひとしく御夢は覚めにけり。

In both excerpts, Kanzan shows himself able to reproduce the structure and content of the original text while largely circumventing obstacles presented by the obvious syntactic and grammatical differences between the Chinese and Japanese. The flow of the Chinese in the first passage is impaired greatly by the ubiquity of Japanese proper names and places, and it is in more narrative passages like the second example that Kanzan’s 15 Wang Sanqing, pp. 254-255.

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dexterity becomes apparent. Kanzan made no effort to replicate Japanese honorifics, and the effect of honorific verb and verb-endings are simply implied in the Chinese passage. Conversely, the Japanese tsūzoku is subject to revision with relation to the genre expectations of the Chinese. For instance, the exclamation ‘It was all a dream of Nanke!’ – a common indicator of a dream sequence in Chinese narrative – is not reproduced in the Japanese text, where the reader is simply told that ‘the emperor awoke from his dream’ (same ni-keri). The reading of the Chinese half of the Taiheiki engi is facilitated by the affixation of kunten markers that allow the text to be read in accordance with Japanese word order and pronunciation. In light of Kanzan’s immediate circle of contacts, the presence of these glosses and punctuation markers is worthy of comment: his employer Ogyū Sorai was, of course, one of the most vociferous critics of Chinese texts ‘reeking of Japaneseness’ 和臭 (washū) and made the eradication of Japanese reliance on kundoku his life’s mission.16 In the crafting of his Chinese-language text, Kanzan showed himself to be an able and attentive disciple of the relationship between narrative structure and the pressures of genre expectations. However, in order to replicate the rhythm and pacing of a narrative written in vernacular Chinese, Kanzan was forced to alter the overarching structure of the original text. As a general rule, the various episodes in the Taiheiki are bound into didactically self-functioning narrative units. Although the setting and narrative focus of a single installment may span multiple chapters – as happens during the emperor’s lengthy flight from Kamakura forces or the many prolonged battle scenes – the text itself is subject to editorial interventions, as the implied author of the text parses narrative events through explicit moralization, the quotation of Chinese or Japanese precedents, or the evaluation of particular characters. For instance, the original Taiheiki makes frequent use of addenda that elucidate narrative themes by providing parallel tales related to the episode in question. These addenda pull from a wide range of official historiography, Buddhist parable, and historical legend. Early in the text, for instance, an indirect mention of a literary society’s interest in the mid-Tang literatus Han Yu 韓愈 (768-824) gives rise to a lengthy addendum explaining Han Yu’s poetic achievements, chronicling his exile to Chaozhou, and most intriguingly, relating the mystical abilities of his Daoist adept nephew Han Xiangzi 韓湘子: a figure who sparked a diverse corpus of legends and popular folklore in China, but a biography of dubious veracity and only the most 16 Pastreich, The Observable Mundane, pp. 143-146. See also Ye Yuan’s contribution to this volume for a discussion of Sorai’s pedagogical philosophy.

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tenuous relevance to the Japanese text. Tellingly, Kanzan excised these incidental addenda in his translation – either out of aesthetic considerations or out of a desire for a more exacting standard of historiography. As a substitute for these parsing and pacing mechanisms, Kanzan attempted to replicate the effect of these addresses through the tools available to him from Chinese vernacular narrative. The entire Chinese half of the Taiheiki engi is larded with stock phrases and narrative conventions from Chinese fiction, five- and seven-character doggerel verses that punctuate each episode and provide evaluative comments, and characters who speak and think in clichés instantly recognizable from works like Sanguo yanyi and Shuihu zhuan. Needless to say, these flourishes and allusions are not present in the Japanese-language tsūzoku, which is in many ways far more faithful to the text of the original Taiheiki. It is largely in dialogue that Kanzan is able to show off his knowledge of vernacular constructions. When in the sixteenth chapter, for example, Prince Morinaga 盛長親王, the fugitive son of Go-Daigo, implores a peasant for shelter, the peasant takes him in with the folksy utterance, ‘It goes without saying [that we’ll agree to do so]. How would the others dare utter even half the world “no”?’ (ci he xiaoshuo, zhong bugan shuo bange bu zi). And when the hapless villager realizes who his distinguished guest is, he drops to the floor and cries in a clear echo of the Shuihu zhuan refrain: ‘I have eyes, but failed to recognize you, my prince! Oh, how I have caused offence!’ (youyan bushi qinwang, dezui duoyi). The original Taiheiki makes extensive use of allusion and poetic parallelism, and it is worthy of note that Kanzan excised these passages in his Japanese-language explication but attempted to retain or create comparable features in the Chinese-language translation. This can be clearly seen through Kanzan’s ubiquitous insertion of Chinese verse into the engi: one of the earliest examples occurring in the description of the retired Emperor Go-Toba’s 後鳥羽院 (r. 1193-1198) attempted insurrection against the military factions and subsequent exile to the Isle of Oki: Heaven’s unfathomable endowment has its limits, and even the three dynasties of Xia, Yin, and Zhou are gone. How, then, could the Hōjō family hope to preserve its hegemony forever! When it came to the generation of Takatoki, the family’s fortunes were lost in the space of a single day. After this, a multitude of valiant heroes came forth, moving east and campaigning to the west, striking here and attacking there – casting the entire realm into great disorder. There is a poem which describes this: ‘Nine Generations of Hōjō glory / Exhausted and lost in the span of

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a single morning / Teems of heroes rise across the realm / But in the end are hard-pressed to protect the lord.’17

The Japanese translation running along the bottom half of the page ends much more abruptly by omitting the Chinese poem and simply stating, ‘A great number of heroes rose up and came forth – campaigning to the east and attacking the west; striking here and there so that the realm was greatly disordered.’ The ubiquitous insertion of five-character doggerel is one of Kanzan’s most noteworthy contributions to the atmosphere of his translation of the Taiheiki. Although the verse is of low quality, Kanzan imitates Chinese narrative effectively as a means of summing up preceding action, pacing the narrative, and most importantly, exploring the didactic dimensions of the tale that are developed in the framing passages in the original Taiheiki – a clear indebtedness to the use of the ‘poems on historical topics’ (yongshi shi) found in works of Chinese historical explication. Additionally, Kanzan was confronted with the need to end the narrative action of each section on a suspenseful note that would be resolved early on in the subsequent chapter. While the Japanese tsūzoku generally transitions by means of a simple saru-hodo or sate sate, Kanzan clearly relished the use of uniquely Chinese expressions such as ‘it’s said’ (huashuo), ‘the story goes on to say’ (queshuo), and ‘here our story splits in two’ (huafen liangtou) and employed them at every turn in the narrative. Although, as mentioned earlier, Kanzan did not provide any explanation for his translation of the Taiheiki, this lack of information is ameliorated somewhat by the presence of an autocommentary running throughout the text of Taiheiki engi: a commentary apparently authored by Kanzan himself, and one that consistently draws the reader’s attention to the mechanics of translation. Such commentary was, of course, a distinctive feature of Chinese fiction, and Kanzan’s own commentary appears to have been modeled on enterprises by late imperial critics like Jin Shengtan 金 聖歎, Mao Zonggang 毛宗崗, and Zhang Zhupo 張竹坡.18 Kanzan appears infrequently as a commentator in his own work, and his comments are clustered toward the opening exposition and closing of the translation. The glosses are primarily appended to names of important figures and explain 17 Wang Sanqing, pp. 219-220. 18 Nearly all editions of vernacular fiction imported into Japan during the Edo period included some form of commentary, and there is clear evidence that Japanese readers were deeply influenced by these paratextual features. For information on early modern Japanese engagement with Chinese fiction commentary, see Hedberg, The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction, esp. Chapter 2.

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the complex succession struggles and inheritances that are described in the original text. Significantly, some instances of autocommentary in the body of the text allude to textual variants found in the Taiheiki, demonstrating Kanzan’s collation and consultation of other editions of the text.19 This reliance upon multiple texts and Kanzan’s punctilious attention to variation in the historical record suggest that Kanzan appears to have taken matters of historiographical accuracy quite seriously – even when the historically improbable version appears more narratively appealing than the ‘truth’. For instance, in the twelfth chapter of the work, the hero Kusunoki Masashige is nearly wounded by a stray arrow during the battle of Akasaka. The original Taiheiki states: The arrow struck Masashige’s elbow-joint, and he thought that he felt it sink in deeply. But although this section of Masashige’s body was unprotected by any piece of armor, the arrow bounced off. Later, when Masashige examined the place the arrow had struck, he saw that it was where he had kept an amulet containing the Avalokiteshvara Sutra – a text Masashige had venerated for many years. The arrow had bounced off the gatha ‘Chant the name of the bodhisattva with all one’s concentration.’ How miraculous that the arrowhead had stopped here!20

Kanzan’s Chinese translation, however, records a far less sensational version: Masashige was unable to dodge the arrow, and he was struck in the left arm. When he prepared to pull out the shaft, however, he saw that the arrow had bounced back on its own and fallen to the ground so that his arm was unharmed. Masashige was relieved and said to himself, ‘Is this Heaven’s protection?’ And thus, he was able to escape the tiger’s mouth once again!

To this, Kanzan the commentator added a note: The original text states that at the time, Masashige was carrying the Avalokiteshvara Sutra by his side, and that the bodhisattva took Masashige’s place by absorbing the blow with the line ‘Chant the name

19 For instance, a marginal comment in the first chapter mentions a variant calculation of the number of the emperor’s offspring. See Wang Sanqing, ed., Taiheiki engi, p. 222. 20 Taiheki, Gotō Tanji, ed., pp. 119-120.

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of the bodhisatt ­va with all one’s concentration.’ However, this account is not wholly credible, and for this reason, I have refrained from including it here.21

In terms of reconstructing Kanzan’s motives in translating the Taiheiki, this is an interesting remark. The account presented in the original Taiheiki is clearly the better story, and Kanzan’s decision to excise the miraculous rescue seems to suggest a desire to hold the Taiheiki engi to a more rigid standard of historiography than the contemporary understanding of ‘fiction’ might suggest. Although literary embellishment is often seen to be a primary feature of the yanyi / engi format, Kanzan appears here to be reluctant to stray too far from the historically verifiable. Other departures from the contours of the original narrative occur in the use of poetry. The original Taiheiki contains a number of Japanese waka poems, which depend for their effect on the clever deployment of homophones, pillow-words, pivot-words, and other poetic techniques unique to the Japanese language. Kanzan reproduces these waka poems verbatim in the Japanese tsūzoku but, intriguingly, makes absolutely no effort to translate these Japanese poems into Chinese in the engi. For instance, when Go-Daigo pays a visit to the nearby Tōdai-ji and Kōfuku-ji temples south of the capital, the presentation of a dedicatory gatha is memorialized in the following waka verse: Because of a bond from another life, I have seen this mountain too. Surely here the enlightened ones have planted the seed of the Law.22 (Chigiri areba kono yama mo mi-tsu anokutara sanmyaku sanbodai no tane ya ue-ken.)

Kanzan’s Japanese tsūzoku duly transcribes the waka and tells the reader that ‘the assembled monks were “overjoyed by the intention underlying this poem”’ (kono uta no i o kanjite, mina-mina yorokobi-keri). In contrast, the Chinese engi states only that: This monk had always excelled in the art of Japanese poetry, and he was moved to write a Japanese waka poem on the pillar. The poem was devoted

21 Wang Sanqing, ed., Taiheiki engi, pp. 269-270. 22 Taiheki, p. 59. Translation from McCullough, trans., The Taiheiki: A Chronicle of Medieval Japan, p. 30.

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to describing the renewed florescence of the mountain temple complex. When the assembled monks read the poem, they were overjoyed.23

Or, in a later episode detailing Go-Daigo’s flight from his assailants, the bedraggled emperor finds time in the midst of struggle to recite the waka verse: Having left the shelter of Kasagi Mountain, there has been no place in all the realm that would provide our sedge hats with shelter.24 (Sashite yuku Kasagi no yama o ideshi yori ame ga shita ni wa kakurega mo nashi.)

Again, in the Chinese text, Kanzan provides a faithful translation of the surrounding events but fails to offer even a paraphrase of the poem itself, telling the reader only that the emperor composed a waka, that the poem was ‘frustrated and bitter’, and that all the listeners wept when they heard it. Although he refrained from attempting to translate any waka poems into Chinese, in a uniquely metafictional moment, Kanzan used the case of poetry to draw attention to the difficulties of translation itself. The episode occurs in the fourth chapter of Kanzan’s translation, which corresponds to a scene in the original Taiheiki in which the accomplished poet and vassal of Go-Daigo, Lord Tameakira 為明, is tortured by Takatoki’s henchmen. The original Taiheiki reads: Seeing [the instruments of torture laid out], Tameakira asked, ‘Is there an inkstone?’ The guards, thinking that Tameakira intended to write a confession, presented both inkstone and paper to Tameakira, who instead of a confession, composed the following waka verse: ‘How difficult to believe – that I would be asked about the affairs of this world of suffering, rather than the path of Japanese verse.’ (omoiki ya waga Shikishima no michi nara-de ukiyo no koto o towaru beshi to wa).25

23 Wang Sanqing, p. 233. 24 Taiheiki, p. 110. Translation adapted from McCullough, p. 80. The original poem derives its affective power from the resonance between the place name Kasagi no yama and the sedge (kasa) hats worn to protect oneself from inclement weather. Continuing this theme, the term ame ga shita 天が下 (‘All Under Heaven’) is also homophonous with ame ga shita 雨が下 (‘under the rain’): an effect that works only in Japanese and that Kanzan would have been hard-pressed to recreate in Chinese, where these homophones do not exist. 25 Taiheiki, p. 62. McCullough, p. 32.

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Impressed by their captive’s poetic prowess, Tameakira’s tormentors release him. The original Taiheiki follows this tale of literary derring-do with a meditation upon the properties of waka verse and its ability to ‘move the earth, stir up pathos in the invisible gods and spirits, harmonize the relations between man and woman, and bring peace to the hearts of warriors’: an instantly recognizable summary of the preface to the waka anthology Kokinshū. In the Chinese-language translation, we are only told that Tameakira wrote a poem and that it was ‘quite sad’. At this point, however, the translation takes a uniquely metaf ictional swerve. Channeling the medium and style of traditional f iction commentators like Jin Shengtan and Zhang Zhupo, Kanzan inserts an excited comment to the episode that paradoxically extols the virtues of the poetry he has elected not to translate: Dear reader, you must hear about the verse in our land of Japan! We only use thirty-one Japanese kana to write them, and it seems no more difficult than child’s play. Still though, when skillfully done, then these thirty-one characters each contain limitless meaning. It’s not only that poets are able to move the ghosts and spirits so that they reveal their luminosity – they’re also able to move evil men so that they change their ways completely. Is there nothing more marvelous!26

Kanzan’s defamiliarization of the Japanese waka and pedantic explanation invite the question of what ‘Dear Reader’ (kanguan) he is imagining. Although lack of information makes any hypothesis about motive purely speculative, it seems possible that such an explanation (and perhaps the text as a whole) was written with the intent of exportation to China – a theory strengthened by Kanzan’s use of ‘our country [of Japan]’ (waga kuni) as a referent. Although he consistently declined opportunities to attempt replicating the structure and imagery of Japanese waka in his Chineselanguage translation, Kanzan appears eager to give readers unfamiliar with waka a taste of their affective power. It is at these moments, where the illusory concordance between engi and tsūzoku breaks down, that Kanzan’s experiment is of most interest: specifically, the points at which the translator attempts to be exploring the boundaries of what we might now call the untranslatable. The Taiheiki engi highlights these moments of misalignment not only on a lexical and structural level but also in terms of genre and literary historiography. 26 Wang Sanqing, ed., Taiheiki engi, p. 234.

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Although he never achieved the reputation as a scholar that he appears to have desired in his own lifetime, Kanzan’s reputation underwent a vertiginous rise in the decades and centuries to come. As has been welldocumented, his numerous reference works devoted to contemporary Chinese language both stimulated and enabled a boom of interest in Chinese vernacular narrative, and titles such as Tōwa san’yō and Tō’on gazoku gorui (Elevated and Common Terms with Chinese Pronunciation) were cited by other eighteenth- and nineteenth-century readers of Chinese texts. 27 Kanzan’s reputation would continue to grow throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In his continuation of Hara Nensai’s (1774-1820) Sentetsu sōdan (Collected Tales of Former Worthies), Tōjō Kindai (1795-1878) included a biography of Kanzan that replaced the title ‘interpreter’ (tsūji) with the more elegant ‘scholar of translation’ (yakushi).28 A Meiji-period work entitled Nihon risshihen (Tales of Ambitious Men in Japan) – titled in obvious reference to Nakamura Masanao’s translation of Samuel Smiles’ Self-Help – described Kanzan as the founding father of ‘the study of fiction’ (haishi no gaku) in Japan and heaped praise on the long-dead interpreter for his alleged willingness to break free of scholastic and literary clichés.29 Contemporary scholars have, for the most part, accepted these characterizations uncritically, and Okajima Kanzan continues to occupy a privileged position in recent discussions of the Japanese reception of Chinese ‘fiction’. Although the Taiheiki engi’s singular status and Kanzan’s reticence in discussing his motivations have meant that many aspects of the text remain mere speculation, the Taiheiki engi is a useful document in terms of encouraging a more nuanced interrogation of the very concept of ‘fiction’ (shōsetsu) itself. The translation’s own self-descriptor, engi or ‘explication’, should be considered to be overlapping but not isometric with modern conceptions of fictionality. The apparent care Kanzan took with the comparison of editions of the original Taiheiki, as well as his willingness to sacrif ice an entertaining tale if it strained credibility, suggest that he pursued something more ambitious than the simple relation of a stimulating narrative, and it is this gap between Chinese engi and Japanese tsūzoku, modern ‘fiction’ and eighteenth-century ‘explication’, that is of most value to the contemporary reader of Taiheiki engi. It was precisely during this same time that Ogyū Sorai, Kanzan’s teacher and 27 Nakamura Aya, ‘Taiheiki engi ni okeru Kanzan no yakkai taido o megutte’. 28 Tōjō Kindai, Sentetsu sōdan kōhen, p. 105. 29 Higashi Kan’ichi, Nihon risshihen, fascicle 7 (1882).

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employer, famously equated the system of annotated reading known as kundoku with the act of translation (yaku), and argued that annotated reading inevitably imparts the interpretation of the person who affixed reading marks. In his parallel rewriting of the Taiheiki, Kanzan hints at an analogous gap by demonstrating the way in which narrative conventions and the pressures of genre exert influence upon the way in which the narrative is retold.

Bibliography Emmerich, Michael. ‘Beyond, Between: Translation, Ghosts, Metaphors’. In In Translation: Translators on Their Work and What It Means. Eds. Esther Allen and Susan Bernofsky. New York: Columbia University Press, 2013. Gotō Tanji 後藤丹治, ed. Taiheiki 太平記. Nihon koten bungaku taikei, vols. 34-36. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1960-1962. Hedberg, William C. The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction: The Water Margin and the Making of a National Canon. New York: Columbia University Press, 2019. Higashi Kan’ichi 干河岸貫一. Nihon risshihen 日本立志編. Osaka: Yoshioka Heisuke, 1882. Ishizaki Matazō 石崎又造. Kinsei Nihon ni okeru Shina zokugo bungakushi 近世日 本に於ける支那俗語文学史. Tokyo: Kōbundō shobō, 1940. Kami Hiroshi 加美宏. Taiheiki no juyō to hen’yō 太平記の受容と変容. Tokyo: Kanrin shobō, 1997. Ken’en zatsuwa 蘐園雑話. In Zoku Nihon zuihitsu taisei, vol, 4, edited by Mori Senzō and Kitagawa Hirokuni. Tokyo: Yoshikawa kōbunkan, 1979. Komatsu Ken 小松謙. Chūgoku rekishi shōsetsu kenkyū 中国歴史小説研究 . Tokyo: Kyūko shoin, 2001. Kō Min eiretsuden 皇明英列傳. Translated by Okajima Kanzan. Microfilm of 1705 edition in National Institute of Japanese Literature, Tokyo. Nakamura Aya 中村綾. ‘Taiheiki engi ni okeru Kanzan no yakkai taido o megutte’ 太 平記演義に於ける冠山の訳解態度をめぐって. Edo bungaku 38 (2008): 70-89. Okajima Kanzan 岡島冠山. Taiheiki engi 太平記演義. 1719 edition in the National Archives of Japan, Tokyo. —. Tōwa san’yō 唐話纂要. In Tōwa jisho ruishū, vol. 6, edited by Nagasawa Kikuya. Tokyo: Kyūko shoin, 1972. Pastreich, Emanuel. The Observable Mundane: Vernacular Chinese and the Emergence of a Literary Discourse on Popular Narrative in Edo Japan. Seoul: Seoul National University Press, 2011.

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The Taiheiki: A Chronicle of Medieval Japan. Translated by Helen McCullough. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1976. Tōjō Kindai 東條琴臺. Sentetsu sōdan kōhen 先哲叢談. In Dai Nihon bunko: Jukyō hen, vol. 17, edited by Oyanagi Shigeta. Tokyo: Shun’yōdō shoten, 1936. Tokuda Takeshi 徳田武. Nihon kinsei shōsetsu to Chūgoku shōsetsu 日本近世小説と 中国小説 . Musashimurayama-shi: Seishōdō, 1987. Wang Sanqing 王三慶. Riben hanwen xiaoshuo congkan 日本漢文小說叢刊. Taipei: Taiwan xuesheng shuju, 2003. Yangisawa Kien 柳澤淇園. Hitorine ひとりね. Nihon koten bungkaku taikei, vol. 96. Iwanami shoten, 1965.

About the author william c. hedberg is an associate professor of Japanese literature at Arizona State University. His first book, The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction: The Water Margin and the Making of a National Canon, was published by Columbia University Press in 2019. His second project focuses on travel, cartography, and representations of the foreign in early modern East Asia.

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Speaking the Sinitic Translation and ‘Chinese Language’ in Eighteenth-Century Japan Ye Yuan1 Abstract In the beginning of the eighteenth century, Japanese scholar Ogyū Sorai promoted translation study (yakugaku). This study advocated a ‘direct translation’ method to render Chinese texts into everyday Japanese, to counter the fundamental problem of the kundoku (reading by gloss) method: its paradox of being a translation yet concealing its translational nature. To promote direct translation, Sorai encouraged reading and understanding Chinese texts in their own acoustic and grammatical forms, which he called ‘Chinese language’. Sorai’s ‘Chinese language’ and its practice, the tōwa (contemporary spoken Chinese) study, epitomize the pre-1900 Sinitic concept of ‘language’. This writing-imbued ‘Chinese language’ manifested the vitality of Sinitic writing and the intricate relation of voice and text, as well as of China and the Sinitic. Keywords: translation, Chinese language, literary Sinitic, kundoku, Ogyū Sorai

Introduction In 1714-1715, the renowned Japanese Confucian scholar Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂 徠 (1666-1728) published Yakubun sentei 譯文筌蹄 (A Tool for Translation, 1 My sincere gratitude goes to those who have read and commented on this article in its process of preparation: Haruo Shirane, David Lurie, and Allison Bernard. I also thank the editors, especially Peter Kornicki, and the anonymous readers for shaping this article and solving technical conundrums. I dedicate this article to Hsin-Hsin Liang and Cecilia Chang, who have laid a solid foundation of my understanding of Chinese language and language learning. Needless to say, the remaining flaws are all mine.

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch04

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editor’s note 1711), an aid for Sinitic studies.2 In the ‘Prefatory Remarks in Ten Principles’ (Daigen jussoku 題言十則) to this work, Sorai offered his views on ‘Chinese language’ (Chūka gengo 中華言語): 此方自有此方言語。中華自有中華言語。體質本殊。由何吻合。是以和訓迴環之 讀。雖若可通。實為牽強。而世人不省。3

This land [i.e., Japan] has its own language, and China has the Chinese language. The forms and natures of the two languages are fundamentally different; how can we unite them? When we approach the problem by using Japanese glossing and the inverted word order to read, it may seem comprehensible, but it is quite distorted. However, people nowadays are not aware [of this distortion].

What did Sorai mean by ‘Chūka gengo’? Both the term gen and the term go suggest a spoken component. The character gen 言 (Ch. yan) stresses spoken words and go 語 (Ch. yu) means words to state or to conversate. The supposed written traces of the vanished spoken words are also called gen or go. 4 By using gengo rather than bun 文 (Ch. wen; pattern, writing, composition), Sorai was emphasizing speech rather than writing. By decrying ‘Japanese glossing and the inverted word order’, Sorai’s ‘Chūka gengo’ was also not merely to provide contemporary Chinese pronunciations to sinographs while rendering the Sinitic texts into Japanese grammatical order. In this sense, Sorai’s ‘Chūka gengo’ is not just Chinese pronunciation but can be translated roughly as ‘Chinese language’. Modern scholars, however, have varied and equivocal interpretations. Olof Lidin argues that the ‘Chinese language’ Sorai and his coterie were learning was ‘vernacular Chinese’.5 Nan Ma Hartmann shares this view and further points out that the Japanese in the eighteenth century – at least Sorai and his 2 When quoting the pre-1900 texts and titles, this article follows the original texts, where sinographs are often in the traditional form, rather than changing them into the modern form. The rest of the sinographs in the body of the article use the same traditional form for consistency. 3 Ogyū Sorai, Yakubun sentei, 4. The text of Yakubun sentei is mainly quoted from the photoreproduced edition in vol. 2 of Ogyū Sorai zenshū (Misuzu Shobō, 1974) with occasional reference to the reprinted edition in vol. 5 of Ogyū Sorai zenshū (Kawade shobō, 1977). The page numbers given here are based on the photo-reproduced edition. The English translation is my own made in consultation with the translation in Emanuel Pastreich, ‘Grappling with Chinese Writing as a Material Language’, pp. 119-170. 4 A good example is the famous Confucian classic Lunyu 論語 (The Analects). Its title suggests that it is a collection of Confucius’s sayings to and dialogues with his disciples. 5 Olof Lidin, ‘Vernacular Chinese in Tokugawa Japan’, pp. 5-36.

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group – recognized Chinese language as a foreign language. Such recognition, she argues, is the linguistic manifestation of ‘an ideological paradigm shift’ to reconceptualize Chinese, vernacular or classical, as a foreign entity.6 Emanuel Pastreich, who has translated the ‘Ten Principles’ and analyzed Sorai’s views on language in ‘Prefatory Remarks in Ten Principles’, prefers a more ambiguous view. He notes that Sorai used the term ‘Chinese language’ to create a new discursive space, away from the universal discourse of literary writing. Meanwhile, he stresses that Sorai coined ‘Chinese language’ to refer to Sinitic writing.7 These seemingly contradictory understandings of Sorai’s ‘Chinese language’ are quite unavoidable and valid. Sorai’s ‘Chinese language’, as a classic example of dealing with speech in the Sinitic writing culture, does not easily and neatly fit the modern, Western view of language. Unlike the modern concept of (spoken) language that can be separated from writing, the pre-1900 gengo cannot be divorced from Sinitic writing. The infatuation with spoken Chinese in eighteenth-century Japan, as in other Sinitic cultures, was predetermined by the firm grasp of literary Sinitic as well as a strong desire to fully embrace it. Rather than to speak Chinese, to learn ‘Chinese language’ is, ultimately, to speak the Sinitic. Sorai’s Chūka gengo exposes the ‘language’ problem of pre-1900 Japan and East Asia. The problem is that literary Sinitic – the formal, cosmopolitan writing system in East Asia – was read out loud in various local sounds via different reading methods, such as kundoku 訓讀 (reading by gloss) in Japan. Viewed from a modern definition of language, kundoku is neither spoken Japanese nor spoken Chinese but one form of local reading of Sinitic writing. In pre-1900 East Asia, however, local vocalizations of the shared Sinitic writing as shown in kundoku was the usual practice. Korea, for instance, had developed a gloss-based reading approach for readers to annotate a Sinitic text and invert its word order into local vocalization prior to the Japanese kundoku (and presumably inspired the kundoku method as well).8 Even in 6 See Nan Ma Hartmann’s Ph.D. dissertation ‘From Translation to Adaptation’, particularly chapter two, ‘Ogyū Sorai and the Study of Chinese as A Foreign Language’, pp. 39-58. 7 See Emanuel Pastreich, The Observable Mundane, p. 147. In her study on language consciousness and multilingualism in early modern Japan, Rebekah Clements also quotes Pastreich and follows his view that Sorai coined the expression Chinese language ‘to refer to Chinese writing’; but she follows this point by noting that Sorai’s ‘Chinese language’ is a ‘specific language rather than a part of the greater universal discourse of literary writing’ and that Sorai was calling for a study of ‘vernacular Chinese’. See Rebekah Clements, A Cultural History of Translation in Early Modern Japan, pp. 42-43. 8 For instance, Si Nae Park notes the Korean vernacular reading of Sinitic texts used syllabic vernacular glosses such as kugyŏl and influenced the Japanese kundoku method. In this

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China, where many literary Sinitic texts first appeared and where syntax was less of a problem, Sinitic writing was still pronounced in different sounds based on regional topolects.9 Sorai is known for his denouncement of kundoku. His aim, nonetheless, was not to abandon kundoku. His criticism of kundoku exposed its fundamental problem: its paradox of being a translation yet concealing its translational nature. He formally and systematically spotlighted the discrepancy of writing and speaking in kundoku and claimed that such a method had impeded Japanese Sinitic studies. He argued that this glossing-based method should be considered part of later annotations – thus alternations – to the Chinese classics that distorted their sources. To counter the kundoku method, Sorai promoted learning the Sinitic text in its ancient (meaning original, uncontaminated) form – a study he termed as ‘Ancient Phraseology Study’ (kobunjigaku 古文辭學). His studies both excited and outraged many of his contemporaries and fueled a new trend in Sinitic studies. What might have surprised Sorai is that his criticism of the traditional Sinitic studies and his emphasis on studying the ancient, uncontaminated texts had far-reaching influence, including on the Nativism (kokugaku 國學) that laid the foundation for a modern, national concept of Japan and the Japanese language.10 glossing-based vernacular reading, the Sinitic SVO (Subject + Verb + Object) word order is either transcoded into or embedded within the large Korean/Japanese SOV order. See Si Nae Park, The Korean Vernacular Story, pp. 13-14. 9 There was neither a unified spoken Chinese nor a unified Chinese vocalization of literary Sinitic in pre-1900 China. Take Qing China (1644-1912) as an example: even high Chinese scholarofficials who passed the highest-level civil service examination that was based on literary Sinitic texts could not speak ‘Chinese language’ intelligibly to the emperor who spoke the Northern topolect, or Mandarin. The problem was so great that Emperor Yongzheng (1678-1735, r. 1722-1735) had to launch a Mandarin campaign. See Shang Wei, ‘Writing and Speech’, pp. 285-293. 10 In his influential study on Tokugawa (1600-1868) intellectual history, Maruyama Masao argues that Sorai’s study of ancient China provided an intellectual precedent and method for nativists such as Motoori Norinaga 本居宣長 (1730-1801), who carried out meticulous studies on Japan’s past and consequently established a national, modern understanding of Japan in the nineteenth century. See Maruyama Masao, Nihon seiji shisōshi kenkyū, pp. 3-194. As such, Sorai was posited as one of the great contributors to the Tokugawa period being called the ‘early modern’ era of Japan. Yoshikawa Kōjirō’s Jinsai Sorai Norinaga also depicts Tokugawa intellectual history by focusing on the lineage of Itō Jinsai 伊藤仁斎 (1627-1705), Sorai, and Norinaga. Even scholars who criticize Maruyama’s depiction as a modernist interpretation of Tokugawa Japanese history cannot negate the role that Sorai and his ‘Ancient Phraseology Study’ played in that era. Among the Japanese scholars’ works, see, for instance, Kojima Yasunori’s Sorai gaku to han Sorai, in particular, pp. 5-25; and Koyasu Nobukuni’s Jiken toshite no Sorai gaku, in particular, pp. 8-20. In the English scholarly studies as well, Sorai and his influence in Tokugawa Japan is an unavoidable topic of Tokugawa political, intellectual, and cultural history. A good example is Naoki Sakai’s Voices of the Past. Although Sakai chooses Itō Jinsai as his early modern Japanese

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Sorai’s ‘Chinese language’ and its practice, or tōwa 唐話 (contemporary spoken Chinese) studies (following the eighteenth-century Japanese term), epitomize the pre-1900 Sinitic concept of ‘language’. The newly learned, contemporary spoken Chinese introduced unexplored aspects to the literary Sinitic practitioners, yet it was always already within the unbreakable gravity of Sinitic writing. Sorai and his contemporaries palpably stressed speech in their tōwa study; however, its spoken element was overwritten by literary Sinitic and was to serve the study of literary Sinitic.11 An emphasis on speaking is not to hunt and gather all spoken elements in Sinitic texts to demonstrate its orality. As Paul Zumthor points out, a hunt for oral formulas in the texts of the past does not deepen our understanding either of the texts or the supposed oral events of the past.12 The oral-literate dyad, as scholars such as Jonathan Sterne have already revealed, is a powerfully inaccurate approach that places the visual/ literate and the audial/oral at opposite ends of the linguistic spectrum.13 This study reflects on the relation and interaction of text and voice of the Chūka gengo in eighteenth-century Japan. It contemplates such questions as what was ‘Chinese language’ to Sorai and to those who emphasized a Chinese vocalization of Sinitic texts? How was their ‘Chinese language’ different from, and at the same time unavoidably and perhaps desirably entangled with, the long tradition of literary Sinitic writing? The theorization and practice of the ‘Chinese language’ in eighteenth-century Japan foreshadowed the hero, Sorai, his writings, and his followers are still part and parcel of Sakai’s depiction of language of eighteenth-century Japan as a time of forming early national consciousness. For a study on how the Nativist discourse in Tokugawa Japan restored the ‘pure’ Japanese culture vis-à-vis the imposition of Chinese culture, see also H.D. Harootunian, Things Seen and Unseen. 11 Not all publications related to tōwa or popular Chinese f ictions present themselves as serving the study of Sinitic classics, due to various reasons including niche market and genre. William Hedberg, for instance, provides examples of tōwa dictionaries and reading aids for Chinese popular fictions that divorce the study of contemporary Chinese language from larger political or ethical considerations that are often associated with literary Sinitic classics. He argues that these texts emblematize a shift from classical scholarship to later Chinese studies that downplayed the political and philosophical authority of China. However, Hedberg also notes that the attention given to contemporary Chinese in early modern Japan was never meant to separate it from the study of the traditional refined registers, hence suggesting an indivisible relation of the contemporary Chinese study with the Sinitic study. See Hedberg, The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction, pp. 25-53. 12 Zumthor’s article mainly assesses studies of medieval poetry. He criticizes scholars of medieval poetry for depending on ‘oral theory’ or the ‘formulaic style’, which has been considered the distinctive and defining characteristic of all oral poetry. Zumthor, on the other hand, points out the textual or intertextual quality of this style, as, in his words, ‘no medieval discourse is known to us except through texts’. See Paul Zumthor, ‘The Text and the Voice’, pp. 67-92. 13 Jonathan Sterne, ‘The Theology of Sound’, pp. 207-225.

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dilemma encountered in cultures that were deeply rooted in Sinitic writing when they searched for languages that would unify speaking and writing, a dilemma that resurfaced time and again in modern national language movements across East Asia.

Kundoku and translation To fully understand Sorai’s proposal of reading Sinitic texts in spoken Chinese, a brief introduction of Sorai’s target of criticism – the kundoku method and its concealment of its translational nature – is due. Kundoku was the standard method of studying Sinitic in Japan before, during, and also after Sorai’s times. It helps the reader render Sinitic writing into Japanese grammatical order and pronunciation through diacritical and syntactic marks and annotations in smaller fonts, which are called kunten 訓點 (glossing mark).14 Kundoku not only facilitated reading the Chinese classics but also assisted Japanese scholars to read and write Sinitic texts in general. Sinitic experts who mastered the kundoku method could read and write in Sinitic without kunten marks physically present. When Japanese scholars ‘conversed’ (hitsudan 筆談) with Korean diplomats or Chinese monks, they likely used the kundoku method in their minds, even if they did not write down the kunten marks. In modern scholarly works, the peculiarity of kundoku has engendered much discussion on whether it should be considered as translation and, in turn, how it actually challenges the definition of translation based primarily on modern Western languages. Following the efforts of scholars such as Judy Wakabayashi to introduce kundoku to translation studies, Wiebke Denecke uses kundoku as a main argument against alphabetic triumphalism, delineating how the Sinitic script effectively supported communication in China’s neighboring countries for centuries – a phenomenon she refers to as ‘worlds without translation’.15 On the other hand, scholars consider kundoku to be a particular form of translation. For instance, Rebekah Clements’s monograph on translation in Tokugawa Japan (1600-1868) acknowledges that no modern translation theory can fully cover the issue of kundoku because ‘kundoku often involves several different kinds of translation’.16 14 For studies and discussions on kundoku, see, for instance, Judy Wakabayashi’s articles as well as chapter 4 of David Lurie’s Realms of Literacy (pp. 169-212). 15 See Wiebke Denecke, ‘Worlds Without Translation’, pp. 204-216. 16 Rebekah Clements, A Cultural History of Translation, p. 112.

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More recently, Matthew Fraleigh’s study of how Japanese direct translation of European texts utilized the kundoku method gives us a detailed explanation of the technique of kundoku as a form of translation.17 In his careful study on kundoku, David Lurie insightfully points out that, in the kundoku method, ‘the text of the translation is the text of the original’ (emphasis in original).18 In eighteenth-century Japan, Sorai already noticed this feature of kundoku. Whether kundoku is a translation or not, or even what kind of translation it is, might not be the right question. Its fundamental problem, as Sorai revealed, is its obliviousness, if not denial, of being a translation. In ‘Ten Principles’, Sorai acknowledges that ‘there is no signif icant difference whether one says Japanese glossing or translation’ (曰和訓曰譯 無甚差別).19 The problem of Japanese glossing was not that it was in fact a translation of Sinitic texts but that it was a translation that was treated as the original. As Sorai states, ‘it is actually a translation, yet people do not know that it is a translation’ (其實譯也而人不知其為譯矣).20 The concealment of its translational nature gave kundoku users the illusion of reading (and understanding) the original Sinitic texts, while the meaning they got might have been twisted in the inverted Japanese syntax and annotation. In other words, when reading Chinese classics using the kundoku method, what they were reading was a translated text – that is, an interpretation of the original text – but they read it as if it was the original. To Sorai, the problem of kundoku was generated not only by the spatial distance between Japan and China but also by the temporal transformation of Japanese words. In his preface to Kun’yaku jimō 訓譯示蒙 (Gloss and Translation for Beginners, 1738), another aid for Sinitic studies,21 Sorai notes that Japanese kundoku have become a particular thing (ichimotsu 一物) to contemporary scholars because they were added by the scholars in the past. When those scholars annotated Sinitic texts, they used the common Japanese words of their times (sono toki no kotoba その時の詞). However,

17 Matthew Fraleigh, ‘Rearranging the Figures on the Tapestry’, pp. 4-32. 18 David Lurie, Realms of Literacy, p. 180. 19 Ogyū Sorai, Yakubun sentei, p. 6. 20 Ibid., p. 4. 21 Volumes 1-2 (mainly prefatory matters and explanations of the work) of the Waseda University copy of Kun’yaku jimō has the title Sentei 筌蹄 and Kun’yaku sentei 訓譯筌蹄 in it. These two volumes could be intended as a part of – or a sequel to – Yakubun sentei (Yakubun sentei was published as the first installment to a series) but later published with the main body of Kun’yaku jimō in its current title.

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Japanese words have changed over time, so these glosses have also become a particular thing to later scholars.22 Kundoku, indeed, was a particular thing. It was not a Chinese reading and refused to be a Japanese translation. Even though the kundoku method used Japanese, or Japanized, pronunciations and grammatical orders, it was not for the Tokugawa readers to translate the Sinitic texts into their contemporary spoken Japanese. Using the kundoku method, the Japanese readers could replace a sinograph with either a gloss pronunciation (kun’yomi 訓読み) or a Sinoxenic pronunciation (on’yomi 音読み) and alter the word order to accommodate a quasi-Japanese reading. In this way, it preserved the physical presentation of the Sinitic text, only adding the kunten marks in smaller font as auxiliaries. An eighteenth-century native Japanese speaker required special training to read and write Sinitic texts using the kundoku method. Sorai believed that in order to understand the Chinese classics as they were in their ‘original’ language, it was necessary to have a new, organic way of reading that did not veil the difference between the everyday Japanese and the Chinese classics. This ideal direct translation method is what he called ‘Translation Study’.

Translation study and the Nagasaki method In calling his method ‘Translation Study’ (yakugaku 譯學), Sorai was not suggesting that his Translation Study was akin to kundoku, which was also a translation; rather, the method’s name was meant to distinguish his direct translation and the kundoku translation via juxtaposition. As pointed out above, to Sorai, the problem of kundoku was not merely that it was a translation but more importantly that its translational nature was not fully acknowledged. His Translation Study thus put the translation part up front in order to confront the gap between the translation and the Chinese classic. What he proposed was a direct translation between Chinese and Japanese rather than a reading method mediated by kundoku. 22 The original text: ‘When those earlier generations in the ancient time added Japanese glosses, they directly glossed in common Japanese words of that time. However, when time changed into the present, many Japanese words are different from the Japanese words of the past. Now, as [we] put high value on the Japanese gloss, it has become a thing’ (その上古の先輩の和訓を付ら れたる以前は、直にその時の詞を付られたる處に、今時代移りかわりて、日本の詞昔とは違ひたること多し。 今倭訓を立置くときは、倭訓と云一物になるなり). Ogyū Sorai, Kun’yaku jimō, v.1, 3a-3b. The citation

here is based on the Waseda University library copy. Same below. This historical viewpoint of language is further developed in Sorai’s famous ‘Gakusoku’, particularly the second precept. See Ogyū Sorai, Sorai Sensei Gakusoku, 2b-3b.

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‘Ten Principles’, largely conceived as a key text for Sorai’s theorization of Translation Study, shows that his direct translation method attempts to bridge two forms of speech. 譯之一字。為讀書真訣。蓋書皆文字。文字即華人語言。… 秪以中華此方。語音 不同。故人作奇特想。能譯其語。如此方平常語言。可謂能讀書者矣。此是編開 卷第一義也。23

The word ‘translation’ holds the most profound truth about reading [and understanding] texts. As all books are scripts and scripts are the speech of Chinese people … It is only because the words and sounds of China and this land [Japan] are different that people think Chinese is something out of the ordinary. If one can adequately translate Chinese into the common speech of this land, one can be considered a capable reader. Such is the first principle of this work. [emphasis added]

In this short paragraph regarding Translation Study, Sorai stresses several specific words such as go (word, language), gen (word, speech), and on 音 (sound), indicating that Sorai’s direct translation focuses on sound and speech. Sorai’s work implies a language with unified speaking and writing; as he puts it, ‘all books are scripts and scripts are the speech of Chinese people’. To him, a text recorded the speech of the writer at least at the time of its production. The Chinese classic, therefore, was a transcription of the speech of Chinese people in ancient times. Sorai restates this point again in his preface to Gloss and Translation for Beginners: ‘As I said earlier, the writing currently found in books is the result of Chinese people directly writing down the sound of Chinese words’ (唐土は最前いふごとく、字の音と云ものが唐 土の詞を直に書き下しに唐人が書たるが、今書籍にある文なり).24 In the kundoku method, the Sinitic text’s ‘own’ or original sound was not the focus and it was read out loud in a form of localized pronunciations. Sorai’s direct translation treated the Sinitic writing in the Chinese classics as written Chinese based on spoken Chinese (at the time of its production) and should be translated into spoken Japanese. Sorai suggested several approaches to Translation Study based on spoken language, which he listed as a hierarchy. In ‘Ten Principles’, he rated the ‘Nagasaki method’ as the top method: 23 Ogyū Sorai, Yakubun sentei, pp. 5-6. 24 Ogyū Sorai, Kun’yaku jimō, v.1, 3a.

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先為崎陽之學。教以俗語。誦以華音。譯以此方俚語。絶不作和訓迴環之讀。始以

零細者。二字三字為句。後使讀成書者。崎陽之學既成。乃始得為中華人。而後稍 稍讀經子史集四部。勢如破竹。是最上乘也。25

One should first study the Nagasaki method, employ colloquial words in the classroom, read according to Chinese pronunciation,26 translate [Chinese texts] into colloquial Japanese, and, above all, avoid the inverted reading of Japanese glossing.27 Instruction should begin with simple elements and then sentences with two- and three-character terms, followed by extended texts. When the Nagasaki study is done, one then becomes a Chinese person. When [the student] moves on to read the four basic categories of books – Classics, Philosophies, Historiographies, and Belleslettres – it will be as easy as splitting bamboo. This is the top-rated method.

The Nagasaki method, or Kiyō no gaku 崎陽之學, was intended to enable students to master spoken Chinese to the level of native or near-native speakers, like the Chinese interpreters in Nagasaki. These interpreters were often Chinese immigrants or their descendants; they were bilingual mediators between the Japanese administrators and Chinese tradesmen. With the increasing need for interpreters, the Nagasaki authorities created the position of the junior interpreter (kotsūji 小通事) in 1640 and apprentice interpreter (keiko tsūji 稽古通事) in 1653.28 The creation of these posts allowed apprentices to develop their language and professional skill through assisting upper-level interpreters and written manuals, such as Yakka hitsubi 譯家 必備 (Essentials for Interpreters, ca. 1750s-1760s29), of which scholars from Edo also made copies to study.30 To acquire the language proficiency of the 25 Ogyū Sorai, Yakubun sentei, p. 9. 26 Note here that Sorai uses the term ‘kaon’ 華音, to differentiate his study of Chinese sound from the traditional studies of the on’yomi pronunciations (such as kan’on 漢音) that serve the kundoku method. 27 The Sinitic and Japanese grammatical orders are different. The Sinitic text is written in SVO order while Japanese is in SOV order. When reading the Sinitic texts out loud in kundoku, the reader will read the object first then go back to the verb, inverting the original word order. 28 For a study of the Nagasaki interpreters in the Chinese language, see Louis Jacques Willem Berger IV, ‘The overseas Chinese in seventeenth-century Nagasaki’, pp. 59-74. For a discussion of the Nagasaki interpreters and their Chinese language study, see Ishizaki Matazō, Kinsei Nihon niokeru Shina zokugo bungakushi, pp. 11-30. 29 Based on the content of the text, Okumura Kayoko dates it to around the 1750s or 1760s: Okumura, ‘18 seiki Nagasaki niokeru kōtō chūgokugo’, pp. 37-46. 30 The extant copies of the text are in manuscript form. The one housed in the Seikadō Bunko includes a brief postscript by Kondō Jūzō 近藤重蔵 (courtesy name Morishige 守重, 1771-1829): ‘Essentials for Interpreters is what I had the interpreters hand-copy entirely when I was working

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Chinese interpreters was to master spoken Chinese at a native or near-native level and, as Sorai put it, to ‘become a Chinese person’.31

The Kundoku gloss and the direct translation Sorai and his coterie aspired to the ideal Nagasaki method; however, it was not their intention to discard the kundoku method altogether. The Nagasaki method required accesses to native Chinese speakers or bilingual instructors, but this was not possible in most parts of Japan in the eighteenth century. As a compromise, Sorai suggested an alternative method, which did not completely exclude kundoku. It allowed the students to approach the Chinese classics using the kundoku method but also to be introduced to direct translation gradually: easy Chinese terms should be explained in spoken Japanese for students to grasp the meaning by themselves rather than through interpretations in kundoku.32 Gloss and Translation for Beginners, published two decades after A Tool for Translation, shows the more inclusive view of kundoku in Sinitic studies that Sorai envisaged. In the preface, Sorai speculates that a type of glossing in Nagasaki, and I keep one in my family academy. The eighth month of the seventh year of the Kansei era [1789-1801], Kondō Morishige’. See the copy of Yakka hitsubi in the Seikadō Bunko, endpaper. 31 Sorai’s statement regarding ‘becom[ing] a Chinese person’ should not be taken at face value. The ‘Chinese’ (Chūka) here is more a cultural entity of the Sinitic studies than a geopolitical entity of the country. Certainly, the two unavoidably overlap, and Sorai also did not distinguish the two clearly. Sorai’s extolment of the ancient Chinese also did not mean he considered Japan as inferior to China, especially his contemporary Qing China. Yoshikawa Kōjirō specif ically addresses Sorai’s China favoritism, which was the target of criticism by many of Sorai’s contemporaries as well as later scholars. See Yoshikawa, Jinsai Sorai Norinaga, pp. 201-286. For an English study on Tokugawa Confucian scholars’ takes on ancient China and how Japanese Confucian studies relate to the Sinitic tradition, see Kate Wildman Nakai, ‘The Naturalization of Confucianism in Tokugawa Japan’, pp. 157-199. See also notes 61 and 62. 32 For this more inclusive method, the original text says: ‘However, the Nagasaki method is not widely spread in the world, hence, I propose a secondary method for those who live in the isolated countryside and are not connected to the Nagasaki method. First teach the students sample sentences from the Four Books, the Lesser Learning, the Classic of Filial Piety, and the Selections of Refined Literature. And teach these texts in the Japanese way of reading. From time to time, select one or two extremely easy words to explain in colloquial language and make the students learn for themselves. This should not exceed one or two times a day and by all means avoid discussing the themes of chapters and the principles underlying the Way, virtue, innate nature, and destiny’ (然崎陽之學。世未甚流布。故又為寒鄉無緣者。定為第二等法。先隨例授以四書小

學孝經文選類。教以此方讀法。時時間擇其中極易解者一二語。隨分俚語解説。使其自得。一日間不過一二 次。切勿説旨章及道徳性命之理). Ogyū Sorai, Yakubun sentei, p. 9.

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similar to Japanese kundoku exists in other countries as well.33 Gloss and Translation for Beginners, for instance, provides both kundoku glosses and direct translations of Chinese classics. Gloss and Translation for Beginners was for general learners of Sinitic studies; thus, those who were not interested in the Nagasaki method but in the secondary method could use it as an aid. In its explanatory volume 2, Sorai puts kundoku glosses and his direct translations side by side in order to aid kundoku users as well as to demonstrate the difference between the two methods (see Figure 4.1). Although the two types of translation appear to be similar physically, a close examination of annotations of the two methods reveals how Sorai distinguishes the two. To help make my point, I would like to distinguish the ‘side annotation’ (bōkun 傍訓) from the general kundoku annotations. There are two types of side annotations: the right-side annotation and left-side annotation (sakun 左訓). The right-side annotation could be either the Sinoxenic pronunciation (on’yomi) or the gloss pronunciation (kun’yomi), while the left-side annotation is usually the gloss pronunciation, which is often a translation for a difficult sinograph or term. The left-side annotation is much less common and will not be discussed separately here.34 Unlike the kunten annotations at the four corners of a sinograph (which may be called ‘corner annotations’) that often indicate the grammatical order and the ending syllable of a sinograph’s pronunciation, the side annotation could provide a direct translation.35 Especially when the provided pronunciation is the kun’yomi 33 The original text reads: ‘From the perspective of supporting Japanese glossing, it is known that even Chinese people have Japanese glossing. Of course, there are things similar to Japanese glossing in foreign countries’ (和訓を立る眼より見れば、唐人にも和訓があると心得るなり。勿論外國に は皆和訓のやうなることあり). Ogyū Sorai, Kun’yaku jimō, v.1, 3a. 34 An eighteenth-century Japanese scholar might not know the meaning of a literary Sinitic term even when provided with its Sinoxenic (on’yomi) pronunciation as the right-side annotation. In this case, a left-side annotation might be provided to show its meaning, or Japanese translation, in addition to its right-side annotation. Difficult terms in Buddhist texts and unfamiliar contemporary spoken Chinese expressions in Ming-Qing popular f ictions are sometimes given left-side annotations. Of course, the rules were not very strict and were often left to the discretion of the individual annotator. For a few examples of left-side annotation, see Ye Yuan, ‘Contemporary Spoken Chinese in Eighteenth-Century Japan’, pp. 140-141. 35 Certainly, the corner annotation with the ending syllable of a sinograph’s pronunciation could also hint at its full reading; and to the kundoku masters, the phonetic ending alone is enough for them to figure out the reading (and often meaning) of a sinograph. Therefore, it is possible for the Sinitic study aids for advanced learners to employ few side annotations. As a matter of fact, kundoku texts with side annotations might be specified as kanatsuke bon 仮名 付け本 or bōkun bon 傍訓本. For some examples of kanatsuke bon, see Saitō Fumitoshi, Kanbun kundoku to kindai Nihongo no keisei, pp. 25-26.

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Figure 4.1  Kun’yaku jimō 訓譯示蒙 (Gloss and Translation for Beginners, 1738)

Available at Waseda University library, volume 2, 1a

gloss pronunciation, it is also the meaning of the annotated sinograph. In other words, the side annotation is much more akin to a direct translational space than the corner annotation. In Figure 4.1, Sorai puts side by side the kundoku gloss (kun 訓) and his direct translation (yaku 譯) of the first sentence of the preface to Daxue zhangju 大學章句 (Sentences and Paragraphs of Great Learning) by the Song Dynasty (960-1279) Neo-Confucian master Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130-1200). The first

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from the right of the four sentences is the kundoku gloss, and the other three are direct translations. Compared to the kundoku gloss that has no side annotation, Sorai’s direct translations deploy quite a number of side annotations, to indicate both the reading and the meaning of the sinographs. More significantly, some of the right-side annotations in Sorai’s direct translations here are contemporary spoken Japanese words. For instance, the right-side annotation of sinograph ‘ye’ 也 is the spoken Japanese word ‘ja’ ぢや/ じゃ, rather than ‘nari’ なり in the kundoku gloss (shown in a corner annotation). Some side annotations show grammatical functions such as the past tense. A good example in this regard is the right-side annotation for the sinograph ‘suo’ 所 , which in the direct translations is either ‘ta’ た or ‘tatta’ たった, while there is no side annotation for the same sinograph in the kundoku gloss. To sum up, despite their similar visual presentation at first glance, the direct translation in Gloss and Translation for Beginners is much closer to a literal translation of Sinitic texts in contemporary spoken Japanese than the kundoku gloss. Contrary to the direct translation in the inclusive Gloss and Translation for Beginners, which resembles the kundoku translation physically, the texts based on Sorai’s ideal Nagasaki method unequivocally announces itself as a direct translation, even visually. The primers produced by Okajima Kanzan 岡島冠山 (1674-1728), the Chinese language instructor of the Translation Society – a study group formed by Sorai’s coterie to carry out the ideal Nagasaki method – superbly exhibit how the direct translation differs from the kundoku translation (see Figure 4.2). In the direct translations in Figure 4.2, the right-side annotations of sinographs are a contemporary Chinese pronunciation rather than the Japanese reading/meaning. Following the sentences are the Japanese translations in double lines and small font. This is certainly not the first time that Chinese pronunciations were emphasized in Japanese history. As a matter of fact, the on’yomi (Sinoxenic pronunciation) used in the kundoku method was generally considered to be the ‘Chinese’ or Sinitic (derived) pronunciation. However, by the Tokugawa period, scholars had noticed and noted that such pronunciations were Japanized and should be considered Japanese pronunciation.36 More 36 Sinographs could be read out loud either in kun’yomi (gloss pronunciation) or on’yomi (Sinoxenic pronunciation) as mentioned above. Kun’yomi is a Japanese gloss/translation of a sinograph; while on’yomi refers to a variety of pronunciations generated at various stages of transmitting sinographs (and their pronunciations) from China to Japan. On’yomi supposedly retains some forms of Sinoexotic pronunciations, and some on’yomi pronunciations were often seen as (related to) Chinese pronunciations. For instance, kan’on 漢音 is the putative Chinese pronunciations that the Japanese envoys, students, and monks learned in Tang China and were hence promoted as the orthodox pronunciation for Sinographs of Sinitic studies. However, on’yomi pronunciations

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Figure 4.2 Okajima Kanzan, Tōwa san’yō 唐話纂要 (Essence of Chinese Speech, 1716)

Waseda University Library copy, vol. 4, 6b-7a

importantly, in the kundoku method, the on’yomi pronunciation was used only for some sinographs, while the rest of a sentence was rendered into Japanese words and syntax. On the contrary, readers of the above Kanzan’s direct translations could read the text out loud entirely in Chinese, following the side annotations. This work, one of the study primers for tōwa (contemporary spoken Chinese), aids the vocalization of Sinitic texts in both Chinese sound and syntax. In other words, tōwa study was a Chinese language study rather than a phonological study of Sinoxenic pronunciations.37 were circulated in Japan for long thus they are better to be considered Japanese pronunciations. Pre-1900 scholars have already argued this point, the most famous being Motoori Norinaga. He argued that since being transmitted to Japan, these Sinoxenic pronunciations had been ‘purified’ by Japanese pronunciations. Although Norinaga’s aim was to argue that Japanese pronunciations were more elegant and purer than Chinese pronunciations, he was not wrong in claiming that on’yomi pronunciations had been transformed (purified, according to Norinaga) by Japanese pronunciations since being transmitted to Japan. See Motoori Norinaga, Kanji san’on kō, pp. 29-34. 37 Tōwa was often mixed with and discussed as the tōon 唐音 (contemporary Chinese sound) or kaon 華音 (Chinese sound). As such, the Tokugawa Japanese were able to present or conceive

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Tōwa study in eighteenth-century Japan: The Translation Society38 In ‘Ten Principles’, Sorai does not use the word tōwa, but his Nagasaki method was modeled after tōwa study, which was initially the study of contemporary spoken Chinese by Nagasaki interpreters. Sorai was also aware of the term. In a brush conversation with the Ōbaku 黃檗 (Ch. Huangbo) Zen master Eppō Dōshō 悦峯道章 (Ch. Yuefeng Daozhang, 1655-1734) in 1707, Sorai referred to his ‘Chinese language’ studies under his employer Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu 柳 澤吉保 (1658-1714) as tōwa: ‘I learned some tōwa in previous years’ (小的前年 學唐話幾話).39 The Yanagisawa family had a strong connection with native Chinese speakers and were participating in spoken Chinese study, which directly impacted the Sinitic scholars in the family’s service, including Sorai. 40 Sorai began serving the Yanagisawa family in 1696. By 1707, when he conversed with Eppō in brush, he had already been in this environment the unfamiliar tōwa language study as associated to the familiar phonological study of on’yomi pronunciations. Eventually, the promotion of contemporary Chinese speech and sound became parts of the kundoku method. As Saitō Fumitoshi argues in his study on kundoku and the forming of modern Japanese, the Sorai school contributed to the developments of kundoku during the latter half of the Tokugawa period, particularly the increasing usage of on’yomi. See Saitō Fumitoshi, Kanbun kundoku to kindai Nihongo no keisei, pp. 1-15, 45-49. Nonetheless, tōwa study was a language study rather than a phonological study, at least during its initial stage. For a discussion of the tōwa and tōon/kaon, see Ye Yuan, ‘Contemporary Spoken Chinese in Eighteenth-Century Japan’, pp. 118-155. 38 The Translation Society organized by Sorai coterie was not the only tōwa study group in eighteenth-century Japan. In southwestern Japan, a few domains were promoting tōwa study in their domain schools, such as Kumamoto and Satsuma. Another example is a local tōwa study group called ‘Yūen sha’ 遊焉社 (Society of Roaming in Study), which published its tōwa study materials. See Ye Yuan, ‘Contemporary Spoken Chinese in Eighteenth-Century Japan’, pp. 108-116. 39 In his brush conversation with Eppō, Sorai tells the latter, ‘I [humble and vulgar] learned some contemporary spoken Chinese in previous years, but [my spoken Chinese] is as incomprehensible as birds chirping. Writing is writing. When I open my mouth, I really cannot speak’ (小的前年學學 唐話幾話，卻像鳥語一般。寫是寫，待開口的時節，實是講不得). The record of their brush conversation is quoted in Ishizaki Matazō, Kinsei Nihon niokeru Shina zokugo bungakushi, pp. 56-61. 40 The Ōbaku Zen masters, who were often native Chinese, visited the Yanagisawa residence quite often and was connected to Yoshiyasu years before Sorai was employed. The first such visit happened in 1692 when the fifth Ōbaku abbot Kōsen Shōton 高泉性潡 (Ch. Gaoquan Xingdun, 1633-1695) visited Edo. See the annual records of the Yanagisawa family, Rakushidō nenroku, annotated by Miyakawa Yōko, vol. 1, p. 100. For a detailed study of Yoshiyasu and his engagement with Buddhism, especially Ōbaku Zen, see Tsuji Zennosuke, ‘Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu no ichimen’, Shirin (1925), vol. 10, no. 3, pp. 1-17 & no. 4, pp. 57-75. Rebekah Clements attaches a very useful appendix on ‘Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu’s Contact with Chinese Ōbaku Monks’ to her ‘Speaking in Tongues?’, pp. 623-626.

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favoring Chinese language study for about ten years, and he had been studying contemporary spoken Chinese for some time. 41 In 1711, after the death of the fifth shōgun Tokugawa Tsunayoshi 徳川綱吉 (1646-1709, shogun 1680-1709) and the downfall of Tsunayoshi’s much favored councilor and Sorai’s patron Yoshiyasu, Sorai and his coterie initiated the Translation Society to continue tōwa study, which Sorai revealed to Eppō that he had been studying at the Yanagisawa residence for some time. In A Tool for Translation, published a few years later, Sorai does not mention tōwa study in the Yanagisawa residence or how his Nagasaki method related to his tōwa study there. 42 His silence regarding his tōwa study in the Yanagisawa residence was perhaps due to the political environment. However, Sorai’s studies in the Yanagisawa residence were likely the basis of his Nagasaki method and a prelude to the tōwa study group, the Translation Society. 43 In ‘Rules for the Translation Society’ (yakusha yaku 譯社約), Sorai again shows that spoken Chinese is the emphasis of their study in the Society: 東音之流傳於今。豈盡嵞山氏之遺哉。而士大夫所誦讀以淑己傳人者。壹是皆中 國之籍。籍亦無非中國人之言者。是同人所為務洗其鴂。以求如彼楚人之子處身 於莊嶽間者也。44

The Eastern sounds [Japanese ways of pronouncing the Sinitic text] have been transmitted to the present day. Are these all the remnants of the sounds of the Tushan clan?45 What the scholar-officials chant and read 41 Tōwa study was an important part of the lectures on Sinitic studies carried out during the fifth shogun Tsunayoshi’s visits to the Yanagisawa residence. The annual account of the Yanagisawa family records a few discussions on ‘contemporary Chinese sound’ (tōon) after the lectures, and Sorai was a part of it. See the Yanagisawa family’s annual records Rakushidō nenroku, vol. 4, pp. 75-80 & vol. 5, pp. 183-204. There is not much hard evidence showing that Yoshiyasu did understand or speak the Chinese language besides the lectures mentioned above. Rebekah Clements addresses this question in her ‘Speaking in Tongues?’, pp. 603-626. Through a careful examination of primary and second sources, Clements concludes that Yoshiyasu probably was very familiar with spoken Chinese, and he was keen on studying it even though he might not have mastered spoken Chinese. 42 Sorai does mention Tsunayoshi briefly to praise his fondness of study. See Ogyū Sorai, Yakubun sentei, p. 3. 43 It cannot be emphasized enough that Sorai’s tōwa study was not his own creation but was largely shaped during his time serving Yoshiyashi. Ishizaki Matazō also suggests something similar inexplicitly by putting his discussion of Chinese study in the Yanagisawa residence right before his chapters on Chinese study in Sorai’s Ken’en academy. See Ishizaki, Kinsei Nihon niokeru Shina zokugo bungakushi, pp. 49-53. 44 The text below is based on ‘Yakusha yaku’; photo reproduction in Sorai shū, p. 186. 45 The clan of Tushan is often believed to be the clan of the wife of the Chinese sage King Yu the Great. Tushan is believed to be located to the south of the ‘central plain’ (zhongyuan 中原),

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to benefit themselves and to transmit to others are all the texts of China. These writings are none other than the words of Chinese people. This is why people who shared the same mind [as mine] aim to shake off unintelligible sounds, in order to be like the youngster from the Chu state who stays in the area of Zhuang and Yue [to learn the correct sounds there]. (emphasis added)

Sorai highlights the spoken Chinese by terms such as on (sound), shō 誦 (chant), and gen (word). The metaphors he employs also refer to sound or speech. One such example is the Jue 鴂 bird, which is a bird from China’s southern states and known for its loud and unintelligible cry. Sorai uses the bird as a metaphor to note that reading Sinitic writing out loud in the kundoku method would be incomprehensible to Chinese people as well as to shake off the unintelligibility by learning the sound and speech of the Chinese people. Another example Sorai uses, the youngster from the Chu state, is more directly associated with language study. The youngster from Chu appears in an episode in ‘Teng Wengong Xia’ 滕文公下 in Mengzi 孟子 (Mencius). In the episode, Mencius tells Dai Busheng 戴不勝, an official from the Song 宋 state, that in order for a youngster from the Chu state to study the language of Qi 齊, it is better to bring the youngster to Qi instead of asking someone from the Qi state to teach the youngster in Chu state. 46 Mencius uses this episode to indicate that the way to guide a king to be wise is to surround him with upright officials. Sorai, on the other hand, focuses on this story’s lessons for language study. In studying a language that is not native to the speaker, the best way is to put the learner in the target environment. In the Mencius episode, the youngster from Chu moves to Qi to learn the Qi speech. The Translation Society, by contrast, is closer to asking a person from Qi to teach the Chu youngster how to speak the Qi language. Nonetheless, Sorai’s usage of this episode reveals his ambition to create an environment of Qi at the Translation Society to study Chinese speech. thus its sound would have been exotic compared to the sound of the ‘central plain’. On the other hand, the Tushan clan is part of the legend of sage King Yu the Great, hence a part of Sinitic culture. Whether Sorai was using it here as the orthodox Sinitic sound or as an exotic edition of the sound of the ‘central plain’ is unclear. Based on the context, one possibility is that Sorai was noting that the on’yomi Sinoxenic pronunciations gradually lost its Sinoxenic features since they were transmitted to and circulated in Japan. And he believed that Sinitic writings should be vocalized in the sounds of Chinese people rather than the Sinoexenic sound, which lost its original features and had become ‘unintelligible sounds’. 46 See Zhu Xi, Sishu zhangju jizhu, p. 269.

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The Society invited the Nagasaki native Okajima Kanzan to be its tōwa instructor. Between 1716 and 1726, Kanzan produced several tōwa primers that without a doubt were based on his teaching and learning experience at the Translation Society. 47 Many of Kanzan’s primers include sections with headings such as ‘common expressions’ ( jōgen 常言) and ‘long and short conversations’ (chōtan wa 長短話) from which the readers could learn how to converse in Chinese. 48 Tōwa san’yō 唐話纂要 (Essence of Chinese Speech; vols. 1-5, 1716, vol. 6, 1718), the first tōwa primer that Kanzan published after becoming the instructor of the Translation Society, demonstrates the nature of the tōwa practiced in the Society and, in turn, what Sorai’s ‘Chinese language’ was. Essence of Chinese Speech provides words and expressions with their Chinese pronunciations and Japanese meanings. From the vocabulary sections in Essence of Chinese Speech, readers can learn colloquial Chinese expressions. The ‘common expressions’ in volume 3 are common sayings and proverbs that frequently appear in Chinese popular fictions such as, ‘A farewell is due no matter how far you escort a friend on the way’ 送君千 里終須一別. 49 The emphasis on contemporary spoken Chinese is evident in the conversation models provided in this tōwa primer. Volume 4, entitled ‘Long and short conversations’, largely consists of conversations enabling scholars’ communication with each other. Below is one example of a dialogue discussing scholarly studies (see Figure 4.2): 我聽説。儞近來學業大進。而詩也做得好。文也做得妙。儞尚青年。怎恁地大奇。 異日必有發跡。欽羨欽羨。

豈敢。好説。我雖爲學爭奈生性愚鹵。至今未有所曉。中心只是不快。安如兄長 所言。真個慚愧了。50

A: I heard that your studies have improved greatly recently. Your poetry is excellent, and your prose is magnificent. How are you so full of talent 47 The tōwa primers are only parts of Kanzan’s works. Besides Taiheiki engi that William Hedberg examines in this volume, Kanzan has quite a few other works of Sinitic studies and literature. For a study on Kanzan and his life and work, see Ishizaki Matazō, Kinsei Nihon niokeru Shina zokugo bungakushi, pp. 73-93. 48 For instance, vol. 4 of Kanzan’s Tōwa ben’yō (1735, preface 1725) offers exemplary sentences for conversations carried out in various situations, for instance, ‘dialogues for meeting for the first time’, ‘everyday conversations’, and ‘dialogues among students’. The dialogues for scholars to converse with each other are an important part of these ‘Long and short conversations’ sections. 49 Okajima Kanzan, Tōwa san’yō, vol. 3, 12b. 50 Ibid., vol. 4, 6b.

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while still so young? You will surely gain fame and success in the future. This is truly admirable. B: I’m truly flattered. Well, although I am working on my scholarship, I am dull by nature, and I still have not yet been enlightened even now. I only feel uneasy in my heart. How can I be as what you have said, my dear brother? I am so embarrassed!

This dialogue shows how two (aspiring) scholars converse in Chinese, which is likely what the Translation Society participants practiced during their gatherings. The speakers use many elements of contemporary spoken Chinese. It uses wo51 我 and ni 儞 (你) as standard first-person and second-person pronouns, the two-character word tingshuo 聽説 for ‘to hear’, lai 來 as an adverbializing verbal suffix, ye 也 as a conjunctive adverbial particle, zuo 做 for ‘to do’, shi 是 as a copula and le or liao 了 as a perfective particle. Also, haoshuo 好説 (well said) and zhen’ge…le 真個…了 (really…) are colloquial expressions. The repetition of phrases, such as ‘admirable, admirable’ (qinxian qinxian 欽羨欽羨), is colloquial as well.52

Tōwa and the ‘official speech’ of China Besides conversation models, tōwa primers also guide learners to speak Chinese in correct, standard pronunciation – called ‘kan’on’ 官音 (Ch. guanyin, official sound) – and use dots to indicate the four tones (四聲, Jp. shisei, Ch. sisheng). Some tōwa primers state at the beginning that ‘each word is provided with an official sound and with a tone dot’ (每字註官音并點 四聲). Many others include contemporary Chinese pronunciations without even making such announcements (for instance, the right-side annotations in Figure 4.2). Tōwa primers also provide tone dots.53 The four tones, as in level-rising-falling-entering 平上去入 (Jp. hyō-jō-kyo-nyū, Ch. ping-shangqu-ru), were not unfamiliar to Tokugawa scholars of Sinitic studies. They were required to know tones – not necessarily to pronounce them – for writing Sinitic poetry, which was a vital part of Sinitic education in Japan. 51 Since these are primers for assisting spoken Chinese study, I use Chinese pinyin when citing words and sentences from these primers. Same below. 52 The features of the registers of literary Sinitic and Sorai’s contemporary spoken Chinese is primarily based on the second volume of Wang Li’s Hanyu shigao. In this volume, Wang Li delineates the historical changes of the Chinese language and focuses on functional words and syntax. 53 See, for instance, Okajima Kanzan, Tōyaku benran (1726), 1a, and Tōwa ben’yō (1735), 1a.

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However, Sinitic poetry was usually chanted using the kundoku method during the Tokugawa period. Even in those on’yomi pronunciations that have inherited the tone marks from the Heian (794-1185) kunten system, the tones were likely not actually pronounced in chanting.54 The tōwa primers, in contrast, add tone dots not to assist the composition but to enable tōwa learners to speak Chinese correctly. What is noteworthy is the notion of ‘kan’on’ – the official sound of China. During the Tokugawa period, it gradually became common knowledge that Chinese people from different regions spoke differently. In Nagasaki, because the arriving Chinese vessels were often from China’s eastern coastal regions, the Chinese interpreters spoke different topolects of the regions. The four main topolects practiced there were the Nanjing 南京 topolect, the Hangzhou 杭州 topolect, the Fuzhou 福州 topolect, and the Zhangzhou 漳 州 topolect.55 Scholars who were interested in Chinese language or phonology, such as those at Sorai’s Ken’en 蘐園 academy, were undoubtedly aware of the various Chinese topolects. The monk Monnō 文雄 (1700-1763), a disciple of Sorai’s star pupil Dazai Shundai 太宰春台 (1680-1747), explains Chinese topolects in his San’on seika 三音正譌 (Three Sounds, Correcting the Inaccurate, 1752). He notes that there are four Chinese topolects that the Nagasaki Chinese interpreters practice, and kanwa 官話 (Ch. guanhua, off icial speech or officials’ speech) is the topolect for study: 華音者俗所謂唐音也。其音多品。今長崎舌人家所學，有官話，杭州，福州，漳州 不同。彼邦輿地廣大，四方中國音不齊。中原為正音，亦謂之雅音。四邊為俗音，

54 During the Heian period, the Sinitic texts were annotated with the voice markings (shōten 聲點) to indicate the tones, and there were various tone systems including four-tones, five-tones, six-tones, and more. In his study of the kunten materials, Numoto Katsuaki argues that these voice marks were used to learn the correct Chinese tones and that Sinitic texts were vocalized in Chinese sound during the Heian period. See Numoto Katsuaki, ‘Nihon niokeru kunten shiryō no tenkai’, pp. 126-138. Brian Steininger notes that a manuscript of a portion of Yang Xiong’s biography from the Hanshu 漢書 (History of the Han, ca. 82) also includes voice markings and homonyms to indicate Chinese pronunciations. See Steininger, Chinese Literary Forms in Heian Japan, pp. 144-147. According to Steininger, there were glosses to indicate pronunciation in ‘Sinitic’ or ‘Sinitic-derived’ pronunciations in Heian Japan, but ‘chanting in Sinitic was increasingly replaced by kundoku recitation in academic and court ritual contexts’. See Steininger, pp. 129-57. 55 The Chinese interpreters in Nagasaki held tōwa gatherings, some of which were recorded. These records show that Nanjing, Fuzhou, and Zhangzhou topolects were what the interpreters used in those gatherings. Evidence also indicates that each interpreter specialized in one of these topolects. See Ishizaki Matazō, Kinsei Nihon niokeru Shina zokugo bungakushi, pp. 15-19. For a transcription of a tōwa gathering in 1716, see Shinozaki Tōkai 篠崎東海 (1686-1739), Chōya zakki (manuscript, 1723), 27b-31a.

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亦謂之郷音。其中原所用之音有二類，官話之與俗話也。俗話者平常言語也,官話 者讀書音。56

Chinese sounds are commonly called tō sounds. They have many variations. What the interpreters at Nagasaki are learning nowadays includes official speech, Hangzhou [speech], Fuzhou [speech], and Zhangzhou [speech]. The territory of that country is vast, and the sounds [meaning language or topolect] of the middle country and four directions are not the same. The [sounds of the] central plain are the standard sounds, which are also called the refined sounds. The [sounds of the] four directions are vulgar, and they are also called local sounds. Two types of sounds are used in the central plain: official speech and colloquial speech. Colloquial speech is the common language, and official speech is for study.57

According to Monnō, China had standard and local topolects. The standard topolect could be further divided into two kinds: official speech and colloquial speech, and the official speech was what was used for study. Colloquial speech was that of Hangzhou sound (as Monnō reveals later in the same passage).58 From Monnō’s description and the practice of the Nagasaki interpreters, Monnō’s ‘official speech’ was the Nanjing topolect, and the same was true of what Kanzan calls ‘official sounds’ in his primers. Modern scholars might question whether the Nanjing topolect was actually the official speech of eighteenth-century China, but whether Monnō’s description correctly reflected the map of his contemporary Chinese sound and speech is not the point here – even Chinese people of that time, and in the modern era, could not fully explain what the ‘official speech’ of China was. What is significant is that both Monnō and Kanzan considered that, among the various Chinese topolects, there was an ‘official’ sound, a standard Chinese speech. Although modern research might suggest that what they were learning was no more than one topolect, or rather a written Chinese lingua franca, it is clear that Tokugawa tōwa learners believed that they were learning a standard spoken Chinese: the most orthodox and refined version of Chinese language that should be the sound to vocalize the literary Sinitic. The official speech that Monnō discussed had a spoken component: as he calls it wa 話, speech. However, he also described official speech as a tool 56 See Monnō, San’on seika, vol. 1, 10b-11a. 57 Here, Monnō uses on 音 to mean both sound and speech (wa 話). Such mixed usage was quite common in Tokugawa discussions on tōwa. See also note 37. 58 Monnō, San’on seika, vol. 1, 11a.

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for study and a form that differed from colloquial speech. This description shows that his ‘official speech’ was intricately entangled with the literary Sinitic writing. What Monnō (and perhaps his teacher Shundai and Shundai’s teacher Sorai as well) considered to be the official speech of China was not the colloquial speech of everyday conversations but was refined and literary, suitable for scholars to use in their conversations. Two hundred years later, when Chinese intellectuals in the twentieth century began promoting a baihua 白話 (Jp. hakuwa, literally ‘plain speech’, often translated as ‘vernacular Chinese’) movement modeled after European vernacularization, they again chose one topolect – the most ‘official’ one, Mandarin – and the written Chinese lingua franca as the ‘vernacular Chinese’, just like the tōwa learners in eighteen-century Japan learning the ‘Chinese language’. The official, scholarly orientation of eighteenth-century Japanese tōwa study, in turn, determined that the registers of contemporary spoken Chinese that they were learning and the ‘Chinese language’ that they had in mind could never be entirely colloquial but were always and already mixed with Sinitic writing, as witnessed also in the twentieth-century Chinese baihua movement.59

Classical and contemporary, literary and colloquial Sorai’s translation study went beyond mere language study but was closely related to his ideal Sinitic studies. As he states in ‘Ten Principles’ in A Tool for Translation: 古云。 通古今謂之儒。又云。通天地人謂之儒。故合華和而一之。是吾譯學。合 古今而一之。是吾古文辭學。此等議論。大似與是編沒交涉。其實亦有大關係存 焉。故此附言爾。60

The old saying goes that a Confucian is someone conversant with both antiquity and the present. It is also said that a Confucian is conversant with the realms of Heaven, Earth, and humanity. Bringing China and Japan together as one, this is my Translation Study. Bringing antiquity and the present as one, this is my Ancient Phraseology Study. This discussion may appear to be irrelevant to this work. However, the relationship between them is, in fact, profound. For this reason, I have added these words here. 59 For more information on guanhua, baihua, and the baihua movement in late imperial to modern China, see Shang Wei, ‘Writing and Speech’, pp. 254-296. 60 See Ogyū Sorai, Yakubun sentei, p. 15.

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Through Translation Study and the study of contemporary spoken Chinese, Sorai ultimately intended to reach the true meaning of the ancient Chinese classics without relying upon later interpretations, and he termed this approach ‘Ancient Phraseology Study’. The later interpretations that Sorai considered as corrupting the ancient Chinese classics included not only Japanese kundoku but also Chinese Neo-Confucianist annotations.61 The latter had spread widely and was the most popular type of Sinitic studies in Japan and across East Asia during Sorai’s time. Sorai, however, criticized later Chinese readings of the ancient Chinese texts for distorting the true meaning of the Chinese classics. Nonetheless, he believed that using contemporary spoken Chinese to read the Sinitic would be closer to the original meaning of the ancient Chinese texts than Japanese kundoku.62 Like other Confucian scholars in Tokugawa Japan, Sorai also studied Zhu Xi’s Neo-Confucian texts. Yoshikawa Kōjirō observes that up to around the death of Tsunayoshi in 1709, Sorai was building up his Chinese language capability and studying Neo-Confucianism.63 In 1711, when the Translation Society had its initial meeting and A Tool for Translation was being prepared for publishing, Sorai was in the midst of a transition from following NeoConfucianism to advocating Ancient Phraseology Study. Contemporary spoken Chinese was crucial to his new mode of Sinitic studies.64 In his 61 As Sorai reveals in his own writings multiple times, his Ancient Phraseology Study and criticism on Song Neo-Confucianism was closely related to his understanding of the Ming (1368-1644) scholars who resorted to ancient Chinese texts for literary excellence and inspiration, particularly Li Panlong 李攀龍 (1514-1570) and Wang Shizhen 王世貞 (1526-1590). For one such example, see Ogyū Sorai, ‘An Tanpaku ni kotaeru fumi’ in the Appendix to Sorai Sensei Gakusoku, 1a-5a. Sorai’s frank enthusiasm about China and Chinese scholarship garnered much criticism. This is a well-discussed topic; see for example Koyasu Nobukuni’s Jiken toshite no Sorai gaku, pp. 59-99. See also note 31. 62 Sorai’s ‘Ancient Phraseology Study’ reveals a three-pointed (non-)lineage that included ancient ‘China’ of the sages, the later China, and (Tokugawa) Japan. To Sorai, the ancient ‘China’ of the sages represents the universal way, which was lost in the later history of China but could be picked up by scholars in Tokugawa Japan such as himself. This three-pointed impression has been discussed by many scholars, such as Kate Wildman Nakai’s ‘The Naturalization of Confucianism in Tokugawa Japan’, pp. 157-199. Nakai also notes that many Tokugawa Confucian scholars in addition to Sorai argued that elements of the way of the sages might be found more readily in Japan than in China, such as rituals, music, and political institutions. 63 Yoshikawa Kōjirō divides Sorai’s scholarly activities into three stages in his ‘Sorai gaku’an’ 徂徠學案 and defines the first stage as Sorai being a scholar of language (gogakusha 語學者). See Yoshikawa, Jinsai Sorai Norinaga, pp. 87-117. 64 It should be pointed out here that Sorai’s language study, or Translation Study, and Ancient Phraseology Study can hardly be separated into two stages in chronological order, but Yoshikawa is correct in noting Sorai’s intensive study of Neo-Confucianism in the early stage of Sorai’s studies since it was the basis of Sinitic studies in the Tokugawa period.

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investigation of Sorai’s Translation Study and Ancient Phraseology Study, Tajiri Yūichirō considers the latter as a possible reassessment of the former. Sorai’s emphasis on ancient phraseology allowed him to rethink whether translation was a valid method.65 I agree with previous studies that Sorai’s views on language evolved over time and that his interest in language study faded away gradually. However, the passage quoted above indicates that when Sorai was promoting Translation Study, he not only already had Ancient Phraseology Study in mind but presented the two as a parallel pair. The literary-Sinitic-focused Ancient Phraseology Study and the (spoken) language-oriented Translation Study might seem somehow incompatible, but they are in fact two sides of the same coin. Similar to many so-called spoken ‘languages’ in pre-1900 Sinitic East Asia, the tōwa of eighteenth-century Japan was also a Sinitic flavored with contemporary, colloquial elements. To include many contemporary spoken Chinese words and expressions did not mean an exclusion of the literary Sinitic. Literary Sinitic was the basis of Sinitic texts, while contemporary spoken Chinese features – fresh expressions, new grammatical features, etc. – could be added to literary Sinitic to obtain contemporariness and colloquiality. It is not surprising that the ‘Chinese language’ that Sorai and his like-minded scholars were studying never fully excluded literary Sinitic and replaced it with contemporary spoken Chinese. Literary Sinitic was the foundation, and tōwa represented its newly developed features. The above-quoted exemplary dialogue (see page 127) in Kanzan’s Essence of Chinese Speech, for instance, shows a literary Sinitic base as well. Readers can find many typical literary Sinitic elements there: the adjective shang 尚 as a de facto verb without the copula shi 是; sui 雖 as a conjunction; wei 未 as an adjective; an 安 as an interrogative adverb; and the suo 所+verb structure as a noun. Moreover, it uses literary phrases like qigan 豈敢 (you flattered me), yiri 異日 (another day), and zhijin 至今 (until now). A dialogue in contemporary spoken Chinese is based on literary Sinitic but updated with contemporary, spoken attributes. Some of the exemplary tōwa dialogues are more literary than colloquial. Here is the first dialogue in the same volume: 今天下太平。四海無事。上憫下労。下沐上恩。歡聲四起。朝野俱樂。而重值堯舜 之時也。恭喜恭喜。66

65 Tajiri Yūichirō, ‘“Kundoku” mondai to kobunjigaku’, pp. 221-260. 66 Okajima Kanzan, Tōwa san’yō, vol. 4, 1a.

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Presently, peace fills all under heaven and in the four oceans. The king pities the labor of the people, and the people enjoy the favor of the king. From all four directions come shouts of joy; the court and the ordinary people are all happy. This is indeed the time of sage Kings Yao and Shun again. Congratulations, congratulations.

Except for the repeated ‘congratulations’ at the end that make it sound colloquial, there are almost no contemporary colloquial markers in this entry. It uses er 而 as a conjunction, zhi 之 as an adjective-forming particle, ye 也 as a sentence-final particle, and parallel four-character expressions. These are all too familiar to readers of literary Sinitic. Another tōwa primer by Kanzan, Tōon gazoku gorui 唐音雅俗語類 (Classified Chinese Terms, Refined and Colloquial67, 1726) is particularly useful for demonstrating how tōwa learners distinguished the colloquial from the literary. As its title suggests, Classified Chinese Terms collects terms in both refined (literary) and colloquial registers.68 However, these volumes show a variety of combinations of refined and colloquial linguistic registers. Table 4.1 gives parallel entries from both the refined and colloquial registers. The refined entry is written in literary Sinitic with few markers of contemporary spoken Chinese features. The colloquial entry sounds colloquial, as it is longer and wordier, but the two are very similar. There are few colloquial markers, and even those I mark as colloquial – such as ganxie bujin 感謝不盡 (I could not be more grateful) – are not necessarily colloquial but could be used in refined conversations as well. In fact, there are so few contemporary colloquial features that if the few possible markers were removed or revised, the entry could merge into the refined category with little problem. Juxtaposing the two entries reveals, again, that literary Sinitic was the basis of these conversations and was considered refined; the colloquial entry, on the other hand, also took literary Sinitic as its foundation but 67 Ga 雅 and zoku 俗 are often translated as ‘refined’ and ‘vulgar’; I translate zoku here into ‘colloquial’ deliberately. As shown in the quoted text from the zoku register, there is nothing particularly vulgar about these terms and conversations that are labelled as zoku. As Nakano Mitsutoshi notes, in eighteenth-century Japan, zoku provided a discursive space for everyday life, playfulness, and irony, rather than being simply ‘vulgar’. See Nakano Mitsutoshi, Jūhasseiki no Edo bungei, pp. 1-65. 68 The first two volumes of Classified Chinese Terms are devoted to the refined register: the f irst volume collects words with two and four characters while the second volume, entitled ‘Ref ined conversations long and short’ (Chōtan gagorui 長短雅語類), focuses on expressions and sentences. The next three volumes focus on the colloquial register. The third volume lists colloquial Chinese words of four and eight characters, and the fourth and fifth volumes contain colloquial sentences and short paragraphs.

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Table 4.1 Refined and colloquial conversations in Classified Chinese Terms, Refined and Colloquial Refined register Original texts English Translations

Colloquial register

昨日初爲識荊。即沐垂青。契踰故舊。 久聞高名。朝夕忻慕。今日何幸。不期拜顏。從今 豈知萍水亦有骨肉耶。69

[I] met you yesterday for the first time and soon received your favor. We are closer than old friends. There certainly is true friendship even between brief acquaintances.

以後。若蒙垂青。感謝不盡。70

I have long heard your celebrated name and admire [you] day and night. How fortunate it is today that I am able to meet you unexpectedly. From now on, I could not be more grateful if I could be so fortunate as to receive your favor.

* Underlined are the potential colloquial markers.

added colloquial markers to varying degrees. Similarities notwithstanding, eighteenth-century Japanese scholars did differentiate between the refined and the colloquial, the classical and the contemporary as suggested in these primers; however, they did not put the refined and the colloquial as two ends of a pole. To them, the colloquial register likely suggested new aspects to the literary Sinitic, but it was neither opposite to nor incompatible with literary Sinitic. Contemporary spoken Chinese – such as contemporary spoken phrases, new grammatical elements, or even verboseness – comprised the new features developed in Chinese people’s speech and its written traces. While it is quite well-known that the so-called ‘vernaculars’ in pre-1900 were no more than colloquial registers, the signif icance of tōwa study is that it was about speaking the ‘language’. The examples quoted above show that the goal for the scholars who participated in tōwa learning was to speak in accordance with their social role and to produce culturally polished Chinese that fit their social setting. The stylistic and word choices of being literary and formal demonstrate the speakers’ linguistic and cultural virtuosity. The tōwa learners, like their contemporary scholar-officials in China, engaged with each other in a highly literary spoken Chinese. It was largely a vocalization of the literary Sinitic writing in a sound and syntax that might be intelligible among themselves but not a homogeneous, organic Chinese language based on an actual spoken language.6970 This is certainly nothing surprising. As Sorai wrote (quoted above): ‘the writing currently found in books is the result of Chinese people directly writing down the sound of Chinese words’. To him, the ancient sound of 69 Okajima Kanzan, Tōon gazoku gorui, vol. 2, 19a-19b. 70 Ibid., vol. 4, 1a.

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Chinese words was lost, and tōwa, contemporary spoken Chinese, could help learners to retrieve the sound of Chinese words. Tōwa study, hence, was always about sound and speech, but always had its eye on writing and text. This was not a problem to many tōwa learners, at least at the beginning. It was only years later that perceptive scholars with first-hand tōwa learning experience, or who had witnessed tōwa learning, would point out the impossibility of reaching ancient Chinese texts by learning contemporary spoken Chinese and learning contemporary spoken Chinese by reading Chinese popular fictions. Nonetheless, what was attempted in tōwa study and Ancient Phraseology Study is marvelous. It was to speak Sinitic, a mission never completed and probably not possible.

Conclusion: ‘Chinese language’ as the problematic of pre-1900 East Asia Right after the paragraph where Sorai presents his idea of ‘Chinese language’ cited at the beginning of this article, he writes the following sentences to state his view on how this ‘Chinese language’ could be approached and apprehended better from the vantage point of Japan. 故學者先務。唯要其就華人言語。 識其本來面目。而其本來面目華人所不識也。 豈非身在廬山中故乎。我今以和語求之。然後知其所以異者。71

Therefore, the primary task of scholars is to learn the Chinese language and apprehend its true features. Nevertheless, its true features are unknown even to the Chinese themselves. Isn’t this like the inhabitants of Mount Lu not knowing the actual features of the mountain? I now take the Japanese language to seek the actual features of the Chinese language so that the distinctions will be apprehended.

Sorai envisions that Chinese people might not fully comprehend the Chinese language because, unlike himself and his follow Japanese, the Chinese people do not have the distance to reflect on the true features of the ‘Chinese language’. To revisit the question that I ask at the beginning of this article, what was the ‘Chinese language’ – more precisely ‘Chūka gengo’ – of Sorai and eighteenth-century Japan? What we find from their writings and practices seems to present a confusing, often self-contradictory picture, for instance: 71 Ogyū Sorai, Yakubun sentei, p. 4.

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1 2 3 4

This ‘Chinese language’ stressed sound and speech; The sound and speech it aimed at was an ‘official’, formal one; Its speaking was highly literary and based on literary Sinitic; Its study was often to serve the study of texts written mostly in literary Sinitic; 5 It showed an idea of unified speaking and writing but provided little realization of this goal; 6 It involved a Chūka that zigzagged between geopolitical ‘China’ and an imagined ‘Sinitic’. Needless to say, this is my depiction of the eighteenth-century Japanese ‘Chūka gengo’ and its studies. The issues at stake here, such as Chinese versus Sinitic, and spoken language versus written language, are much more relevant and urgent to a twenty-first-century study of ‘Chūka gengo’ in English-language academia rather than an eighteenth-century Japanese exploration of it. The ‘Chūka gengo’ that Sorai and his contemporaries were learning entangled with both speaking and writing but could not easily be compacted into either. As Sorai correctly points out in the paragraph above, this is not a Japanese problem per se, but should be contemplated in all Sinitic cultures, including China. The intricate intertwinement of speaking and writing shown in the ‘Chinese language’ of eighteenth-century Japan is witnessed over and again in the so-called ‘vernacular Chinese’, or baihua, of China. The Song (960-1279) ‘records of words’ 語錄 (Ch: yulu; Jp: goroku), which supposedly record the spoken words of the Neo-Confucian masters, use a large portion of lexical and grammatical elements that belong to literary Sinitic.72 The so-called ‘vernacular Chinese’ literature of the Ming-Qing (1368-1912) period combines styles alternating between literary Sinitic and vernacular Chinese.73 According to Shang Wei, the modern baihua movement that has been misunderstood as the vernacularization of China was actually ‘abolishing one cosmopolitan writing style (classical and semiclassical Chinese) and replacing it with another existing cosmopolitan writing style’.74 Even the supposed phonocentric turn of China’s modern script revolution eventually entails one model of the reinvented ideo-phonographic writing.75 72 73 74 75

See Robert Hymes, ‘Getting the Words Right’, pp. 25-55. See, for instance, Patrick Hanan, The Chinese Vernacular Story, pp. 13-16. Shang Wei, ‘Writing and Speech’, pp. 295. Yurou Zhong, Chinese Grammatology, pp. 1-23.

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Attempts to catch the sound of ‘China’ could not, it seems, break from the power of literary Sinitic writing. The intricate sound-script relation was also not a Chinese problem but rather one that resonated across the Sinitic cultures, especially in the depiction of cosmopolitan literary Sinitic versus various vernaculars. Ross King emphasizes the complex ecology of spoken and written language in pre-1900 Korea that refuses to be molded into a neat ‘diglossia’.76 Based on rich materials of early Japan, David Lurie similarly criticizes a ‘bilingual fallacy’ that views the Japanese culture as divided into ‘spheres of Chinese and Japanese texts, marked by clear linguistic and graphic contrasts’.77 John Phan’s close examination of two prefaces – Vietnamese (Nôm) and literary Sinitic – shows that they redefine Nôm ‘not as a distinctive, regional competitor or alternative to Sinitic writing, but as a legitimate extension of its scope’.78 From a regional framework, Zev Handel pays special attention to the linguistic features of Sinitic script and trace its transformation in written forms for various spoken languages such as Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean, and Zhuang.79 Peter Kornicki’s extensive reconstruction of vernacularization in East Asia verifies the idea that literary Sinitic, as the cosmopolitan ‘language’, was not a shared spoken language but varied dramatically in its phonological realizations within China and in its neighboring countries.80 Bringing up a pre-1900 ‘Chinese language’ would only complicate further what these scholars have already critiqued. As I have shown above via the previous studies, the relationship between the written cosmopolitan and various vernaculars already seems beyond portrayal. Since this is the case, how can it be possible to believe that one of the vernaculars (‘vernacular Chinese’) could correspond to the cosmopolitan (literary Sinitic)? How about adding a speech dimension to such a thing that is both/either vernacular and/or cosmopolitan (sound of ‘Chinese language’), as Sorai proposed? Was a ‘Chinese language’ in pre-1900 East Asia even possible to imagine? Many eighteenth-century Japanese enthusiasts of ‘Chinese language’ were certainly aware, or realized later, that they were involving themselves in a daunting task; but perhaps few had a clear idea of just how daunting it actually was. The study of contemporary spoken Chinese faded away in the latter part of the eighteenth century. Some of its energy transferred 76 77 78 79 80

Ross King, ‘Ditching “Diglossia”’, pp. 1-19. David Lurie, Realms of Literacy, pp. 323-334. John Phan, ‘Rebooting the Vernacular in Seventeenth-Century Vietnam’, pp. 96-98. Zev Handel, Sinography, pp. 1-27. Peter Kornicki, Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts in East Asia.

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into Chinese popular literature, which were used as new material for tōwa studies.81 The eighteenth-century Japanese effort of reaching out to speech eventually and inevitably dissolved into writing. The sound of China that the eighteenth-century Japanese were enchanted with and chased after was a vocalization of the visual. Nonetheless, this writing-imbued gengo addresses a crack that deems the dichotomy of writing and speaking uncomfortable and irrelevant. Each attempt of eighteenth-century Japanese scholars to record and replay its sounds manifested the vitality of Sinitic writing. Each of their active reflections and applications reveal the infusibility of speech and text, as well as of China and Sinitic. The unattainable ‘Chinese language’ and its unattainability bestow upon us a point of entry into a pre-1900 gengo in Sinitic culture: a literary Sinitic – not classical Chinese – with its own sound; a paradox, an oxymoron, and a utopia; a spoken Sinitic.

Bibliography Berger, Louis Jacques Willem, IV. ‘The Overseas Chinese in Seventeenth Century Nagasaki.’ Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 2003. Clements, Rebekah. A Cultural History of Translation in Early Modern Japan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. —. ‘Speaking in Tongues? Daimyo, Zen Monks, and Spoken Chinese in Japan, 1661-1711.’ The Journal of Asian Studies 76.3 (2017): 603-626. Denecke, Wiebke. ‘Worlds Without Translation: Premodern East Asia and the Power of Character Scripts.’ In A Companion to Translation Studies, edited by Sandra Bermann and Catherine Porter, pp. 204-216. New Jersey: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014. Fraleigh, Matthew. ‘Rearranging the Figures on the Tapestry: What Japanese Direct Translation of European Texts Can Tell Us about kanbun kundoku.’ Japan Forum 31.1 (2019): 4-32. Hanan, Patrick. The Chinese Vernacular Story. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981. 81 It should be noted here that the reading and studying of Chinese popular fictions existed before tōwa study, but that tōwa study further solved the language difficulties and facilitated the theoretical foundation for this fascination. On this topic, Ishizaki Matazō’s Kinsei Nihon niokeru Shina zokugo bungakushi, although produced several decades ago, is still by far the most comprehensive and preeminent study. Later scholars have contributed with significant case studies and new interpretations, such as Emanuel Pastreich’s The Observable Mundane, Hedberg’s The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction, and Nan Ma Hartmann’s dissertation ‘From Translation to Adaptation’. In addition, the chapters by Matthew Fraleigh and William Hedberg in this volume also offer two important case studies.

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Handel, Zev. Sinography: The Borrowing and Adaptation of the Chinese Script. Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2019. Harootunian, Harry D. Things Seen and Unseen: Discourse and Ideology in Tokugawa Nativism, Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1988. Hartmann, Nan Ma. ‘From Translation to Adaptation: Chinese Language Texts and Early Modern Japanese Literature.’ Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 2014. Hedberg, William. The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction: The Water Margin and the Making of a National Canon. New York: Columbia University Press, 2020. Hymes, Robert. ‘Getting the Words Right: Speech, Vernacular Language, and Classical Language in Song Neo-Confucian “Records of Words.”’ Journal of Song-Yuan Studies 36 (2006): 25-55. Ishizaki Matazō 石崎又造. Kinsei Nihon niokeru Shina zokugo bungakushi 近世日本 における 支那俗語文学史. Tokyo: Kōbundō shobō, 1940. King, Ross. ‘Ditching “Diglossia”: Describing Ecologies of the Spoken and Inscribed in Pre-modern Korea.’ Sungkyun Journal of East Asian Studies 15. 1 (2015): 1-19. Kornicki, Peter. Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts in East Asia. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018. Kojima Yasunori 小島康敬. Sorai gaku to han Sorai 徂徠学と反徂徠. Tokyo: Perikansha, 1987. Koyasu Nobukuni 子安宣邦. Jiken toshite no Sorai gaku 事件としての徂徠学. Tokyo: Seidosha, 1990. Lidin, Olof G. ‘Vernacular Chinese in Tokugawa Japan: The Inquiries of Ogyū Sorai.’ Japonica Humboldtiana 14 (2011): 5-36. Lurie, David. Realms of Literacy: Early Japan and the History of Writing. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2011. Maruyama Masao 丸山真男. Nihon seiji shisōshi kenkyū 日本政治思想史硏究. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku shuppankai, 1952. Translated by Mikiso Hane as Studies in the Intellectual History of Tokugawa Japan. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1974. Monnō 文雄 (1700-1763). San’on seika 三音正譌 (1752). Waseda University Library. Motoori Norinaga 本居宣長 (1730-1801). Kanji san’on kō 漢字三音考. Photo-reproduction in Kanji san’on kō; Chimei jion ten’yōrei 漢字三音考; 地名字音転用例. Tokyo: Benseisha, 1979. Nakai, Kate Wildman. ‘The Naturalization of Confucianism in Tokugawa Japan: The Problem of Sinocentrism.’ Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 40.1 (1980): 157-199. Nakano Mitsutoshi 中野三敏. Jūhasseiki no Edo bungei: Ga to zoku no seijuku 十八 世紀の江戶文芸: 雅と俗の成熟. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 2015. Numoto Katsuaki 沼本克明. ‘Nihon niokeru kunten shiryō no tenkai’ 「日本におけ る訓点資料の展開」. In ‘Kundoku’ ron: Higashi Ajia kanbun sekai to Nihongo 「

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訓読」論 ―東アジア漢文世界と日本語 ―, edited by Nakamura Shunsaku et al.,

pp. 123-150. Tokyo: Bensei shuppan, 2008. Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠 (1666-1728). Yakubun sentei 譯文筌蹄 (1714-1715). Photoreproduction in Ogyū Sorai zenshū 荻生徂徠全集, vol. 2, pp. 1-433. Tokyo: Misuzu shobō, 1974. Reprinted in Ogyū Sorai zenshū, edited by Imanaka Kanji and Naramoto Tatsuya, vol. 5, pp. 13-366. Tokyo: Kawade shobō, 1977. —. Kun’yaku jimō 訓譯示蒙. Waseda University library. Photo-reproduction in Ogyū Sorai zenshū, vol. 2, pp. 435-542. Tokyo: Misuzu shobō, 1974. —. ‘Yakusha yaku’ 譯社約. Photo-reproduction in Sorai shū 徂徠集, pp. 186-187. Tokyo: Perikansha, 1985. —. ‘Gakusoku’ 學則. In Sorai Sensei Gakusoku 徂徠先生學則. Ochanomizu University library, 1a-8b. —. ‘An Tanpaku ni kotaeru fumi’ 答安澹泊書. In Appendix to Sorai Sensei Gakusoku 徂徠先生學則. Ochanomizu University library, 1a-5a. Okajima Kanzan 岡島冠山 (1674-1728). Tōwa san’yō 唐話纂要 (1716 and 1718). Waseda University Library. —. Tōon gazoku gorui 唐音雅俗語類 (1726). National Institute of Japanese Literary. —. Tōyaku benran 唐譯便覧 (1726). Waseda University Library. —. Tōwa ben’yō 唐話便用 (1735). Waseda University Library. Okumura Kayoko 奥村佳代子. ‘18 seiki Nagasaki niokeru kōtō chūgokugo: ‘Hatsu shin kan’ no naiyō ni motozuku Yakka Hitsubi saikō’ 18 世紀長崎における口頭中 国語-「初進館」の内容に基づく『譯家必備』再考. Higashi Ajia bunka kōshō kenkyū 9 (2016): 37-46. Park, Si Nae. The Korean Vernacular Story: Telling Tales of Contemporary Chosŏn in Sinographic Writing. New York: Columbia University Press, 2020. Pastreich, Emanuel. ‘Grappling with Chinese Writing as a Material Language: Ogyū Sorai’s Yakubunsentei.’ Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 61.1 (2001): 119-170. —. The Observable Mundane: Vernacular Chinese and the Emergence of a Literary Discourse on Popular Narrative in Edo Japan. Seoul: Seoul University Press, 2011. Phan, John. ‘Rebooting the Vernacular in Seventeenth-Century Vietnam.’ In Rethinking East Asian Languages, Vernaculars, and Literacies, 1000-1919, edited by Benjamin Elman, pp. 96-128. Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2014. Rakushidō nenroku 樂只堂年錄, annotated by Miyakawa Yōko. 8 volumes. Tokyo: Yagi shoten, 2011-2019. Saitō Fumitoshi 斎藤文俊. Kanbun kundoku to kindai Nihongo no keisei 漢文訓読と 近代日本語の形成. Tokyo: Bensei shuppan, 2011. Sakai, Naoki. Voices of the Past: The Status of Language in Eighteenth-Century Japanese Discourse. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991.

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Shang, Wei. ‘Writing and Speech: Rethinking the Issue of Vernaculars in Early Modern China.’ In Rethinking East Asian Languages, Vernaculars, and Literacies, 1000-1919, edited by Benjamin Elman, pp. 254-301. Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2014. Shinozaki Tōkai 篠崎東海 (1686-1739). Chōya zakki 朝野雑記 (manuscript, 1723). National Diet Library. Steininger, Brian. Chinese Literary Forms in Heian Japan: Poetics and Practice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2017. Sterne, Jonathan. ‘The Theology of Sound: A Critique of Orality.’ Canadian Journal of Communication, 36.2 (2011): 207-225. Tajiri Yūichirō 田尻祐一郎. ‘‘Kundoku’ mondai to kobunjigaku: Ogyū Sorai omegutte’ 「＜訓読＞問題と古文辞学―荻生徂徠をめぐって」. In Kundoku ron: Higashi Ajia kanbun sekai to Nihongo 「訓読」論 ―東アジア漢文世界と日本語 ―, edited by Nakamura Shunsaku et al., pp. 221-260. Tokyo: Bensei shuppan, 2008. Tsuji Zennosuke 辻善之助. ‘Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu no ichimen’ 柳沢吉保の一面. Shirin 10.3 (1925): 1-17; Shirin 10.4 (1925): 57-75. Wakabayashi, Judy. ‘Marginal Forms of Translation in Japan: Variations from the Norm.’ In Unity in Diversity? Current Trends in Translation Studies, edited by Lynne Bowker et al., pp. 57-63. Manchester: St. Jerome, 1998. —. ‘Translation in the East Asian Cultural Sphere: Shared Roots, Divergent Paths?’ In Asian Translation Traditions, edited by Eva Hung and Judy Wakabayashi, pp. 17-65. Manchester: St. Jerome, 2005. Wang Li 王力. Hanyu shigao 漢語史稿. 3 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980. Yakka hitsubi 譯家必備 (Manuscript, ca.1750-1760). Seikadō Bunko. Yoshikawa Kōjirō 吉川幸次郎. Jinsai Sorai Norinaga 仁斎・徂徠・宣長. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1975. Yuan, Ye. ‘Contemporary Spoken Chinese in Eighteenth-Century Japan: Language Learning, Fiction Writing, and Vocality.’ Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 2020. Zhong, Yurou. Chinese Grammatology: Script Revolution and Literary Modernity, 1916-1958. New York: Columbia University Press, 2019. Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130-1200). Sishu zhangju jizhu 四書章句集註. Reprint. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983. Zumthor, Paul. ‘The Text and the Voice,’ trans. Marilyn Engelhardt. New Literary History 16.1 (1984): 67-92.

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About the author ye yuan is a literary and cultural historian who specializes in early modern Japanese and Chinese literature and culture, Sinitic studies in pre-1900 East Asia, vernacular literatures, and the Sinophone and Sinograph. Her current research projects include works on Ming-Qing Chinese popular fictions and their transmissions and transformations in East Asia, and the enthusiasm for colloquiality and contemporality in Sinitic cultures.

5

‘Body Borrowed, Soul Returned’ An Adaptation of a Chinese Buddhist Miracle Tale into a Vietnamese Traditional Theatrical Script Nguyễn Tô Lan Abstract This chapter explores the adaptation of a Chinese Buddhist miracle tale into a traditional theatrical script in Vietnam in the nineteenth century. Contrary to the current assumption that the play Trương the Butcher performed in Buddhist ceremonies derives either from literary Sinitic novels or folktales of Vietnam, this chapter argues that the proximate source for this play was a Chinese miracle tale entitled ‘Zhang Yin’ (from around the eleventh century), associated with the spread of the Diamond Sutra. By discussing the similarities and differences of the original Chinese version and its Vietnamese adaptation, this chapter contributes to the research on the ecologies of translation of Chinese popular literature into the Vietnamese theatrical corpus, particularly those associated with Buddhist practices. Keywords: translation, miracle tale, theatrical script, Buddhist practices, Diamond Sutra

Introduction Tuồng (also called Hát bội) is a form of traditional theater that was widespread in central and southern Vietnam from the eighteenth century onward, reaching the height of its popularity in the nineteenth century.1 It began * This research is funded by the Vietnam National Foundation for Science and Technology Development (NAFOSTED) under grant number 602.05-2019.300. The author would like to acknowledge the editing, comments, and suggestions of Hue-Tam Ho Tai, Rostislav Berezkin, and Mao Wenfang 毛文芳 as well as support from Nguyễn Thuỵ Đan and Nguyễn Yến Phi. 1 Huỳnh Khắc Dụng, Hát bội; Viện Sân khấu, Lịch sử sân khấu; Lê Văn Chiêu, Nghệ thuật sân khấu hát bội.

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch05

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to decline in popularity in the early twentieth century, partly owing to the appearance of Cải lương (Reformed theater) in the 1920s and, later, the introduction of other forms of entertainment such as popular music and cinema. From a comparative perspective, Tuồng is a subgenre within traditional East Asian drama along with traditional Chinese dramatic genres such as Yueju 粵劇 (Cantonese Opera) and Chaoju 潮劇 (Chaozhou Opera) as well as Japanese Noh 能 (Noh theater).2 The scripts of classic Tuồng are written in (chữ) Nôm (𡨸) 喃, the logographic writing system of the Vietnamese language, which dates back to the fourteenth century at the latest and was used until the early twentieth century.3 Some of the themes in Tuồng plays are of indigenous origin and involve the transformation of local sources such as folktales and legends of the supernatural, but other plays display foreign literary influences from Ming and Qing historical fiction, Chinese scholar-beauty romance novels, French novels, as well as Chinese and Indian religious (mainly Buddhist) tales. Tuồng, like many other types of traditional theatrical performance in the world, arose in the context of religious rituals. 4 Before it became an entertainment art form (in the context of the modern world), Tuồng fulfilled a religious function (and it continues to do so today). This chapter focuses on a folk play titled Trương đồ nhục 張屠肉 (Trương the Butcher) that was used in Buddhist rituals in Vietnam. In contrast to current assumptions in Vietnamese scholarship that this play is a theatrical adaptation of Vietnamese folktales, this chapter is based on a comparative study of the Tuồng adaptation of Trương the Butcher and examines relevant written texts from Vietnam as well as from Chinese Buddhist literature. In contrast to previous scholarship that has assumed that the play derives either from a novel written in Hán văn 漢文 or from Vietnamese folktales written in either Nôm or Quốc ngữ, here I proposesthe view that the proximate source for this play was a Chinese tale entitled ‘Zhang Yin’ 張隱 which is associated with the dissemination of the Diamond Sutra. There is still no evidence to prove that this tale ever circulated in premodern Vietnam, but indirect evidence suggests that this Chinese text may have been the invisible basis for a Vietnamese adaptation in the form of Trương the Butcher, a comic play that pokes fun at monks, novices, and gods alike. This chapter discusses 2 Nguyễn Tô Lan, ‘Một cái nhìn về tuồng truyền thống Việt Nam’, pp. 385-405. 3 Nguyễn Lộc, Từ điển nghệ thuật hát bội Việt Nam; Nguyễn Tô Lan, Khảo luận. In this article, I mainly focuses on classic Tuồng plays written in Nôm dating to the twentieth century. Tuồng plays in Quốc ngữ is mentioned in specific circumstances where they have a specific relationship with those in Nôm. 4 Phạm Kim-Dzung, ‘The Origin’; Eli Rozik, The Roots of Theatre.

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the similarities and differences in the process of receiving and revising this story within the literary and religious practices of pre-modern Vietnam and China. Before Quốc ngữ was confirmed as the only official script in Vietnam in 1945, there were three scripts used in parallel: Hán văn, the literary Sinitic5 version used in Vietnam from the end of the Protectorate in 936; Nôm was informally used from the fourteenth century onward; and Quốc ngữ, the Romanized Vietnamese script used from the seventeenth century onwards. In addition to being used for the compilation of indigenous works, these scripts led to the production of specific literary translation phenomena in the complex context of the multidimensional relationship between Vietnam and China. In medieval times, literary translation in Vietnam took two forms. The first form was adaptations in Hán văn to fit local conditions, such as tales of strange events (or supernatural stories 志怪小說), for example Việt điện u linh tập 粵/越甸幽靈集 (Collection of Stories on the Shady and Spiritual World of the Viet Realm), Lĩnh Nam chích quái 嶺南摭怪 (Selection of Strange Tales in Lĩnh Nam), and Truyền kỳ mạn lục 傳奇漫錄 (Collection of Strange Tales).6 The second form was that of novels (e.g., Hoàng Việt xuân thu 皇 越春秋 [Vietnamese History], Nam triều công nghiệp diễn chí 南朝功業演志 [Records of the Southern Dynasty’s Achievements]),7 of adaptations of Chinese materials in Nôm in other forms of writing such as creative rewritings of Ming-Qing novels, precious scrolls, and folktales into lục-bát (six-eight) verse narratives,8 as well as performing literary genres like Tuồng and Chèo (satirical musical theater).9 Trương the Butcher belongs to the second form, as it converts a Buddhist story into a play and in doing so changes its literary form. In its adapted form as a Vietnamese Tuồng play, the story of ‘Zhang 5 See Mair, ed., The Columbia Anthology. 6 On these adaptations, see K.W. Taylor, ‘Notes’, pp. 26-59, and ‘Sino-Vietnamese Translation’, pp. 169-94; Claudine Salmon, ed., Literary Migrations; Chen Yiyuan, Jiandeng xinhua; Đào Phương Chi, ‘Nghiên cứu văn bản Việt điện u linh tập’; Nguyễn Thị Oanh, ‘Nghiên cứu văn bản Lĩnh Nam chích quái’; Nguyễn Nam, ‘Writing as Response and as Translation’; Nguyễn Thanh Tùng, ‘Giao lưu tiếp biến văn hoá Trung-Việt’; Thomas Engelbert, ‘Mythic History’, pp. 268-75; John D. Phan, ‘Rebooting the Vernacular’; Nguyễn Tô Lan and Rostislav Berezkin, ‘Tiếp nhận tiểu thuyết thông tục Trung Quốc ở Việt Nam thế kỷ XVIII’, pp. 95-111. 7 Trần Nghĩa, ‘Sơ bộ tìm hiểu tiểu thuyết chương hồi’, pp. 3-15 and ‘Lược đồ quan hệ tiểu thuyết’, pp. 3-13; Lu Lingxiao, Yuenan kanwen lishi xiaoshuo. 8 Trần Quang Huy, ‘Yuenan Nan zhuan’; Huang Yiqiu, ‘Yuenan gudian wenxue’, pp. 56-68; Zheng Yongchang, Hanwen wenxue; Chen Yiyuan, Zhong Yue Hanwen xiaoshuo and Wang Cuiqiao gushi; Kiều Thu Hoạch, Truyện Nôm; Phạm Quốc Lộc, ‘Translation in Vietnam and Vietnam in Translation’. 9 Nguyễn Tô Lan, Khảo luận and ‘Chuyển thể sân khấu’, pp. 48-66.

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Yin’, a short miracle tale from the Tang Dynasty, exhibits all the distinctive characteristics of a performing art piece. This chapter will present the prior scholarship on the origin of the play and argue against a local origin for this play. One aspect that is examined is the circulation of stories surrounding the Diamond Sutra in China as well as in Vietnam. The argument is put forth that because the play was so actively and thoroughly localized in terms of language, locale, and cast of characters, it is easy to see why previous scholars might have argued for its indigenous provenance. However, as is shown through a side-by-side comparison with the Chinese version of the story of ‘Zhang Yin’, we can fruitfully understand the play as a thoroughgoing localization of that story – in short, an adaptation of Chinese form and content. Futhermore, the chapter analyzes the play Trương the Butcher in its relationship with folktales with similar contents written in Nôm and to a certain extent written in Hán văn in different literary genres in order to explore the idea that the Tuồng play Trương the Butcher, with its Chinese orgins, and the abbreviated stories from the Tuồng play in Nôm and folktales in Quốc ngữ may reveal a mix of ‘interlingual translation’ (from literary Sinitic to Nôm) and of ‘intralingual translation’ (from Tuồng to narratives in Nôm and Quốc ngữ).

The case against a local literary origin for the Tuồng play Trương the Butcher Only one handwritten manuscript of Trương the Butcher survives. It is preserved in the Vietnamese Nôm collection at the British Library and is written in Nôm characters; only the eighth out of ten volumes survives, without any chapter divisions, and it contains 48 single-page sheets sized 26 x 21 cm. The complete transliterated title of the play in Vietnamese is Trương đồ nhục truyện 張屠肉傳 (The Tale of Trương the Butcher). The play, like most of the other manuscripts in that collection, provides no information about the author or the date.10 Among all the other texts in that collection, only one carries a date, corresponding to the reign of Emperor Tự Đức 嗣德 (1847-1883), while seven contain an inscription reading, ‘Lê Quý transcribed [this] under command 黎貴奉寫’..According to Hoàng Xuân Hãn, it is possible that this Lê Quý was hired by Charles Célestin Antony Landes (1850-1893) in 1892.11 Before 10 Trần Nghĩa, ‘Sách Hán Nôm’, pp. 3-13; Nguyễn Thị Trang, ‘Phông sách tuồng Nôm’, pp. 408-13; Nguyễn Tô Lan, ‘Bộ phận văn học sân khấu’, pp. 1-21. 11 Hoàng Xuân Hãn, La Sơn Yên Hồ, vol. 3.

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considering more exact evidence below, we assume that our manuscript can be dated to no later than 1892. Except for the first and last pages, each page contains eight rows of characters in two sizes, the larger for dialogue, and the smaller for stage directions, a graphic convention that was typical for Tuồng plays in Nôm. The text is incomplete, for the storyline is abruptly cut off without a resolution of the developing suspense in the plot. However, since this is a unique text, it is presently unclear how many pages are missing. The fact that Lê Quý is mentioned as the person who transcribed this series of Tuồng plays is quite unique in the context of classic Tuồng texts. Based on our analysis of approximately 400 existing Tuồng texts in Nôm, there are only about 30% for which authors and dates (mainly printed texts) can be identified.12 They were generally Confucian scholars, officials, mandarins, or Nguyễn Dynasty royal family members such as Đào Tấn 陶進 (1845-1907), Nguyễn Hiển Dĩnh 阮顯穎 (1853-1926), Hoàng Cao Khải 黃高啟 (1850-1933), and Ưng Bình Thúc Giạ Thị 膺苹菽野氏 (1877-1961). The majority of Tuồng texts are anonymous and undated, as is not uncommon in the case of theatrical literature in Vietnam and elsewhere. Quite apart from the role of Tuồng plays as literary works for educated readers, most texts were written down from oral performances to serve the needs of performers and to transfer the texts from generation to generation in performing communities. In the case of Trương the Butcher, the script transcription was carried out at the request of an outsider, a French colonial government official who was interested in local literature and probably assigned himself the responsibility of civilizing the indigenous people.13 For the reader’s convenience, the following is a summary of Trương the Butcher. Trương Thiền sư 張禪師 (Trương the Monk), after tea time, returns to his meditation room and dies on account of a mistake made by the Thổ địa 土 地 (Earth God). The Earth God had been leading the way for a messenger from the Underworld who took the monk’s soul instead of that of another man who was also named Trương. Two novices at the pagoda, Đạo Nguyên 道元 and Đạo Xoa 道叉, decide to cremate Trương the Monk but keep the master’s belongings. Diêm vương 閻王 (The King of Hell) orders ghost guardians to bring the monk’s soul to Hell to punish him for his sins; however, the monk insists that he has been falsely accused. One of the 12 Nguyễn Tô Lan, Khảo luận. 13 Antony Landes, Les Pruniers Refleuris: Poème Tonquinois, Contes et Légendes Annamites, and Trần Bồ Comédie Annamite.

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officials in Hell, Tả Tào quan 左曹官 (Left Arrest Official), realizes that the monk has the same last name as a butcher and was seized by mistake. The Earth God and the underworld messenger blame each other. The King of Hell calls in the butcher’s soul to clear things up. During his lifetime, the butcher had always been proud of his handiwork as a butcher, never listening to his wife Tuyết nương 雪娘 (Lady Tuyết), who had urged him to give up his profession to gain better karma. Thus, he has to admit to his sins when brought to Hell. He is put into an iron cage and fed to a fox every day. Trương the Monk is exonerated and returned to life. However, his body has already been cremated. Therefore, The King of Hell orders the underworld messenger and the Earth God to put the monk’s soul in the butcher’s body. In the house of Trương the Butcher, Lady Tuyết sees her husband asleep. She decides to wake him up, but then realizes that he is already dead. Crying desperately, Lady Tuyết invites her aged neighbor, Trương lão 張老 (Trương the Elder), over to help with the funeral and sends for a shaman to perform the ceremonial duties. In the middle of the ritual, Trương the Butcher wakes up as the soul of the monk enters his body. The butcher does not recognize where he is and speaks in the manner of a monk. Lady Tuyết thinks that her husband has had an affair and now wants to get rid of her. The monk in the butcher’s body explains everything, from how he was seized by mistake to how he was raised back to life. Lady Tuyết does not believe what he tells her. The two argue for a while until the monk manages to leave and runs back to the pagoda. Lady Tuyết follows, determined to get her husband back. There, the sole extant manuscript ends.

Previous Vietnamese studies have without exception considered Trương the Butcher to be representative of the heritage of Vietnamese folklore, being a dramatic adaptation of the tale of ‘Hồn Trương Ba, da hàng thịt (Trương Ba’s Soul, the Butcher’s Skin)’.14 This is a well-known folktale of the Kinh, one of the major ethnic groups of Vietnam, which was first published in Quốc ngữ by Nguyễn Đổng Chi (1915-1984) in Kho tàng truyện cổ tích Việt Nam (The Archive of Vietnamese Tales).15 According to Nguyễn Đổng Chi, the folktale ‘Trương Ba’s Soul, the Butcher’s Skin’ was translated from a version in Hán văn found in Lan Trì kiến văn lục 蘭池見聞錄 (Records of what Lan Trì Saw 14 Lê Ngọc Cầu, Tuồng hài; Tôn Thất Bình, Tuồng Huế. 15 Nguyễn Đổng Chi, Kho tàng. Two volumes of this work were published first in 1957. The full version, which was published in 1993 by Nxb. Văn học, included five volumes.

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and Heard) by Vũ Trinh 武楨 (1759-1828).16 However, I have not been able to find any story titled ‘Trương Ba’s Soul, the Butcher’s Skin’ or any other story with a similar plot in the extant versions of Records of what Lan Trì Saw and Heard.17 Instead, I discovered that the title of the story quoted by Nguyễn Đổng Chi was taken from another literary source and not in fact from Records of what Lan Trì Saw and Heard. The first reference to this title that I have found so far comes from a Nôm text, Sử Nam chí dị 史南誌異 (Strange Stories in Vietnamese History), compiled by Trần Gia Du 陳嘉猷.18 The relevant passage reads as follows: [p. 37b] The thirty-seventh story is about the soul of Trương Ba張𠀧 and the skin and bones of a butcher: In the old days, in Liêu Hà village, then called Cổ Liêu village, of Đường Hào district, there was a man named Trương Ba who was extremely skilled at chess … [p. 39b] … [A judge] ordered a soldier to set up a chessboard and have Trương Ba play, and after seeing his skill he said: ‘Ah, this is truly the soul of Trương Ba, enveloped in the exterior of a butcher’. The judge ordered that Trương Ba and his wife could return home to live with each other. The Butcher’s wife was allowed to marry another husband. The meaning of this was a reference to the saying: ‘the soul of Trương Ba, the skin and bones of a Butcher (V. hồn phách Trương Ba, xương da Hàng Thịt)’.

The first appearance of ‘Trương Ba’s Soul, the Butcher’s Skin’ in Quốc ngữ is in Quảng tập Viêm văn 廣集炎文 (Fr. Chrestomathie Annamite).19 This book, which is also titled An Nam văn tập 安南文集 (Literary Works of An Nam), is a compilation of notes by Edmond Nordemann (1869-1945?) intended to be used as teaching material at the École française d’Extrême-Orient (EFEO) in northern Vietnam. The first chapter consists of folktales. Nguyễn Nam points out that Chrestomathie Annamite does not include Strange Stories in Vietnamese History in the category of primary sources (i.e., written works from which the stories were taken), and furthermore he says that according to Chrestomathie Annamite, this story was in fact taken from a Hán văn work titled Công dư tiệp ký 公餘捷記 (Quick Records in Times of Leisure). 16 Lan Trì 蘭池 is an abbreviation of Lan Trì Ngư Giả 蘭池魚者, a pen name of Vũ Trinh. 17 At the Institute of Sino-Nom Studies (hereafter ISNS), there are three versions of Lan Trì kiến văn lục titled simply Kiến văn lục 見聞錄 (Records on the Saw and the Heard) manuscripts call nos VHv.1155, A.1562, A.31, and one version titled Lan Trì kiến văn lục, manuscript call no. VHv.1401. 18 Trần Gia Du, Sử Nam chí dị. 19 Edmond Nordemann, Quảng tập Viêm văn.

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However, Chrestomathie Annamite transcribes 59 stories from Strange Stories in Vietnamese History directly from Nôm into Quốc ngữ. The Trương Ba story in Chrestomathie Annamite is not a translation of the literary Chinese text in Quick Records in Times of Leisure , nor is it a transcription into Quốc ngữ from Truyện công dư tiệp ký 傳公餘捷記 (Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure) written in Nôm.20 Moreover, in Chrestomathie Annamite the original order of the stories from Strange Stories in Vietnamese History is preserved and the story in question is found as number thirty-seven, just as in the original.21 Despite this, the note in Chrestomathie Annamite regarding Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure as the source of ‘Trương Ba’s Soul, the Butcher’s Skin’ can help us to find of Trương the Butcher. Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure is a collection of Vietnamese folktales collected and edited by Vũ Phương Đề 武芳㮛 (1697-?) mainly in northern and central Vietnam, and it is written in Hán văn.22 The tale titled ‘Mr. Trương, Being Skilled at Chess, Meets an Immortal in the Mortal World’ 張精棋塵中試仙老尊顏 is the closest to the topic of this chapter.23 This story appears after the record of the history of Đế Thích quán 帝釋館 (the Indra Temple ) in La Chàng commune, Thiên Thi district in Hải Dương province, northern Vietnam in the first category (titled ‘Gods and Spirits’ 神怪) in Volume two. The previous story was written in order to illustrate the miracle powers of the deity worshipped in the temple (Indra). When writing down the story about Mr. Trương in Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure, Vũ Phương Đề may either have used legends circulating in the Hải Dương region or perhaps relied on a story related to a temple in Liêu Hạ commune, which also worships the same god. Vũ Phương Đề commented at the end of the story: Considering this story, who knows if it is true or not? However, presently the temple of Liêu Hạ commune still has a statue of Indra in the center 20 ISNS, manuscript call no. AB.481. 21 Nguyễn Nam, ‘Lược dịch Quốc ngữ’, pp. 20-31. 22 The ISNS has a total of four manuscript editions of Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure, manuscripts call no. A.44 (handcopied by scholars from the Indochina Branch of the École française d’Extrême-Orient in Hanoi in the first half of the twentieth century), VHv.1324/1-2, VHv.14, and A.1893. 23 Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure, p. 47b. After its completion, Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure was continually edited by anonymous editors. According to the research of Trần Nghĩa, ‘Góp phần’, pp. 3-10, the 44 ‘original’ stories are contained in the first nine titles of Volume 1 and the first four titles of Volume 2 in the edition of VHv.1324/1-2. For this reason, I believe it is very likely that the writings on Mr. Trương mentioned above are the writings of Vũ Phương Đề himself, added to the 1775 edition.

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and one of Trương Ba 張𠀧 to the left, before which a large chessboard is placed. According to oral folk tradition, whenever a reference is made to chess, Trương Ba is mentioned f irst. Recently bandits have risen everywhere, and all temples in the region have been destroyed. Only this village temple remains solemn and majestic. Truly it is the holiest temple in this region [p. 49a].

Fieldwork surveys of extant sources stored in the Liêu Hạ commune temple (presently called Thiên Đế temple 天帝殿) in Tân Lập commune, Yên Mỹ district, Hưng Yên province reveal that the most reliable source is Đế Thích điện ký 帝釋殿記 (The Record of Indra Temple). This takes the form of an inscription carved on a stone stele on the occasion of the temple’s renovation in 1605.24 Thus, since this stele predates Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure by approximately 170 years, we can assume that the story of Mr. Trương was already circulating in the region by the beginning of the seventeenth century. A comparison of Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure and The Record of Indra Temple suggests that these two stories represent different versions of the same basic plot. The main character is a mortal who is skilled at chess; the God Indra appreciates his skill and grants him an incense stick to ask for help when needed. After the main character dies, his family burns the incense stick and Indra returns that person to life. The differences between the two stories relate to the circumstances of the main character(s) and the details of his (their) resurrection. The main character in Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure is called Trương Ba who, because of his arrogance regarding his skill at chess, is taught a lesson by Indra. The main characters in The Record of Indra Temple are two old men: Trương Ba, a Vietnamese, and Kỵ Như 騎如, a Chinese. The manner in which Indra resurrects the main character in these two stories is also different. In the case of Trương Ba, it was 100 days after his death that his family remembered to light the incense to summon Indra. Because Trương Ba’s body had already decomposed, Indra allows him to enter into the body of a recently deceased butcher from the same village. Because of this, litigation between the two families ensues. In the case of Trương Ba and Kỵ Như, after both of them die, their families immediately burn incense. Indra appears and fixes the records of Nam Tào 南曹 (Southern Department), ordering Tam phủ Công 24 Hoàng Đình Ái, Đế Thích điện ký (1605) in Lê Quý Đôn (1726-1784), Kiến văn tiểu lục quoted the content of this stele: ‘In the 6th year of Hoằng Định 弘定 reign [1605], the Grand Minister Honored Duke 太宰榮國公 built the Front Hall 前堂 and erected the stele with the inscription.’

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đồng 三府公同 (Lords of Three Prefectures) to return the souls of the two old men back to the realm of the living. Because their corpses have not decomposed, they are able to re-enter their original bodies. Furthermore, an Immortal from the Eastern Sea extends their lives in the mortal realm. After this, the two men build a temple in Liêu Hạ to worship these gods. No matter whether the plot involves one or two persons, both stories focus on two details: skill at chess playing and resurrection from the dead. This is the basis for the combination of these two stories into one at a certain point in another text, Thiên Đế bảo lục 天帝寶籙 (Precious Records of Indra), a text of uncertain date which is currently kept at the Indra temple in the Liêu Hạ commune and which I have examined in situ. The only difference between the stories recorded in Precious Records of Indra and the two stories quoted above is the change of Kỵ Như’s name to Trọng Huyền 仲玄.25 If we compare the contents of this group of texts and the play Trương the Butcher, we cannot find many similarities aside from two details: the main character has the same family name (Trương 張), and this character is resurrected in some way or other. These two details, especially the similarity in the detail of the main character being resurrected into the body of a butcher in Trương the Butcher and the story recorded in Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure, appears to have led many scholars to conclude that the origins of this Tuồng play can be traced back to the folktale. However, from a comparative perspective, it can be clearly seen that Trương the Butcher uses the trope of borrowing another person’s body to return a soul back to life to clarify the relationship between body and soul, which is an important aspect of Buddhist teaching in Vietnam and China. The focus of the play is what the main character, a Buddhist monk who obeys the eight restrictions which forbid the taking of life and sexual intercourse, will do when placed in the body of a butcher, who kills for a living and lives a worldly life. Meanwhile, in the group of above-mentioned folktales, the expressions ‘borrowing of bodies to return the soul’ (in Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure and Precious Records of Indra) or ‘resurrecting the dead’ (The Record of Indra Temple) are mainly used to praise the power of the deity Indra. Therefore, it is most unlikely that Trương the Butcher borrowed or re-wrote the contents of either of the aforementioned sources. It is very possible that the three versions of ‘Trương Ba’s Soul, the Butcher’s Skin’ presented above are three different adaptations of a single text – but it is not one that originates in Vietnamese folklore. 25 The ‘Đế Thích tự’ 帝釋祀 section in Lĩnh Nam chích quái records how Indra is worshipped in La Chàng without any tale about a man who is good at chess.

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The transmission of the Diamond Sutra and related stories in Vietnam If the play was not of local Vietnamese provenance, where then might it have originated? In what follows, I suggest we look at literary Sinitic Buddhist materials as a potential source. More specifically, a tale from the cluster of stories surrounding the miracle powers of one of the key texts of Mahayana Buddhism, the Diamond Sutra, could be a proximate source for the adaptation in dramatic form. However, because there is not any direct evidence of the story’s transmission to Vietnam, the main argument here is instead on the circulation of the Diamond Sutra, which these stories sought to supplement. Owing to the similarity of the plots and of the pronunciation of the names of the main characters, I posit that it was the tale of ‘Zhang Yin’ 張隱, which circulated widely in China, that provided the plotline for the Vietnamese play. It appears in an early version of a text entitled Jin’gangjing ganying zhuan 金剛經感應傳 (Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of the Diamond Sutra), which was discovered by Zhou Shaoliang 周绍良 (1917-2005) in 1984.26 To provide background, what follows is a plot summary of the ‘Zhang Yin’ story: Zhang Yin is 18 years old, a vegetarian, and recites the Diamond Sutra every day. The Butcher in his village is also named Zhang Yin. The souls of the pigs and goats that the Butcher killed denounced the Butcher to the King of Hell. The envoy of Hell comes at the King’s command to arrest Zhang Yin the Butcher but mistakenly arrests Zhang Yin the Pious instead. The King of Hell convicts the arrested Zhang Yin the Pious: ‘You live in the land of the living, why do you kill these beings?’ Zhang Yin the Pious replies: ‘I am very diligent in reading sutras and never kill.’ The King takes the mirror of karma and sees that he is a good person. The King asks the demon attendant: ‘How long is Zhang Yin predestined to live?’ The demon checks the book of life and answers, ‘90 years.’ The King tells Zhang Yin the Pious, ‘You have never killed, and even recited Buddhist scriptures frequently. Now, I allow your soul to return to the realm of life.’ However, it was already three weeks since Zhang Yin’s death and it was right in the middle of summer, so the body had decomposed, and his soul was unable to reenter his body. Zhang Yin the Pious has no choice but to come back and report the problem to the King. The King sends an 26 Zhou Shaoliang ‘Ji Song kanben’, pp. 176-8; Ho Chiewhui, Diamond Sutra Narratives.

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emissary to arrest Zhang Yin the Butcher. The King tells Zhang Yin the Pious, ‘The Butcher and you have the same name, were born in the same month of the same year. You must borrow his body to incarnate.’ When the Butcher’s wife sees that her husband, who died three days before, has regained consciousness, she is overjoyed. However, her husband does not look at her and flees to Zhang Yin the Pious’s house, where he tells his wife and children: ‘I have been reborn.’ The Butcher’s family wants to have their master back; Pious Zhang’s wife wants the same thing. The two houses vie with each other and neither concedes, so they bring this case to court. The judge says, ‘Body and soul are two, but their names are one. Born in different families, but died in the same place. The body is that of the butcher, but the tone of the voice is Pious Zhang’s. It is hard to judge. Let him live in each house for one month in turn.’ The descendants of the Butcher later stopped doing evil and performed good deeds.

According to Zhou Shaoliang, in 1948 his father acquired a text printed in the Song Dynasty that included the following five books: Jin’gang bore boluomi jing 金剛般若波羅蜜經 (Diamond Prajnaparmita Sutra), Liu zu koujue 六租口 訣 (Secret Oral Teachings of the Sixth Patriarch),27 Jin’gangjing yaolue 金剛 經要略 (Essential Prescriptions of the Diamond Sutra), Jin’gang bore bolomi jingzuan 金剛般若波羅蜜經纂 (The Compilation of the Diamond Prajnaparmita Sutra), and the Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of the Diamond Sutra, which contains the ‘Zhang Yin’ story.28 However, the text includes only one preface, that of the Secret Oral Teachings of the Sixth Patriarch, which is dated the seventh year of the Yuanfeng 元丰 reign of the Song Dynasty (1084) and which is titled ‘Chongkan Liuzu koujue 重刊六租口訣’ (The Reprint of The Secret Oral Teaching of the Sixth Patriarch). Based on this preface, written on the occasion of the reprinting in 1084, it can be tentatively accepted that the Secret Oral Teaching of the Sixth Patriarch was compiled no later than this date. One of the texts included in the volume, the Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of the Diamond Sutra, includes the story of ‘Zhang Yin’ as a book with illustrations 插圖本 (chatuben).29 Later versions of the Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of the Diamond Sutra included in the Xuzangjing 續藏經 (Supplement to the Canon) are brief and lacking in stories and illustrations compared to Zhou Shaoliang’s edition. This edition 27 Now confirmed as a forgery. 28 Zhou Shaoliang, ‘Ji Song kanben’, pp. 176-8. 29 See Robert E. Hegel, Reading Illustrated Fiction; Zheng Zhenduo, Chatu ben; Huang Shih-san Susan, ‘Illustrating, pp. 35-120.

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of the Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of the Diamond Sutra is indeed a rare book, and it is probable that it was printed because it enjoyed some popularity within a local Buddhist community.30 I hypothesize that this text was somehow brought to Vietnam and began its journey of circulation there, although there is as yet no concrete evidence of this. So far, no Chinese manuscript or printed edition of ‘Zhang Yin’ has been found in Vietnam. We have also been unable to find this text in other groups of miracle stories related to the Diamond Sutra which were reprinted in Vietnam, for example the Kim Cương kinh nhân quả tượng chú 金剛經因果 象註 (Illustrated Annotation to Diamond Sutra’s Cause and Effect) or Kim Cương giải ách chân kinh 金剛解厄真經 (True Scripture of Relieving Distress Diamond Sutra). This is quite understandable, as this story, even though it is of Chinese origin, was re-discovered rather late in China as well. It is not part of the Chi song Jin’gang lingyan gongde ji 持誦金剛靈驗功德記 (A Record of the Proven Efficacy of the Diamond Sutra and the Merit to Be Gained from Upholding and Reciting it), which was included in the Chinese Tripitaka 大藏 經 from the Northern Song Dynasty onwards. It was not until 1905-1912 that the Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of the Diamond Sutra (including the tale of ‘Zhang Yin’) was incorporated into the sequel to the canon of Buddhist texts, the Supplement to the Canon. Given these circumstances, I propose an indirect approach that envisages the transmission of the ‘Zhang Yin’ tale to Vietnam through examination of the history of the spread of the Diamond Sutra and related miracle tales in Vietnam. Although no documentary evidence exists of the circulation of the Diamond Sutra or related texts in Giao Châu 交州 (approximately modern northern Vietnam) before the tenth century, it is probable that the Diamond Sutra was known there, given the popularity of Buddhism in Giao Châu since the first century, when it was a center of Buddhist exchange in the region.31 Monks traveled from Giao Châu to the cities of the Chinese Han, Wu, Qi, Tang, and Song Dynasties, among them the monks Kang Shenghui 康僧會 (?-280) and Shi Daochan 釋道禪 (457-527).32 30 The copy of the Diamond Sutra printed in the ninth year of Xiantong 咸通 (868) of the Tang Dynasty discovered at Dunhuang 敦煌 is the most ancient specimen of a printed Buddhist scripture. See Frances Wood and Mark Barnard, The Diamond Sutra. Buddhist scriptures from the Song and Yuan Dynasties were generally printed with illustrations for each story, but Tang Dynasty editions have not been discovered. 31 Nguyen Tu Cuong, Zen in Medieval Vietnam, which is a study of the Thiền uyển tập anh; Kenneth R. Hall, A History of Early Southeast Asia, Tansen Sen, ‘Buddhism and the Maritime Crossing’, pp. 39-62. 32 Hui Jiao, Gaosengzhuan, p. 325; Dao Xuan, Shi Daochan zhuan, pp. 240-1.

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Doanh Lâu 贏漊, the capital city of Giao Châu, was a translation center for Buddhist sutras.33 During the sixth century, a local man of Chinese origin named Lý Bôn 李賁 (503-548) rebelled against the Liang Dynasty (502-557) and proclaimed himself king. He was succeeded by his son, whose name Lý Phật Tử 李佛子 (518-602) means Lý-son of Buddha, attests to the spread of Buddhism in Giao Châu. It is most likely that the Diamond Sutra and the practices of copying and reciting it, as well as stories attributing miracle powers to these acts, spread from China to Giao Châu at this time. An early reference to the Diamond Sutra in Vietnam can be seen in the Thiền uyển tập anh 禪苑集英 (Collection of Outstanding Figures of the Thiền [Zen] Community)34 in the biography of the Thiền master Thanh Biện 清辯 (?-686): ‘He [Thanh Biện] devoted himself to chanting the Diamond Sutra.’35 We can also find references to the Diamond Sutra in records about the monks Viên Chiếu 圓照 (999-1090), Quảng Nghiêm 廣嚴 (1122-1190), and Trí Nhàn 智 閑 (eleventh to twelth century) in the same work.36 Since the Diamond Sutra is mentioned a number of times in the Collection of Outstanding Figures of the Thiền Community in the context of spiritual cultivation, recitation, and awakening to Buddhist scriptures in the Giao Châu region from the seventh century to the early period of its independence from China (post-936), we may conclude that the Diamond Sutra was already widely disseminated in this region and was one of the more important sutras in the contemporaneous Buddhist tradition. Long Đĩnh 龍鋌 (986-1009), a king during the Early Lê Dynasty (980-1009) in Vietnam, sent envoys to the Song court in 1007 to present white rhinos in exchange for the Tripitaka, and he was given one in 1009. Based on the publication history of the Tripitaka in China, the version imported into Vietnam at that time must have been the f irst Tripitaka printed using 33 Lê Anh Minh, ‘Khởi nguyên’, pp. 479-532. See also Nguyễn Lang, Việt Nam Phật giáo, Nguyễn Tài Thư ed., The History of Buddhism in Vietnam. 34 Compiled in the fourteenth century; earliest extant printed version dated 1715. 35 Nguyen Tu Cuong, Zen in Medieval Vietnam, original text p. 46a, English translation p. 167. 36 Ibid., original text p. 11b, English translation p. 116: ‘Subsequently, he established a temple east of the capital and settled there – students came in droves’; original text p. 12b, English translation p. 118: ‘A monk asked: “To cross a river you must use a raft. When you reach the shore, it is no longer needed. How is it when we do cross?” Viên Chiếu said: “When the pond dries up, the fish are left on dry land, but they gain life for ten thousand years of springtime”’; original text p. 37a, English translation p. 155: ‘One day his advanced student Thường Chiếu quoted the Diamond Sutra: “The Dharma that the Tathagta has attained is neither real nor unreal, what is this Dharma?”’; original text p. 64b, English translation p. 192: ‘One day, when he [Trí Nhàn] was twenty-seven years old, [p. 64a] he followed his brother to a series of lecturers by Thiền Master Giới Không to hear him explain the Diamond Sutra.’

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woodblocks in 971 in Yizhou 益州 (Chengdu, China) and finished in 983. Within the space of only 27 years (from 1009 to 1036), at least three copies of the Tripitaka printed in the years 1009, 1020, and 1034 were presented to and stored in the Vietnamese imperial archives, in 1023, 1027, and 1036, respectively. This fact shows that the circulation of the Tripitaka in Vietnam was continuously supplemented by subsequent printings during the Song Dynasty. In addition, manuscript copies of the Tripitika were made at the behest of the Vietnamese court and kept in the Đại Hưng 大興 archive (two copies) and Trùng Hưng 重興 archive (one copy).37 The preservation of the Tripitaka in Vietnam and the role of the Diamond Sutra in contemporary Buddhist activities suggest that the Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of the Diamond Sutra may have been disseminated in Vietnam during this time and consequently that the ‘Zhang Yin’ story may have been transmitted to Vietnam in the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries. It is unfortunate that, as a result of the destruction of so many libraries and archives in Vietnam, there does not appear to be any direct evidence to support this hypothesis. Historical documents related to the Trần Dynasty (1226-1400) show that from the Lý Dynasty to the Trần Dynasty there was a significant change in the spread of Buddhist scriptures in Vietnam from handwritten manuscripts to printed versions. The printing of scriptures, especially the Tripitaka canon, was strongly supported by funding from the Trần court. The historical circumstances of these printing activities and the distribution of scriptures to various monasteries are recorded in the preface to the Thiền tông chỉ nam 禪宗指南 (Teachings of the Thiền School) by Trần Nhân Tông 陳仁宗 (1258-1380). The preface also points out the important role of the Diamond Sutra in Buddhist practice at the time by giving the example of Trần Nhân Tông, the founding patriarch of the Trúc Lâm Yên Tử 竹林安子 school of Thiền, whose frequent reading of the Diamond Sutra led to enlightenment.38 The Diamond Sutra was also included in the category of texts to be recited during the evening services of this school.39 In the year 1321, during the reign 37 Nguyễn Tô Lan, ‘Bộ phận văn học sân khấu’ and ‘Shiba shiji Xingquan fashi yu Hanwen lüzang’, pp. 107-50. 38 Trần Nhân Tông, ‘Thiền tông chỉ nam tự 禪宗指南序,’ p. 26a: ‘十數年間，凡遇機暇 聚會耆老德， 參禪問道，及其諸大教等經無不參究。常讀金剛至於應無所住而生其心之句方爾廢卷長吟間豁然自悟而作 是歌。目曰禪宗指南.’ See also Thích Thái Hoà, ‘Vua Trần Nhân Tông’.

39 Đệ nhị tổ Pháp Loa tôn giả 第二祖法螺尊者 (1284-1330) and Đệ Tam tổ Huyền Quang tôn giả第三祖玄光尊者 (1284-1330) in Tam tổ thực lục (1765) by Tính Quảng 性廣 (1694-1768), ISNS, manuscript call no. A.786. On the Tam tổ thực lục, see also Thích Đồng Dưỡng, ‘Các truyền bản Tam tổ thực lục’.

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of Trần Minh Tông 陳明宗 (1300-1357), the Diamond Sutra was assigned as a topic for monastic examinations. 40 The historical documents mentioned above, which either directly or indirectly refer to the Diamond Sutra, reflect both the dissemination of Mahayana Buddhist scriptures in Vietnam during the Lý and Trần dynasties and the profound influence of the Diamond Sutra on local Buddhism. From the fifteenth century onwards, when Confucianism was supported by the central government, the publication of sacred texts moved from the national level to the local level, for it was mainly village pagodas that took up the task of printing sacred texts. Consequently, only essential and practical texts were chosen to be printed, for the resources of the pagodas were limited. As a result of the poor preservation of printed texts in Vietnam, most printed Buddhist books that survive were printed in the Nguyễn Dynasty (1802-1945). Very few printed texts survive from the Lê Dynasty (1553-1789), although there are also some reprints produced during the Nguyễn Dynasty using Lê Dynasty-woodblocks. As a result, it is not easy to find information on the circulation of the Diamond Sutra in the Early Lê period (1428-1527). 41 At present, no document has been found that directly refers to the Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of Diamond Sutra in Vietnam or its tales related to the Diamond Sutra. There are, however, 22 copies of the Diamond Sutra preserved at the Institute of Sino-Nôm Studies in Hà Nội: 20 of them are in literary Chinese, and two are in Nôm, one of which is a Nôm translation, Kim Cương kinh quốc âm 金剛經國音 (The Nôm Translation of Diamond Sutra). 42 None of them includes any miracle tales. There are two texts that complement the Diamond Sutra with an explanation of the ‘retribution’ 報應 principle: an 1836 edition of the Diamond Sutra and the Đại thừa Kim Cương kinh luận 大乘金剛經論 (Treatise on the Mahayana Diamond Sutra). 43 There are also two texts that record tales of retribution: Kim Cương kinh nhân quả tượng chú 金剛經因果象註 (Illustrated Annotation to the Diamond Sutra’s Cause and Effect) of 1818, containing 39 stories, and 40 ‘Winter, in the 12th month…Monks were examined based on the Diamond Sutra’ 冬十二月試 僧人以《金剛經》: Đại Việt sử ký toàn thư, p. 40b. 41 See Tổ sư xuất thế thực lục in Nguyễn Quang Khải and Thích Nguyên Đạt, Chuyết Chuyết tổ sư ngữ lục, the bronze books of the Diamond Sutra at the Bút Tháp 筆塔 monastery, Bắc Ninh province, the ‘Thái thượng hoàng đế ngự chế Kim Cương bát nhã ba la mật đa kinh tự’ 太上皇帝 御制金剛般若波罗蜜經序 in the 1745 edition of the Kim Cương bát nhã ba la mật kinh 金剛般若波 羅密經, ISNS, manuscript call no. AC.254, and Bảo Chẩm tự bi. 42 ISNS, manuscript call no. AB.367; the other work is Chân Lý 真理 and Hương Hải Thiền sư 香海禪師, Kim Cương kinh giải lí mục 金剛經解理目. 43 ISNS, manuscripts call nos AC.131 and AC.125.

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Kim Cương giải ách chân kinh 金剛解厄真經 (The True Scripture of Relieving Distress Diamond Sutra) of 1924, containing 12 stories with illustrations. 44 The historical evidence suggests, therefore, that tales relating to the Diamond Sutra circulated in Vietnam by the eighteenth century at the latest. Whether they included the ‘Zhang Yin’ story or not is currently impossible to tell.

The local adaptation of ‘Zhang Yin’ Trương the Butcher is the most popular dramatic selection in the Hát Phật (Buddhist Singing) ritual. ‘Buddhist Singing’ is a term used to designate the integration of dramatic plays into Buddhist rituals during offering ceremonies. These ceremonies, or trai hội 齋會 (vegetarian feasts), are centered around the offerings to the Three Treasures of Buddhism 三寶. 45 Originally, these rituals were aimed at venerating the Three Treasures, but they gradually expanded to other purposes, such as congratulation of patrons, expression of filial feelings towards parents, praying for blessings on important occasions, salvation of ‘hungry ghosts’, etc., and were performed in various public venues, including pagodas, temples, communities halls, as well as private homes, both during Buddhist festivals and on secular occasions. 46 Based on written documentation of the cultural activities of Vietnamese from the beginning of the nineteenth century to the first half of the twentieth century (especially in the central and southern parts of the country), Buddhist Singing was extremely widespread. During these rituals, both actors and monks used theatrical make-up and wore costumes. 47 The Tuồng plays performed during these rituals used figures from Buddhist works such as Mục Liên Thanh Đề 目連青提 (Mulian and his Mother Qingti), or Buddhist figures such as Xuanzang 玄奘 (602-664) from Đường Tam Tạng thỉnh kinh 唐三藏請經 (Xuanzang of the Tang Dynasty Searches for

44 ISNS, manuscripts call nos VHv.1092 and AC.582. Lê Quốc Việt kindly provided me with an undated printed copy of Kim Cương giải ách chân kinh 金剛解厄真經. This copy lacks the prologue and the epilogue, and it is difficult to determine its exact date. However, it is clear from the text format and script style that the printing blocks were carved in the Lê Dynasty, although they may, of course, have been used in the Nguyễn Dynasty to reprint the text. 45 Similar religious meetings are known from the Dunhuang materials; they also used popular literature, such as jiangjingwen 講經文 (sutra explications) and yuanqi 緣起 (texts on cause and effect), and perhaps also bianwen 變文 (transformation texts). 46 Toan Ánh, Nếp cũ; Đỗ Văn Rỡ, Nghi thức lễ hội; Sơn Nam, Đình miếu. 47 Huỳnh Ngọc Trảng, ‘Nội dung Tuồng tích’, pp. 39-40.

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Buddhist Scriptures).48 They could also be taken from secular stories related to Buddhist ideas, such as the stories about a host of particular figures (Ông Trượng Tiên Bửu 翁仗仙寶, Trương Ngáo 張僥, and Trương Ngố 張悟). 49 The inclusion of Truong the Butcher in the Buddhist Singing genre reinforces the hypothesis that the source material of this drama is related to Buddhism and Buddhist literature. The ‘Zhang Yin’ story belongs to the genre of ‘miracle stories’ related to the Diamond Sutra and is almost identical to Trương the Butcher in terms of content. It should be noted that the main characters of these stories have the same surname, written with the character 張, pronounced ‘Zhang’ in Chinese and ‘Trương’ in Vietnamese. The only difference between these two stories is the background of the main character: Zhang is a young man who is good at sutra reciting (‘Zhang Yin’), whereas Trương is a monk (Trương the Butcher). However, in contrast to their narrative foil (the butcher who slaughters for a living), both Zhang and Trương have the same defining characteristics of frequent recitation of Buddhist scriptures and the cultivation of virtue. As mentioned above, the extant text of the play is incomplete, hence we refer to the conclusion of the story as represented in contemporary Vietnamese folk performances. During many of these performances, there is a similar dénouement to that of ‘Zhang Yin’. In ‘Zhang Yin’, each of the two houses takes in the main character for a month at a time, whereas in the performed version of Trương the Butcher, because the main character is a Thiền monk who cannot reside in a lay family, the following decision is taken: ‘Although the body is that of Trương the Butcher, the soul is that of the monk. Thus, let the monk stay at the pagoda; when he dies, his body cannot be cremated but should be given back to the wife of Trương the Butcher.’50 In China, the story of ‘Zhang Yin’ was one of the miracle tales connected with the Diamond Sutra. As such, it reinforced Buddhist teachings with the theme of ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’ in order to encourage followers to recite the sacred texts and to perform good deeds. These stories appeared when Buddhism was adopted in China, and folk believers started to create simple stories of retribution in the third century.51 During the Tang and Song Dynasties, these Buddhist stories quickly spread all over China 48 Nguyễn Tô Lan and Nguyễn Đại Cồ Việt, ‘Cong Zhongguo Guangxi Dongxing Jing zu’, pp. 171-90. 49 Trương Ngáo, Trương Ngố diễn ca; Lê Ngọc Cầu, Tuồng hài; Nguyễn Văn Sâm trans., Tuồng hát bội Nôm thế kỉ XIX. 50 Viện Khoa học xã hội Việt Nam, Tổng tập Văn học includes a record of the memories of actors who used to perform Trương the Butcher play in Đà Nẵng city. 51 Liu Yading, ‘Lingyan ji’.

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as well as neighboring countries, where they had an impact on Buddhist literature.52 Obviously, the Trương the Butcher play maintains the content of the original story, and the main details develop around the theme of the ‘body borrowed, soul returned’. ‘Body borrowed, soul returned’ is not only a popular motif in Buddhist literature; it is also found in Chinese stories about gods and ghosts from the same period, such as Soushen ji 搜神記 (Record on the Search of Spirits), Xu Soushenji 續搜神記 (Supplement to Record on the Search of Spirits), Youming lu 幽明錄 (Records of the Hiden and Visible Realms),53 and Mingshi zhi 冥室志 (Accounts of the Underworld Chambers) in the Taiping guangji 太 平廣記 (Extensive Records of the Taiping Reign). Later on, Pu Songling 蒲松齡 (1640-1715) collected five stories with this motif in his Liaozhai zhiyi 聊齋誌異 (Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio): ‘Monk Changqing’ 長清僧, ‘Becoming an Immortal’ 成仙, ‘Little Zhu’ 珠兒, ‘Lianxiang’ 蓮香, and ‘A Bao’ 阿寶.54 In terms of content, ‘Monk Changqing’ can be considered the closest to ‘Zhang Yin’. This story is about a monk in Changqing 長清 (Shandong province) who dies at the age of 80; his soul enters the body of a recently deceased 30-year-old man in Henan province, who then leaves his possessions and returns to Changqing to follow the life of a monk.55 Unlike popular adaptations of Chinese Ming and Qing novels, such as Sanguo zhi yanyi 三國志演義 (The Romance of the Three Kingdoms) and Xiyou ji 西遊記 (The Journey to the West), which resulted in Tuồng scripts in Nôm, the relationship between the play Trương the Butcher and ‘Zhang Yin’ belongs to the tradition of local transcreations from Chinese folktales.56 If our hypothesis is correct, Trương the Butcher converts a Buddhist story into a play, and in this process changes its literary style and function. When ‘Zhang 52 Yu Xiaohong, ‘Fojiao’; Li Mingjing, ‘Tangdai Jin’gangjing’, p. 9. 53 See also Zhang Zhenjun, Buddhism and Tales of the Supernatural. 54 Zhu Yixuan, Liaozhai zhiyi. One needs to note that this motif is quite different from tales that solely describe a man who enjoys killing and dies as a result of illness or karma. He experiences travel in the Underworld and after coming back to life or being restored to another life, he becomes a Buddhist believer who immerses himself in reciting a specific sutra. This type of folktale is very popular in Chinese Buddhist literature. An early story of this kind is found in an accordion-format xylograph dating back approximately to the Song Dynasty, telling the story of the butcher Zhang Judao (Preface to the Jinguangming zuishengwang jing 金光明最勝王 經), at the Institute of Oriental Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences, St. Petersburg, Tang 376, Inventory No.9. See Mikhaiil Piotrovsky ed., Lost Empire of the Silk Road and Evgeny Kychanov, Tangutskaia Rukopisnaia Kniga, pp. 546-7. Although this tale concerns a butcher named Zhang, its main motif has no conection to the motif of ‘body borrowed, soul returned’ discussed here. The same is true of other similar ‘(Zhang) the Butcher’ stories. 55 See also Liu Shouhua, Bijiao gushi and ‘Fojiao gushi’, p. 45. 56 Nguyễn Tô Lan, Khảo luận and ‘Chuyển thể sân khấu’.

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Yin’, a Buddhist miracle tale from the Tang Dynasty with only 367 characters, was adapted as a Vietnamese Tuồng play with around six thousand Nôm characters, it acquired all the distinctive characteristics of a performing art piece. Most notably, the narrative format of the original version was turned into dialogue in the adapted version. From the introduction and the description of the characters to the storyline, everything was incorporated into dialogue. There are very few narrative sentences to supplement the story and to guide the actors and actresses. With regard to its purpose, ‘Zhang Yin’ was clearly intended to praise the benef its of Buddhist devotion, as the following introduction makes clear: ‘Zhang Yin, eighteen years old, vegetarian, recites the Diamond Sutra regularly’ 張隱年方弱冠，食素，常誦金剛經. The benefits are the main feature in most stories of retribution related to the Diamond Sutra and refer directly to this sacred text. The principle of ‘an eye for an eye’ here is that Zhang Yin was able to live to the age of 90 after he returned to life. Even at the end, he once again demonstrates the ability of the Diamond Sutra to inspire people to perform good deeds: ‘The descendants of the Butcher later gave up wrongdoing and only performed good’ 屠兒子孫，改惡從善矣.57 On the other hand, the emphasis on the Diamond Sutra in the Trương the Butcher play (as performed during Buddhist festivals) was either omitted or faded away; therefore, Buddhist ideas in the play are expressed only through the character of Trương the monk. If ‘Zhang Yin’ was aimed at displaying the ‘advantage’ of Buddhist practices, then Trương the Butcher, with ‘the Butcher’ in the title, obviously intends to advise people against slaughtering. This manifests itself in multiple instances within long scenes: Lady Tuyết’s advice to her husband to abandon his occupation, the King of Hell ruling that the Butcher be put in an iron cage and fed to a fox for punishment, and Lady Tuyết’s defense of her husband in court. There are many reasons for the widespread belief in the local origin of the play Trương the Butcher. One of the clearest signs is the language in which Trương the Butcher is written. For the most part, it is the language of commoners. The play rarely uses Chinese expressions and when it does, they are often misused, revealing a low educational level; it also includes numerous colloquial expressions. There are no quotations from Tang poems or other texts of Chinese classical literature, which are common in historical Tuồng adapted from Ming-Qing novels. Except for such literate characters as the monk, the Hell King, or the District Magistrate, who occasionally use

57 Jin’gang bore miduo ganying zhuan (1994).

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Chinese words, the remaining cast use the spoken language of commoners, especially such characters as Lady Tuyết and the two little novices. In addition, we see evidence of localization in the place names. In the Tuồng version of Trương the Butcher, there is a scene in which Lady Tuyết says in court: ‘My hometown is the district of Chợ Dinh 𢄂营, I am Lady Tuyết.’58 Unlike the two other geographical names appearing in this manuscript, district Hoài Dương 懷陽 (hometown of Trương the Butcher) and district Hoa An 花安 (hometown of Đạo Nguyên), which are fictional (and common in Vietnamese as well as Chinese classical literature), ‘Chợ Dinh’ is a historical Vietnamese place in Nôm. The concept of dinh 营 (district) used here is in Vietnamese history closely related to the foundation of the Nguyễn ruling house. In 1558, when Lord Nguyễn Hoàng 阮黄 (1525-1613) moved down south to Thuận Hoá, he built a ‘dinh’ in Ái Tử. The original meaning of ‘dinh’ was an ‘encampment’; in Ái Tử and in subsequent Nguyễn ‘capitals’, a ‘dinh’ served as the headquarters of the Nguyễn Lords. Subsequently, markets began to appear around these barracks and the meaning of ‘dinh’ shifted to ‘residence of the Lord’. In 1570, after Nguyễn Lord built a dinh in Quảng Nam, the word ‘dinh’ received a new meaning, an administrative region. Therefore, in places to the south of Thuận Hoá, the practice of naming places with the word ‘chợ [market] dinh’ became popular. Miscellaneous Chronicles of the Pacified Frontier compiled by Lê Quý Đôn in 1776 is the earliest source that documents this type of geographical name.59 It is clear, then, that the play uses Vietnamese place names. Most strikingly, in terms of the cast of characters, Zhang Yin and his family who appear in the classical Chinese source are replaced in the play by Trương the Monk and his followers. Trương is not an elite monk-ascetic but represents Buddhist priests in rural Vietnam. Trương the Monk appears to be a virtuous cleric at the beginning of the play, but through the dialogue between two little novices, his pupils, we learn that he mainly performs rituals for locals (more characteristic of Taoism and other local cults in Vietnam), often takes gifts, and eats a lot. Besides, the two little novices are lazy and greedy: one is a bandit, who has taken refuge in a pagoda, while the other is a coward and is afraid of ghosts. In addition to the equivalent characters in the original version such as the King of Hell, his messenger, and the Butcher who all appear in the play as well, Trương the Butcher contains a large number of local characters. The Hell Messenger in the original becomes the Earth God (the God in charge of a 58 Trương the Butcher, 21b. 59 Lê Quý Đôn, Phủ biên tạp lục.

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neighborhood’s netherworld according to traditional Vietnamese beliefs) and therefore was ordered to show the way for the Underworld messenger as an Arrest Warrant Service Processor. This character reminds us of the Mountain Gods who were forced by the monkey king Sun Wukong 孫悟空 to show him the way in the Journey to the West. Similarly, the Provincial Governor becomes the District Governor (the highest official that Vietnamese commoners could ever hope to meet in their daily lives). What is more, Trương the Butcher includes characters typical of rural Vietnam such as the Old Trương 張老 (the neighbor), the shaman (performing rituals to avert bad luck for Lady Tuyết), and the Left Arrest Official (belonging to the Ten Courts of the King of Hell in Vietnamese folk belief, Thập điện Diêm vương 十殿閻王).60 These changes brought the story much closer to rural Vietnamese people – in essence, they vernacularized a Chinese story for a Vietnamese public. Another aspect that demonstrates the local characteristics of Trương the Butcher is its humor. While the original version emphasizes Buddhist ideas (karma) and miracles related to the Diamond Sutra, humor is one of the distinctive features of Trương the Butcher, even though it was performed during Buddhist religious events. Eventually, after it became an independent piece, Trương the Butcher came to be considered one of the most iconic works of Vietnamese traditional performing arts. The comic effects were created by the contrast between the characters’ social roles and their inherent nature. It also manifests itself in comic situations, as when the two little novices recognize their master in the Butcher’s body; Lady Tuyết chases Trương the Monk to the pagoda; Lady Tuyết and the two little novices argue with each other from the pagoda’s gate to court in a coarse language. The Chinese ‘Zhang Yin’ story has a simple resolution. The judge gives the following verdict: ‘Body and soul are two, but name is one. Born different, dead they converge. The body belongs to the Butcher, but the personality is that of the Monk. A difficult case. Let each family take turns to accommodate this person’. In Trương the Butcher, the District Governor relies on literary ability to verify which one (the Monk or the Butcher) is present at the court. Compared to ‘Zhang Yin’, the rationale is more developed, using education and mental abilities to determine a person’s nature. Although the incomplete Tuồng text available to us does not provide the judge’s resolution, the inherent logic of the storyline leads us to assume that the poem writing will determine the character’s fate and where he belongs: religion or lay life. 60 See Léon Riotor, G. Leofanti, and Ernest Renan, Les Enfers Bouddhiques; Trần Trọng Dương, ‘Thay cho lời tựa: Khảo về ‘địa ngục’ trong lịch sử văn hoá Phật giáo Việt Nam’; and the introduction to the Vietnamese translation of Les Enfers Bouddhiques by Phạm Văn Tuân and Lãng Sa, pp. 5-33.

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Conclusion Trương the Butcher belongs to the genre of large-scale theatrical performance Tuồng, which was very popular in central and southern Vietnam in the early modern period. Scholars have cited several literary sources in Hán văn recording Vietnamese folk tales to assert that this drama was adapted from the folk tale of ‘Trương Ba’s Soul, the Butcher’s Skin’. However, after comparing the plot of these tales with that of Trương the Butcher and examining local sources, such as stele inscriptions, records of temples, I have observed that there are only a few coincidental similarities between the characters and details in the play and the folk tales, while the plots fundamentally differ from one another. Proceeding from the function of Trương the Butcher in Vietnamese Buddhist ceremonies – Buddhist Singing – this chapter sought the origins of this text in Chinese Buddhist literature. The similarities of the plots in Trương the Butcher and the tale of ‘Zhang Yin’ in the Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of the Diamond Sutra allow us to establish a new hypothesis about the connection and continuity between these two works. Currently there is no direct evidence of the existence of a text concerning Zhang Yin among the extant corpus of texts in literary Sinitic in Vietnam nor any written record regarding its dissemination in any form in Vietnam in the early modern period. However, as can be demonstrated through research on the transmission of the Diamond Sutra in Vietnam from the beginning of the tenth century, along with the presence of other so-called ‘miracle tales’ related to the Diamond Sutra in present-day Vietnam, it is conceivable that the Chinese story of ‘Zhang Yin’ circulated in some form in premodern Vietnam and might have been the proximate, albeit non-extant, source text for the play. Despite the absence of an actual text in Vietnam, it is meaningful to consider the play a Vietnamese adaptation. The Tuồng play Trương the Butcher took a completely localized form to the point that it is quite hard to detect its foreign origin. For one, its language was changed from literary Chinese narrative to Vietnamese dialogue. For another, its locality and cast of characters were embedded in rural Vietnamese society. Furthermore, the earnest tone of the Chinese Buddhist text of the ‘Zhang Yin’ story gave way to the humorous lambasting of fallible monks, greedy novices, and lazy gods. In modern society, where its religious function has given way to that of popular performance, Trương the Butcher can be considered a classical piece of Vietnamese traditional theatre. The adaptation of the ‘Zhang Yin’ story not only took shape in its Hán văn, Nôm, and Quốc ngữ forms in earlier

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periods, but also continues to be featured in recent reformed performances, such as the famous modern play, ‘Trương Ba’s Soul, Butcher’s Skin’ by Lưu Quang Vũ (1948-1988) in 1983,61 the experimental play ‘The Butcher’s Skin’ performed at Yellow Earth Theater in London in 2002,62 and a comedy film by Nguyễn Quang Dũng in 2006.63 These adaptations in new media in modern and intercultural contexts deserve to be a separate research subject.

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Sơn Nam. Đình miếu và Lễ hội dân gian miền Nam. Tp. Hồ Chí Minh: Nxb. Trẻ, 2004. Taylor K.W. ‘Notes on the Việt Điện U Linh Tập.’ Vietnam Forum 8 (1986): 26-59. —. ‘Sino-Vietnamese Translation from Classical to Vernacular.’ In Asian Translation Traditions, edited by Eva Hung and Judy Wakabayashi, pp. 169-94. London: St. Jerome, 2005. Thích Đồng Dưỡng. ‘Các truyền bản Tam tổ thực lục.’ Accessed 30th September, 2020. https://thuvienhuequang.vn/blogs/bai-viet/cac-truyen-ban-tam-to-thuc-luc. Thích Thái Hoà. ‘Vua Trần Nhân Tông với kinh Kim Cang’ (2012). Accessed 30th September 2020. http://hoavouu.com/D_1-2_2-128_4-23782/03-vua-tran-nhantong-voi-kinh-kim-cang.html. Tính Quảng 性廣. Tam tổ thực lục 三祖實錄. ISNS, manuscript call no. A.786, 1765. Toan Ánh. Nếp cũ-Hội hè đình đám. Tp. Hồ Chí Minh: Nxb. Tp. Hồ Chí Minh, 1992. Tôn Thất Bình. Tuồng Huế. Huế: Nxb. Thuận Hóa, 1993. Trần Gia Du 陳嘉猷. Sử Nam chí dị 史南誌異. ISNS, manuscript call no. AB.385, 1877. Trần Nghĩa. ‘Sơ bộ tìm hiểu tiểu thuyết chương hồi viết bằng chữ Hán ở Việt Nam.’ Tạp chí Hán Nôm 1 (18) (1994): 3-15. —. ‘Sách Hán Nôm ở thư viện Vương quốc Anh.’ Tạp chí Hán Nôm 3 (24) (1995): 3-13. —. ‘Góp phần giải quyết những vấn đề văn bản học đang đặt ra với Công dư tiệp ký.’ Tạp chí Hán Nôm 4 (29) (1996): 3-10. —. ‘Lược đồ quan hệ tiểu thuyết Hán Nôm Việt Nam và tiểu thuyết cổ các nước trong khu vực.’ Tạp chí Hán Nôm 2 (35) (1998): 3-13. —. ‘Chỗ khác nhau giữa tiểu thuyết Hán Nôm Việt Nam và tiểu thuyết cổ các nước trong khu vực.’ Tạp chí Hán Nôm 3 (40) (1999): 31-7. Trần Nhân Tông 陳仁宗. Thiền tông chỉ nam 禪宗指南. In Thiền tông Khóa hư ngữ lục 禪宗課虛語錄. Institute of History Studies, manuscript call no. HN.047. Also, a printed edition of 1943 by Bắc Kỳ Phật giáo Tổng hội in Hà Nội. Trần Quang Huy 陳光輝. ‘Yuenan Nan zhuan yu Zhongguo xiaoshuo guanxi zhi yanjiu’ 越南喃傳與中國小說關係之研究. PhD diss., National Taiwan University, 1973. Trần Thế Pháp 陳世法, Vũ Quỳnh 武瓊 and Kiều Phú 喬富. Lĩnh Nam trích quái 嶺南 摭怪. ISNS, manuscript call no. A.1752. Trần Trọng Dương. ‘Thay cho lời tựa: Khảo về ‘địa ngục’ trong lịch sử văn hoá Phật giáo Việt Nam,’ an introduction to the Vietnamese translation of Les Enfers Bouddhiques (Le Bouddhisme Annamite) by Phạm Văn Tuân and Lãng Sa, Các tầng địa ngục theo Phật giáo, pp. 5-33. Hà Nội: Nhã Nam and Nxb. Thế giới, 2020. Trương Ngáo 張僥. Phật Trấn: Thịnh Nam tiền, 1878. Trương Ngố diễn ca 張悟演歌. Phật Trấn: Thiên Bảo lâu, 1883. Trương the Butcher 張屠肉. London: British Library, undated manuscript. Truyện công dư tiệp ký 傳公餘捷記. ISNS, manuscript call no. AB.481. Viện Khoa học xã hội Việt Nam. Tổng tập Văn học dân gian người Việt. Hà Nội: Nxb. Khoa học xã hội, 1996, vol. 17-18.

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Viện Sân khấu. Lịch sử sân khấu Việt Nam. Hà Nội: Viện Sân khấu, 1984. Vũ Phương Đề 武芳㮛. Công dư tiệp ký 公餘捷記. ISNS, manuscript call no. VHv.1324/12, 1775. Vũ Trinh 武楨. Lan Trì kiến văn lục 蘭池見聞錄. ISNS, manuscript call no. VHv.1401. Wood, Frances, and Mark Barnard. The Diamond Sutra: The Story of the World’s Earliest Dated Printed Book. London: British Library, 2010. Yu Xiaohong 俞晓红. ‘Fojiao yu Tang Wudai baihua xiaoshuo 佛教与唐五代白话小说.’ PhD diss., Shanghai Normal University, 2004. Zhang Zhenjun. Buddhism and Tales of the Supernatural in Early Medieval China: A Study of Liu Yiqing’s (403-444) Youming lu. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Zheng Yongchang 鄭永常. Hanwen wenxue zai Annan de xingti 漢文文學在安南的興 替. Taipei: Taiwan Shangwu yinshuguan, 1987. Zheng Zhenduo 郑振铎. Chatu ben Zhongguo wenxue shi 插图本中国文学史. Beijing: Zhongguo Shehui kexue chubanshe, 2009. Zhou Shaoliang 周绍良. ‘Ji Song kanben Jin’gangjing ganying zhuan-jian huai xian bofu Shu xiansheng 记宋刊本金刚经感应传——兼怀先伯父叔先生.’ Wenxian 文 献 3 (21) (1984): 176-8. Zhu Yixuan 朱一玄. Liaozhai zhiyi ziliao huibian 聊斋志异资料汇编. Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji chubanshe, 1985.

About the author nguyễn tô lan is a Senior Researcher at the Institute of Sino-Nom Studies, Vietnam Academy of Social Sciences. She was a Visiting Scholar and Coordinate Research Scholar at Harvard-Yenching Institute (2013-2014, 2015), a Guest Scholar at Kyoto University (2014), and a Visiting Scholar at Academia Sinica (2018) and at Beijing Foreign Studies University (2019). Her publications include monographs on royal theatrical scripts of the Nguyễn Dynasty (2014) and the adaptation of the Miaoshan story in Vietnamese literature (co-authored, 2021) as well as articles in Vietnamese, Chinese, and English.

6

‘Out of the Margins’ The Western Wing Glossarial Complex in Late Chosŏn and the Problem of the Literary Vernacular Ross King Abstract Inspired by studies of The Water Margin, the development of Chinese vernacular fiction, and its influence in Edo Japan, this chapter moves beyond generic and societal margins – the marginalized position of xiaoshuo narrative in traditional China and the liminal social status of the protagonists of The Water Margin – to the literal margins of the page, and focuses on late-Chosŏn Korea (1392-1897) and its encounter with Literary Vernacular Sinitic through the specific case of one literary work and its reception in Korea: Xixiangji 西廂記 or The Story of the Western Wing. Through an examination of glossing, annotation, and commentary in the late-Chosŏn ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’, this chapter tries to complicate our understanding of the history of vernacularization and translation in Korea. Keywords: Literary Vernacular, Sinographic Cosmopolis, Xixiangji, vernacularization, glossing

Introduction The title of this chapter is inspired by Ge Liangyan’s wonderful study of the development of Chinese vernacular fiction.1 Ge’s book tackles various questions of vernacularization and the rise of a new literary vernacular in late imperial China through the lens of what he calls ‘the Shuihu complex’ and its eventual crystallization in Shuihu zhuan 水滸傳. But whereas Ge’s 1 Ge, Out of the Margins.

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch06

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title alludes to generic and societal margins – the marginalized position of xiaoshuo 小說 narrative in traditional China and the liminal social status of the protagonists in The Water Margin – my focus here is literally on the margins of the page, whether printed or (more especially) manuscript. And my focus is on late-Chosŏn Korea (1392-1897) and its encounter with precisely the sort of literary vernacular Sinitic that Ge studies in his book. The title of the conference at which this chapter was f irst presented was ‘Accessing “Baihua” in Korea and Vietnam, with a Focus on the Reception of the Xixiangji’, but please note the scare quotes around the problematic term ‘baihua’ 白話. As so many researchers have been quick to point out, the terms baihua and wenyan 文言, as well as their alleged antagonism in earlier times, are twentieth-century inventions and legacies of the May Fourth movement. Harbsmeier reminds us that ‘the term baihua is as modern as the term wenyan. The dichotomy between the two is not traditional’, 2 and Wei Shang, who otherwise prefers to translate baihua as ‘plain, unadorned speech’ in its pre-twentieth century uses, writes: ‘the term baihua has a long history, but its meanings kept evolving until it was radically redef ined in the late Qing as “Chinese vernacular”’.3 So how did late-Chosŏn Korean intellectuals – the sikchach’ŭng 識字層 or those trained at least to some degree in Literary Sinitic – encounter and understand this very different register of written Chinese? I propose to study this question through the specific case of one literary work and its reception in Korea: Xixiangji 西廂記 or The Story of the Western Wing. Moreover, I propose to do so from the vantage point of the margins of the page: from the reading practices of glossing, lexical annotation, and commentary that lay at the very center of premodern literary culture in the Sinographic Cosmopolis (just as they did in Latinate medieval Europe) and that – at least in the uniquely well-documented case of Xixiangji in late-Chosŏn Korea – must also have laid the groundwork for, or served as, productive paratexts and ‘thresholds of interpretation’4 for contemporaneous and/or subsequent translations, of which we have a great many, in various types (arias-only, complete play in either four or five parts, and xiaoshuo-ified translations), and in both manuscript form (from the eighteenth to the

2 3 4

Harbsmeier, ‘May Fourth Linguistic Orthodoxy and Rhetoric’, p. 377. Shang, ‘Writing and speech’, 271n42. See Genette, Paratexts.

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twentieth centuries) and in print (from the first decades of the twentieth century).5 Since the appearance of Sheldon Pollock’s seminal The Language of the Gods in the World of Men,6 a number of important works have begun to appear on questions of comparative vernacularization. One immediate problem that arises is how to define ‘vernacularization’ itself. Pollock defines it variously: as ‘a new way of doing things with texts, especially written literary texts, in a stay-at-home language’,7 and then later in his book as first ‘the very process of people knowledgeably becoming vernacular’8 and then in more detail as ‘the historical process of choosing to create a written literature, along with its complement, a political discourse, in local languages according to models supplied by a superordinate, usually cosmopolitan, literary culture’.9 But Pollock complains that in Eurocentric research to date, it appears difficult for vernacularization to be ‘conceptualized as anything but national and thus loaded with all the baggage (the instrumentalization of culture as ideology, personhood as ethnic subject) that accompanies nationalism’.10 For my purposes here, we need to distinguish at least two types or poles of vernacularization: a bigger-picture, macro-vernacularization that manifests itself in literature via a concern for the mundane, the quotidian, and the seemingly inconsequential minute,11 and a smaller-picture, micro-vernacularization that is concerned with the mechanical nuts and bolts of using a local language for purposes formerly reserved for a more cosmopolitan language. Both these types of vernacularization are intimately related, and as Pollock and others have already stressed, vernacularization always takes place in the shadow of, and copies the model of, a superposed cosmopolitan code. In this sense, vernacularization is always already intimately tied to translation, because the very matrix of the process is predicated on a knowledge of the cosmopolitan and the conscious and painstaking development – usually over centuries – of routines and strategies for approximating the vernacular to the cosmopolitan. In Korea, those routines and strategies took shape in 5 For an excellent overview of some of the many different translations of the Xixiangji from Chosŏn Korea, see Yun, ‘Chosŏn ŭi Sŏsanggi suyong’. For a discussion of arias-only translations, see Yu Sŭnghyŏn and Min Kwandong, ‘Sŏsanggi kongmun pŏnyŏkpon’. 6 Pollock, The Language of the Gods. 7 Pollock, ‘Cosmopolitan and vernacular in history’, p. 606. 8 Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 20. 9 Ibid., p. 23. 10 Ibid., p. 563. 11 As argued for Edo Japan in Pastreich, Observable Mundane.

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the first instance in the marginalia represented by kugyŏl morpho-syntactic glosses, lexical annotations, and partial translations. For most of Korean history until late Chosŏn, the superposed cosmopolitan code was, of course, primarily Literary Sinitic in its orthodox guwen 古文 guise, but Koreans also encountered other types of non-orthodox Literary Sinitic. Buddhist Chinese (what Mair calls ‘Buddhist Hybrid Sinitic’12) and the novelistic vernacular (to use Stephen Owen’s term 13) are two cases in point, and it is clear that Koreans struggled to understand these registers with their more colloquial Chinese diction, grammar, and syntax. For my purposes here, the nature of this contact with Chinese literary vernacular can be illustrated through what I wish to call the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ in late-Chosŏn Korea: that is, the rich and interconnected repertoire of printed copies of numerous different Chinese editions of the play, Korean manuscript copies of the play in diverse formats, bilingual Korean glossaries of the play belonging to the genre of ŏrokhae 語錄解,14 the extended glossary-cum-commentary known usually by the title Yŏmmong mansŏk 艶夢慢釋 by an unknown Chosŏn author, and the p’yŏngŏ 評語-type reader commentary as found, for example, in two late-Chosŏn copies studied in Yun Chiyang’s recent Seoul National University dissertation.15 In the sections below, I begin with a comparison of the reception of this same register of Vernacular Sinitic in Edo Japan (Section 2), introduce several previously unstudied manuscript editions typifying the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ in Chosŏn (Section 3), address the question of how Chosŏn readers conceptualized the special register of Literary Sinitic encountered in works like Xixiangji and Shuihu zhuan and what they called it (Section 4), address the question of whether and to what extent Chosŏn readers connected Literary Vernacular Sinitic (henceforth, LVS) with contemporary spoken ‘Mandarin’ (Ch. guanhua) Chinese (Section 5), enumerate some of the attractions and difficulties represented by the language of Xixiangji for Chosŏn readers (Section 6), and conclude with a discussion of the significance of the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ for a richer understanding of the history of vernacularization in early modern Korea. 12 Mair, ‘Buddhism and the rise of the Written Vernacular in East Asia’, p. 712. 13 Owen, ‘The End of the Past’. 14 The first scholar to pay attention to the ŏrokhae genre of glossaries was Japanese linguist Ogura Shinpei, whose collection of antiquarian books housed at the University of Tokyo contains numerous examples. See Ogura, Chōsengogakushi. See also: An Pyŏnghŭi, ‘Ŏrokhae haeje’; Pak Kapsu, ‘Ŏrokhae e taehayŏ’; Song Hajin, ‘Ŏrokhae chusŏk ŏhwi ko’; Murakami, ‘Chōsen hantō keiyu no chūgoku zokugo no kenkyū’; and Si Nae Park’s chapter in this volume. 15 Yun, ‘Chosŏn ŭi Sŏsanggi suyong’.

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The shock of Shuihu zhuan in Edo Japan vs. the lure of Xixiangji in Chosŏn Korea The reception of Xixiangji in Chosŏn Korea contrasts interestingly with that of Shuihu zhuan in Edo Japan. There is a sizeable body of research on Edo literary culture and especially on the ‘Tōwagaku 唐話學 Boom’ or the zeal for study of colloquial, spoken Chinese and the concomitant study of Chinese vernacular fiction, all of which shows that The Water Margin was hugely popular from the late seventeenth century onwards. Modern Japanese works like Takashima Toshio’s Suikoden to nihonjin: Edo kara Shōwa made [The Water Margin and the Japanese: From Edo to Showa, 1991] chart its popularity, and the title of the more recent edited volume by Inada Atsunobu (2010) says it all: Suikoden no shōgeki: Higashi Ajia ni okeru gengo sesshoku to bunka juyō [The shock of Shuihu zhuan: Language contact and cultural reception in East Asia]. For example, in this latter volume, we learn from Odagiri Fumihiro’s chapter that among the numerous different dictionaries and glossaries of colloquial Chinese produced as part of the Tōwagaku boom, at least ten were devoted exclusively to the language of Shuihu zhuan.16 Okada Kesao, in his contribution to the volume, lists another ten commentaries dedicated to The Water Margin, some of which were based on lecture courses.17 Emanuel Pastreich likewise notes the plethora of study guides and commentaries on the numerous eighteenth-century Japanese novels inspired in one way or another by themes from Shuihu zhuan, all of which suggested ‘a large readership that tried to master the work in the original language’.18 The Water Margin was, of course, also read and enjoyed in Chosŏn Korea, but all indications are that it yielded pride of place to The Western Wing in terms of the popularity it enjoyed and the intensity with which it was studied. Korean scholars of the reception of Xixiangji all document the popularity of the work. Yi Ch’angsuk documents what he calls the late-Chosŏn Sŏsang-yŏl 西廂熱 or ‘Xixiang mania’ through references to the work through images of western chambers, the moon, waiting, etc. in Chosŏn literati poetry;19 Kim Hyomin describes what he calls the Sŏsanggi toksŏ-yŏl 西廂記 讀書熱 or ‘Xixiangji reading craze’;20 and Yun Chiyang writes of the Sŏsanggi aeho 西廂記 愛好 or ‘Xixiangji fandom’ that had taken shape already by the early 16 Odagiri, ‘Suiko goi e no kanshin’. 17 Okada Kesao, ‘Igengo sesshoku’. 18 Pastreich, Observable Mundane, p. 93. See also Hedberg, The Japanese Discovery of Chinese Fiction. 19 Yi Ch’angsuk, ‘Sŏsanggi ŭi Chosŏn yuip’. 20 Kim Hyomin, ‘Chosŏn hugi Sŏsanggi’, p. 251.

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nineteenth century.21 When Kyunghee University professor and authority on the reception of Chinese narrative and drama in Korea, Min Kwandong, set out to conduct his research on the reception of Xixiangji in Korea, he found that there were ‘unexpectedly many’ pre-1910 editions – he identified some 26 different Chinese printed editions in multiple copies, in addition of course to numerous manuscript copies.22 It is also worth mentioning in this context that while standard narratives of the history of modern Korean literature celebrate the appearance in 1912 of Yi Haejo’s Okchunghwa 獄中花 23 as the first work of Korean fiction printed with the new printing technology imported from Japan (the so-called kuhwalcha-bon 舊活字本 ‘old movable type editions’ of the 1910s), the first printed edition of The Western Wing to appear in Korea was published already in 1906. No less than five different printed editions (under various titles and in various formats and orthographies) of Xixiangji appeared in the first three decades of the twentieth century, many of them going through multiple editions and printings as late as the 1930s. All the surviving evidence suggests that the true heyday of Xixiangji’s popularity in Korea ran from the 1880s into the 1910s. One manifestation of the esteem in which Chosŏn readers held the work can be found in the various titles that they attached to the covers of their manuscript copies. For example, Kŏn’guk Taehakkyo holds three different beautiful manuscript copies with the following titles: kisŏ 奇書 (marvelous book), myosu kihwa ch’o 妙樹奇花 鈔 (a transcription of the marvelous tree[s] and wonderful flower[s] [of Xixiangji]), and pogam 寶鑑 (precious mirror). Another indication of the loving care with which most of the Korean Xixiangji manuscripts were executed can be seen from the fact that a number of them include carefully executed hand-drawn or hand-copied images of Oriole. The following portrait of Oriole (雙文, lit.: ‘double graph’, indexing her name in Chinese, 鶯鶯 Yingying) from a copy kept at the Danish Royal Library (introduced below) is not particularly well executed: 21 Yun, ‘Chosŏn ŭi Sŏsanggi suyong’, p. 163. 22 Min, ‘Sŏsanggi ŭi kungnae yuip’, p. 145. 23 A retelling of Ch’unhyang chŏn, ‘The Tale of Ch’unhyang’, which in turn owes much to the Xixiangji for its inspiration. Takahashi Tōru (‘Chōsen bungaku kenkyū’) saw Ch’unhyang chŏn as a poor imitation of Xixiangji. Korean scholars bristle at such a characterization but nonetheless admit a close relationship between the works, starting with Sŏp (‘Ch’unhyang chŏn kwa Zhugongdiao Xixiangji’), Chŏng Raedong (‘Ch’unhyang chŏn e yŏnghyang’), and Yi Kawŏn (‘Ch’unhyang ka ka Myŏng kok esŏ ibŭn yŏnghyang’). Interestingly, more recent research comparing these two works seems to stem from Chinese graduate students studying at Korean universities, e.g.: Ryu [Liu] (‘Ch’unhyang chŏn kwa Sŏsanggi’) and Li (‘Ch’unhyang chŏn kwa Sŏsanggi’), among others.

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Figure 6.1 Danish Royal Library copy of Ullim pyŏlsŏ hoesang t’aju che yuk chaeja sŏ 雲林別墅繪像妥註第六才子書

But this next image from the Hwang Jong-yon copy (introduced below) is rather more delicate and includes coloring in purple and yellow. The caption reads 天下絶色 崔鶯鶯 ‘Cui, Yingying, the peerless beauty’: Figure 6.2 Hwang Jong-yon copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記

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The following two images, from manuscripts owned by the Taegu Municipal Library and Chungang Taehakkyo Library respectively appear to stem from the same printed Chinese edition. The captions should read: 明伯虎唐寅 寫 ‘Drawn by Bohu Tang Yin 24 of the Ming’, but the Chosŏn copyist of the Taegu Municipal Library copy, whether out of ignorance or because he was copying a copy, has mistaken 狛 for 伯, while the copyist of the Chungang University copy has mistaken 圖月 for what should be 明 ‘Ming’ and has also written 虎 incorrectly. Here is the Taegu Municipal Library portrait: Figure 6.3 Taegu Municipal Library copy of Kim Sŏngt’an sŏnsaeng p’yŏngchŏm susang cheyuk chaejasŏ 金聖嘆先生評點繡像第六才子書

24 Tang Yin, courtesy name Bohu (1470-1524) was a scholar, poet, painter, and calligrapher of the Ming.

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And here is the Chungang University portrait: Figure 6.4 Chungang University Library copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記

The final two images are from a pocket-sized Chinese printed edition of Xixiangji (presumably from the first decades of the twentieth century) held by the Adan Mun’go in Seoul. In the first image from the beginning of the book, the Korean reader has doodled twice in pen 美人 ‘beautiful woman’ and has scrawled a preliminary attempt at reproducing the image to Oriole’s right.

184 Ross King Figure 6.5 Adan Mun’go copy of Jinxin xiudu 錦心繡肚

This last somewhat amateurish, even childish, gesture is repeated at the very end of the book on the inside back cover in pencil:

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Figure 6.6 Adan Mun’go copy of Jinxin xiudu 錦心繡肚

The mistakes in the copying of the sinographs in the captions and the sometimes clumsy attempts at reproducing the images of Oriole suggest a youngish, perhaps even adolescent, male readership, at least for these particular editions, and we will see more evidence of such readers below. But the presence of these illustrations is nonetheless suggestive of the admiration

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many Chosŏn readers had for this text. For one thing, it is difficult to find any analogous reader-generated illustrations in other works of literature. To be sure, one finds doodles and graffiti (often lewd) in some works of vernacular fiction (usually lending library copies), but nothing quite so involved as what we see with Xixiangji, and certainly none in color. While not exactly paratextual apparatus in the usual sense or even necessarily connected with the quasi-philological marginalia and annotations in the actual text, these amateur illustrations nonetheless reinforce my claim that Xixiangji occupied a special place in late-Chosŏn literary culture – one characterized by intense, almost infatuated, and devotional interactions between the reader(s) and the physical text and its paratextual spaces. But there are two additional pieces of evidence pointing to the overwhelming importance attached to Xixiangji by Chosŏn readers, as opposed to Shuihu zhuan, and both concern glossing. On the one hand, virtually all known manuscript copies of Xixiangji from Chosŏn carry kugyŏl morphosyntactic reading glosses (broadly analogous to Japanese kunten) – a device that was typically reserved for more canonical philosophical and religious texts. Each manuscript differs in the extent to which kugyŏl is applied, but typically and at a minimum the arias are glossed out, while Jin Shengtan’s prefaces also frequently attract kugyŏl glosses. On the other hand, Xixiangji was also frequently provided with abundant lexical annotations – sometimes in Literary Sinitic, other times in Korean.25 While Shuihu zhuan was also widely read and enjoyed in Chosŏn Korea, and indeed, was frequently mentioned in the same breath as Xixiangji in discussions of popular Chinese fiction, I am aware of only one Korean manuscript edition of Shuihu zhuan with added lexical glosses in Korean script, as opposed to the dozens and dozens of editions – both printed and manuscript – that survive of Xixiangji with lexical glosses in both vernacular Korean and Literary Sinitic. For Chosŏn readers, then, it seems that Xixiangji was much more popular than Shuihu zhuan.

The Xixiangji Glossarial Complex, illustrated In order to illustrate what I mean by the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’, and by way of a reminder of the presumably many heretofore unknown and as-yet-unstudied Korean manuscript copies of Xixiangji waiting to be 25 See Si Nae Park’s chapter in this volume for a fascinating discussion of hanmun vs. Korean lexical annotations and ‘vernacular eloquence’.

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discovered, I introduce here a few manuscripts that have not yet been noted in scholarship on the topic. The first manuscript to introduce is what I shall call the Danish Royal Library copy. Part of a small collection of old Korean books held by the Kongelige Bibliotek in Copenhagen, this work has been described in the recently published catalogue by Bent Pedersen as follows:26 Title: 雲林別墅繪像妥註第六才子書 Ullim pyŏlsŏ hoesang t’aju che yuk chaeja sŏ (Sŏsang ki) Alt. Title: 第六才子書 Di liu caizi shu Alt. Title: 西廂記 Xixiangji Author: 王實甫 (Wang Shifu, fl. 1295-1307) 撰 and 關漢卿 (Guan Hanqing, ca. 1295-1298) Commentator: 芻聖脈 (Zou Shengmo, fl. 1760-1796) 妥註 Copying Date: [19th c.] Number of volumes: 6冊 (卷首, 1-6 卷) Number of lines to page Text: 12 (18-19字); commentary: 18 (8字) Size: 30.2 × 19.2 cm; text area 16-18 × 15.1 cm.; commentary area 6.6-9.2 × 15 cm. Pedersen’s description continues: ‘In the introductory volume (首卷) there is also a commentary on the play by 李卓吾 [李贄] (Li Zhuowu [Li Zhi], 15271602). The commentator, Zou Shengmo, is mentioned first time on fol. 4a in the introductory volume’, and further notes that the book was purchased in South Korea in 1974 by Library Assistant Shin Huy-Dong.27 Pedersen fails to mention the sporadic lexical glosses in (mostly) blue ink above the annotations from Zou Shengmo~Zou Shengmai 鄒聖脈 (1692-1762). Words and phrases glossed are overwhelmingly from the vernacular register of the play and are glossed sometimes in Korean, sometimes in hanmun, and occasionally in both. Here is a copy of a page from the first volume showing the typical layout of the main text in the bottom two-thirds of the page, with Zou Shengmai’s commentary and occasional sound glosses occupying the top third of the page:

26 Pedersen, Catalogue of Korean Manuscripts, p. 109. 27 Pedersen, Catalogue of Korean Manuscripts, p. 109.

188 Ross King Figure 6.7 Full-page view of the Danish Royal Library copy of Ullim pyŏlsŏ hoesang t’aju che yuk chaeja sŏ 雲林別墅繪像妥註第六才子書

But in addition to the commentary copied over from the Zou Shengmai edition, we also find glosses added in by a Korean reader in blue ink in the very top register of the page:

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Figure 6.8 Upper two registers of the Danish Royal Library copy of Ullim pyŏlsŏ hoesang t’aju che yuk chaeja sŏ 雲林別墅繪像妥註第六才子書

The first words glossed in the first few pages are: Table 6.1 First expressions glossed in the Danish Royal Library copy Vernacular Sinitic Korean gloss

E Gloss of VS

牧奴

괘씸한놈 마츰

is truly; is indeed

一遭

一番

once

亁浄

조촐한

顛不剌的

異常이 고은 거슬

可正是 怕你不 理㑹

네 아니할가 보냐 헤아리다

E Gloss of K

‘shepherd boy-slave’ [?] disgusting guy/jerk

I’m afraid you might not… clean

just [the one]; the very [one] once, one time ditto modest, humble

understand

reckon

‘stunning knock-out’ (West & Idema)28

strangely beautiful thing

28 Wang Shifu, The Story of the Western Wing, pp. 72, 120.

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Note that the Chinese words glossed by the Korean reader belong to the LVS or colloquial register and are not words that Korean readers would typically have encountered in their education in Literary Sinitic, which relied almost exclusively on canonical texts in guwen 古文. The next copy to introduce is what I shall call the Hwang Jong-yon copy. When he was studying for his Master’s degree at Columbia University, Professor Hwang Jong-yon of Dongguk University’s Department of Korean Language and Literature was given this manuscript as a gift by Professor Gari Ledyard, who himself had acquired it during the Korean War. An undated work in two volumes housed in a traditional case, the book has suffered some water damage along its top edge, which in turn has damaged quite a number of the annotations and glosses in red ink. Nonetheless, it is a useful copy in that, unlike the Danish Royal Library copy, it is punctuated with kugyŏl 口訣 glosses throughout, contains numerous lexical annotations, and also appears to have a fair amount of reader commentary (p’yŏngŏ 評語). It also contains a rather painstakingly executed color portrait of Oriole, as seen above. Here is the first page of Jin Shengtan’s first preface to Xixiangji, showing the Korean kugyŏl reading glosses: Figure 6.9 Korean kugyŏl reading glosses in the Hwang Jong-yon copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記

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The close-up image below shows a lexical gloss for 顛不剌的 (‘北名美女名’ = ‘Northern word for a beautiful woman’) and a pronunciation gloss for the Buddhist term 業寃 (‘원슈 wŏnsyu’). Figure 6.10 Interlinear lexical glosses in the Hwang Jong-yon copy of Sŏsanggi 西 廂記

Finally, the image below shows the rich reader commentary (along with water damage) in the top margin: Figure 6.11 Reader commentary in the Hwang Jong-yon copy of Sŏsanggi 西廂記

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The notion of ‘glossarial complex’ comes into full play with the ŏrokhae 語錄解 glossaries and the Yŏmmong mansŏk reader’s guide. The ŏrokhae genre in Korea begins with a glossary by that name to the Zhuzi yulei 朱子 語類 (Classified Conversations of Master Zhu) printed in the seventeenth century and circulated widely in both printed and manuscript form until the early twentieth century in Korea. But with the importation and popularity of Chinese vernacular fiction, glossaries in similar format appeared for Shuihu zhuan 水滸傳, Xiyouji 西遊記, and Xixiangji 西廂記 (but not for any other works of Chinese vernacular fiction 29). More often than not, two or more glossaries would be bound together as one volume, and frequently the sosŏl ŏrokhae 小說語錄解 can be found bound together with glossaries to the Zhuzi yulei as well as with idu 吏讀 glossaries30. However, unlike the ŏrokhae glossaries to the Zhuzi yulei, the sosŏl ŏrokhae were never printed until the omnibus Chuhae ŏrok ch’ongnam 註解語錄總覽 of 1919 that included the Zhuzi yulei glossary, glossaries to the three Chinese vernacular works just mentioned plus the Romance of the Three Kingdoms and a list of idu forms. By way of an example of the ŏrokhae genre, here are some images from a manuscript held in the Ogura Shinpei Collection at the University of Tokyo with the title HoSangYu ŏrok 滸廂遊語錄. The image on the left is the cover, indicating that the work includes as an index a list of idu expressions, and the image on the right is the first page of the glossary to Xixiangji, starting with single-character expressions and moving on to two-character expressions, etc. 29 The omnibus Chuhae ŏrok ch’ongnam 註解語錄總覽 printed in 1919 includes a glossary to the Sanguozhi yanyi 三國志演義, but it is barely five pages long and appears to have been aborted after it was barely started. Earlier manuscript ŏrokhae glossaries to the Romance of the Three Kingdoms are thin on the ground compared to those for Shuihu zhuan, Xixiangji, and Xiyouji. For an index, see Yi Tongsul, Chuhae ŏrok ch’onglam saegin. 30 Idu was a form of hybridized and vernacularized Literary Sinitic that mixed Sino-Korean vocabulary alongside sinographs used as phonograms to write both vernacular Korean words and Korean nominal particles and verbal endings, all in Korean word order, chiefly for low-level and local legal and administrative documents. Because idu documents were written entirely in sinographs, at f irst blush they give the appearance of being Literary Sinitic texts, but the Chosŏn literati held ambivalent, if not outright derogatory, views of idu as an inscriptional style for literary composition. The occasional binding together of glossaries of idu forms (some nominal morphology but mostly verbal endings with vocalizations indicated in the Korean script) along with vernacular fiction glossaries was not because idu played any role in Chosŏn Koreans’ annotations or glossing of Chinese vernacular literature, but because it belonged to the ‘vernacular’ and non- or un-orthodox inscriptional space. For more on idu and Korean-style Variant Sinitic, see King, ‘Idu in and as Korean Literature’, ‘Vernacularizing the Cosmopolitan?’ and ‘Prolegomena’.

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Figure 6.12  Ho Sang Yu ŏrok 滸廂遊語錄, Ogura Shinpei Collection, University of Tokyo

As indicated by the title, this particular edition contains glossaries to Shuihu zhuan, Xixiangji and Xiyouji. It is worth noting that in cases of such bundling of glossaries, more often than not the glossaries to Shuihu zhuan and Xixiangji traveled together. In this particular ŏrokhae glossary, the term 顛不剌的 is glossed as 이샹이고은거슬 又寶石名 : ‘strangely beautiful thing or name of a gem’, where the first gloss echoes that seen earlier in the Royal Danish Library copy, suggesting that Korean readers were copying such glosses into their manuscripts of the play from ŏrokhae glossaries.

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The Yŏmmong mansŏk 艶夢慢釋 (‘A desultory interpretation of the first sixteen acts of Xixiangji, from 驚艶 to 驚夢’) exists in more than a dozen different manuscripts, some with alternate titles, and was an extended commentary and glossary to Xixiangji for Chosŏn readers by an anonymous Chosŏn author. Kim Hyomin, in the first in-depth comparative study of this work, defines it as a kamsang sajŏn 鑑賞辭典 or ‘appreciation dictionary’.31 The Yŏmmong mansŏk manuscripts are valuable not only for their glosses and commentary but because they all contain an important preface written by a Korean reader. Once again in the spirit of introducing a manuscript previously unknown to Korean scholarship, here is an image from the beginning of the Ogura Shinpei copy, starting with glosses and explanations to Play One Act One.32 Figure 6.13  Yŏmmong mansŏk 艶夢慢釋 (Ogura Shinpei Collection, University of Tokyo)

Here, for example, the lemma 上云 meaning ‘takes the stage and says as follows’, is glossed as: ‘上升也 升傀儡場也 …: 上 is the same as 升 [to mount or 31 Kim Hyomin, ‘Chosŏn hugi Sŏsanggi’. But the first scholar to call attention to the kugyŏl glossing in this reader’s guide to the Xixiangji was Pak Hŭisuk. See Pak Hŭisuk, ‘Yŏmmongmansŏk ŭi kugyŏl e taehayŏ’ and ‘Yŏmmongmansŏk ŭi kugyŏl’. 32 The Ogura copy, like a number of others, uses 謾 instead of 慢 for man; some copies write 豔 instead of 艶 for yŏm. A full description of the Ogura copy can be found in Fujimoto, Nihon genzon, p. 1233.

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get on top of]; to come out onto the puppet stage …’. The latter part of the same gloss continues: ‘傀儡東諺산듸노름 華諺희ᄌᆞ노름’, i.e., ‘傀儡 in the Eastern [Korean] vernacular is sandŭi norŭm, and in the Efflorescent [Chinese] vernacular is hŭija norŭm’. The gloss for 侄兒 comes from the following line at the very beginning of the play spoken by Madame Cui in her opening soliloquy: 曾許下老身侄兒鄭尚書長子鄭恆為妻

[Oriole] was betrothed to my nephew, Chêng Hêng, the eldest son of the Minister Chêng.33

The gloss in the Yŏmmong mansŏk reads: 指鄭恒 ‘This indicates Chêng Hêng’ and thus clarifies that the apposite noun phrases 侄兒 and 鄭尚書長子鄭 恆 reference one and the same person. The colloquial/dialect first-person pronoun 俺 is glossed 我也~們 ‘Same as 我 [“I”]; also ~們 [“we”]’, and the colloquial final particle 呵 is glossed simply as 語助尾辭 ‘final auxiliary particle’. The text beneath the big circle sign ‘ ⃝’ recapitulates the arias and includes kugyŏl punctuation markers clarifying the syntax of the text. To reiterate, then, this rich complex of manuscript copies of the play itself, print copies from China with handwritten lexical annotations, kugyŏl morpho-syntactic reading glosses, and punctuation by Chosŏn readers, all supported by manuscript ŏrokhae glossaries and the more extended appreciation manual usually called the Yŏmmong mansŏk, combined with other personalized reading practices like p’yŏngŏ 評語 commentary and (occasionally) illustrations of Oriole, comprised a rather elaborate ‘glossarial complex’ that is virtually unprecedented in premodern Korean literary culture. That such a phenomenon should be found in the context of a work of popular (t’ongsok 通俗) literature censured as a ‘Nether Book’ (ŭmsŏ 淫 書) is quite astonishing. At this point I wish to call attention again to the fact that so many of the Korean Xixiangji manuscripts carry kugyŏl 口訣 reading glosses. The practice in Korea of glossing texts in Literary Sinitic with t’o 吐 or Korean grammatical markers goes back almost as far as we have written records 33 Translation from Hsiung, The Romance of the Western Chamber, p. 3. The double underlining under the lemma 侄兒 indicates the hyperlink-type rubrication (in red ink) typically found in manuscript versions of the play that must have been read in concert with the Yŏmmong mansŏk. For hyperlinked medieval reading, see Gillespie, ‘Medieval Hypertext’ and Kaplan, ‘L’origine médiévale’.

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in Korea, and in any case dates to Silla (668-935) times. But the point here is that this practice of glossing out Literary Sinitic texts for interpretationcum-translation into Korean (earlier, pre-fourteeenth-century: sŏktok kugyŏl 釋讀口訣 or interpretive kugyŏl) or for easier parsing and vocalization in Sino-Korean (later, post- fourteeenth-century: sundok kugyŏl 順讀口訣 or consecutive kugyŏl) was reserved exclusively for texts of either a canonical or pedagogical nature (or both, insofar as much of the basic training in Literary Sinitic, or LS, was based on canonical texts).34 The practice appears to have begun with Buddhist texts and was later extended to the Confucian classics, but it is extremely difficult to find copies of any works of fiction or other forms of popular literature in LS in Korea that are glossed with kugyŏl. In essence, the fact that manuscript copies of Xixiangji typically attracted kugyŏl glossing suggests that Chosŏn readers accorded it the status of a classic – a nether or underground classic of sorts, but a classic nonetheless. The only other fictional work besides Xixiangji of which I am aware that regularly attracted kugyŏl glosses in Korea is Chŏndŭng sinhwa kuhae 剪燈新話句解, a detailed sixteenth-century Korean annotation of Qu You’s 瞿佑 (1341-1427) Jiandeng Xinhua or ‘New Tales to Trim the Lamp By’, a story collection that enjoyed immense popularity all throughout the rest of Chosŏn. I have examined nearly 200 different print and manuscript copies of Chŏndŭng sinhwa kuhae, and while some one-third of them are glossed with kugyŏl, the level of care, detail, and precision with which they are executed is radically different from the glosses in Korean copies of Xixiangji. That is, the books themselves are typically tired, dog-eared, and weather-worn (befitting the primarily pedagogical function of this work as a gateway text for Korean learners of Literary Sinitic35), and the kugyŏl glosses are often scrawled out clumsily, irregularly, and sporadically. Moreover, one rarely ever finds lexical annotations in copies of Chŏndŭng sinhwa kuhae, and only occasionally pronunciation glosses. All of this is quite different from the situation with Xixiangji, where, besides hundreds of lexical annotations and numerous pronunciation glosses for obscure sinographs in the LVS register,36 one finds carefully and consistently executed kugyŏl glosses, 34 For more on practices of hundok 訓讀 or ‘vernacular reading’ (also referred to as ‘reading by gloss’ in the academic literature) in the Sinographic Cosmopolis, see Kin Bunkyo, Literary Sinitic and East Asia. 35 King, ‘Accessing Literary Sinitic through Fiction’. 36 But note that these pronunciation glosses in Xixiangji are always for the Sino-Korean pronunciations and show no interest in the contemporary spoken Chinese pronunciations (discussed below).

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frequently in red ink, and sometimes even with color coding, deploying different colors of ink for kugyŏl in the arias vs. kugyŏl elsewhere. All of this suggests that Xixiangji enjoyed a special, even unique status in late-Chosŏn literary culture, something akin to that of an underground or closet classiccum-pedagogical text: a gateway into the naughty, semi-erotic pleasures of Chinese vernacular literature and, above all, a guide to the language of such texts as exemplified by The Western Chamber. Now that the term ‘closet’ has come up and before moving on to the next section, it is essential to note one more fact about the reception of Xixiangji in Chosŏn Korea – namely, that it was only ever read, and never performed. Korea had no tradition of dramatic composition or performance in Sinitic, and as numerous Korean students of the play have emphasized, Xixiangji was enjoyed in Korea as fiction (as sosŏl 小說). While Xixiangji did in fact inspire the creation at the hands of Chosŏn authors of at least three Korean plays, those three plays are the sum total of dramatic production in Chosŏn, where otherwise there was no tradition of either the writing or performance of Chinese-type plays.37 In other words, in Chosŏn, The Western Wing was a kind of ‘closet play’ or ‘theater of the mind’, if by using these terms I am not doing too much violence to their original use in the context of Romantic period English drama.38

Chinese literary vernacular in Chosŏn So how did Chosŏn intellectuals perceive and conceive of the unfamiliar language of Xixiangji that called for so much exegesis, commentary, lexical annotation, and glossing? What did they call it? It is difficult to find any one term that would correspond neatly to what we think of today as ‘baihua’, but this is unsurprising, given the very modern origins of this term. One encounters the terms hanŏ 漢語 (Han language) or hwaŏ 華語 (Efflorescent language; Language of Chunghwa 中華 = Central Efflorescence) in Chosŏn sources, but almost always in the context of spoken, colloquial Chinese of the type learned by the yŏkkwan 譯官 or translator officials of the Interpreters’ 37 It is surely noteworthy that the only three plays known thus far to have been penned by Chosŏn authors were all inspired by Xixiangji: Tongsanggi 東廂記; the borderline pornographic Puksanggi 北廂記; and Paeksangnu ki 百祥樓記. For Tongsanggi, see Sixiang Wang, ‘The Story of the Eastern Chamber’; for Puksanggi, see An Taehoe and Yi Ch’angsuk, Puksanggi; and for Paeksangnu ki, see Chŏng Ubong, ‘Mibalgul hanmun’. 38 See Shou-ren Wang, The Theatre of the Mind and Crochunis, ‘Mental Theatre’.

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Bureau (Sayŏgwŏn 司譯院);39 these terms rarely ever appear in the context of the language of Xixiangji or in other literary contexts. Instead, one finds references going back several centuries to the notion of a ‘recorded sayings’ style or ŏrokch’e 語錄體. 40 The earliest references to a ‘recorded sayings’ style in Korea that I have found date back to discussions of the style of Mogŭn Yi Saek 牧隱 李穡 (13281396), a Neo-Confucian scholar from the very end of the Koryŏ dynasty (918-1392) who spent many years studying in Yuan China. According to Ŏ Kangsŏk, Yi Saek’s chuso ŏrok Style 註疏語錄體 (‘commentarial glossary style’) was formed under the influence of the Zen ‘recorded sayings’ genre, 41 and Kwak Misŏn notes that Yi Saek’s style later influenced the writings of early Chosŏn literary giants like Kwŏn Yangch’on (i.e., Kwŏn Kŭn 權近, 1352-1409), Kim Chŏmp’il (i.e., Kim Chongjik 金宗直, 1431-1492), Ch’oe Kan’i (i.e., Ch’oe Rip 崔岦, 1539-1612), Sin Sangch’on (i.e., Sin Hŭm 申欽, 1566-1627), and Yi Wŏlsa (i.e., Yi Chonggwi/Chonggu 李廷龜, 1564-1635). 42 But overuse of this style made writers vulnerable to censure right up to the end of the dynasty, and Kwak (op.cit.) details how Ch’anggang Kim T’aeg-yŏng 滄 江 金澤榮 (1850-1927) singled out Yi Saek and his use of the chuso ŏrokch’e for criticism, thanks to his staunch posture as a guwen 古文 stylist – an attitude that was typical of so many Chosŏn literati. Similar criticism of the ‘Ŏrok Style’ at the end of the dynasty can be found from none other than Yi Kŏnch’ang 李建昌 (1852-1898), considered one of the great Literary Sinitic stylists of Chosŏn, who is noted in the Amsŏ chip (Collected works of Amsŏ Cho Kŭngsŏp 曺兢燮, 1873-1933) as having ridiculed Nosa Ki Chŏngjin (蘆沙 奇正鎭, 1798-1879) for using Ŏrok Style in his Nosa chip 蘆沙集. 43 It is clear from the Chosŏn sources that the term ŏrok 語錄 on its own could mean not just a glossary of colloquial terms but colloquial language itself.44 For example, in her study of the ŏrokhae Korean glossary to the Zhuzi 39 It is important to remember in this context that Chosŏn literati looked down their noses at the technocrats who served as interpreter officials and had little interest in spoken, colloquial Chinese. The ‘cosmopolitan’ was only ever inscribed and read, not spoken. See Sixiang Wang, ‘The Sounds of Our Country’. 40 For English-language scholarship on yulu 語錄 , see Sawer, ‘Studies in Middle Chinese grammar’; Berling, ‘Bringing the Buddha Down to Earth’; and Yanagida, ‘The Development of the “Recorded Sayings” Texts’. 41 Ŏ, ‘Mogŭn sanmun’, pp. 52-53. See also Wŏn, ‘Yŏmal Sŏnch’o’. 42 Kwak, Kim T’aegyŏng, p. 129. 43 Amsŏ chip, che 8 kwŏn: Sŏ 書. Cited from the Database of the Korean Classics. 44 According to Pak Taehyŏn, the term ŏrok 語錄 in Chosŏn had three different meanings: 1) ‘ 佛家禪師語錄類의 책’, i.e., ‘books containing the categorized conversations of the Buddhist Zen masters’; 2) ‘唐宋이후에 사용된 俗語’, i.e., ‘vulgar/vernacular language used after the Tang and

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yulei, Gen Yukiko cites an exchange from the seventeenth-century Yŏnsŏl kangŭi t’ongp’yŏn 筵設講義通編, a record of the ‘Classics Mat Lectures’ held by senior court officials for Kings Hyojong, Hyŏnjong, and Sukchong during the years 1657-1687, in which King Hyŏnjong is discussing a passage from the Sim kyŏng 心經 with a colloquial element in it:45 上曰: … 中原則讀書無吐、勝於我國之懸吐乎。



The King said: In the Central Plain when they read without the aid of t’o grammatical markers, is this not superior to the practice of appending t’o in our country? 宋時烈曰: … 甚爲簡便。 Song Siyŏl said: It is extremely convenient. 敏迪曰: … 雖無吐而以語錄解釋也。 Min Chŏk said: Although they do not have t’o, they use colloquial language [ŏrok 語錄] for explanations. 上曰: … 應不如我國懸吐之通暢也。 Surely it must not be as clear and succinct as our practice of appending the t’o [hyŏnt’o]. 宋時烈曰: … 中原言語便是文字。大明時、 我國使臣入往宿於一士人家、 則 其家小児問於其父曰、朝鮮之人亦解書乎。其父曰、書同文云。則其兒解聽



矣。

The language of the Central Plain is none other than sinographs. During the Ming, one of our envoys to China stayed in the family of a Chinese literatus, and the little boy of the household asked his father: ‘Do people from Korea understand books?’ His father replied: ‘Their books use the same script’. And so the boy understood.

Another example from the Kukcho pogam 國朝寶鑑 (Precious mirror for succeeding reigns; kwŏn 45, fifth year of Sukchong 肅宗) records an episode reported by Nam Kuman 南九萬 (1629-1711) where he writes: ‘Your humble servant recently was so bold as to serve as Examination Officer (sigwan 試 官) and when I examined the writings of the exam-takers, I found that their literary style had changed significantly compared to before … they strive to Song’; and 3) ‘宋儒의 저술에 쓰인 백화체 어휘’, i.e., ‘baihua-style vocabulary used in the writings of Song Ruists’. See Pak Taehyŏn, ‘Ŏrokhae yŏn’gu’, 1. According to Pak, the meaning in (2) was derived by way of shortening earlier 語錄套 or 語錄體 (Ibid., 12); i.e., ‘ŏrok style’. 45 According to Gen, the exchange occurred sometime between 1669 and 1674. Gen, Gorokkai kenkyū, pp. 88-89.

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craft their sentences with difficult and bizarre sinographs and words such that the readers are bound to be unable to understand them well. Moreover, they are in the habit of inserting into them a great many sinographs from the Ŏrok Style 語錄體, departing from ordinary diction in the direction of the bizarre; this is truly shocking.’ This same episode recounting Nam Kuman’s complaints about the newfangled Ŏrok Style appears in a slightly different version in his collected works, Yakch’ŏn chip 藥泉集, where it is also clear that the compilers of the collection shared his concern. For example, in kwŏn 3 of the Chronology section (Yakch’ŏn yŏnbo che 3 kwŏn), we find: ‘The Master this month entered upon the afternoon Classics Mat lectures for his Majesty, and reported to him: “I recently came to serve as Examination Officer and upon examining the examinees’ writings, I found that their literary style has changed greatly … in using the Chinese Ŏrok Style 語錄體, they turn conventional rules on their head and favor the bizarre; it is truly a scandalous habit. All of the Chinese Ŏrok Style 語錄體 is nothing other than the likes of our own idu 吏 讀; in the case of the words of the Confucian sages, it is difficult to change them and thus we have no choice but to go on using them, but in the case of our own writings, how could we adulterate them with such things? Moreover, it is outrageous that they seek out strange expressions and vulgar sayings (soktam 俗談) with which to craft their compositions. Insofar as changes in literary style (munch’e ŭi pyŏnyŏk 文體의 變易) are connected to the rise and fall of the way (sedo 世道), such styles must be sharply ostracized.”’ Another episode in the same section shows that the compilers of his munjip shared his view on the newfangled style: ‘The Master was well versed in the Classics and the Histories, and only applied his intellect to those things that were practically beneficial. When he wrote, the contents were lucid and plentiful, yet concise and sincere, and his memorials and argumentation were always grounded in knowledge of the Classics (kyŏnghak 經學), regulated and elegant, as well as rich and ponderous, and thus well worth reading. Even in his letters he never used the Ŏrok Style or put on airs.’ It is significant that these passages draw a clear analogy between literary style and the Way, and between colloquial/vernacular Chinese and Korean idu, making it clear that the latter are to be shunned if at all possible in literary pursuits. Further evidence that this ‘Ŏrok Style’ was connected in the minds of Chosŏn literati with colloquial, spoken Chinese can be seen from the following remark by Chŏng Yagyong 丁若鏞 (1762-1836) in his Mongmin simsŏ 牧民心書 (Admonitions for Governing the People) of 1818, where he laments the lack of familiarity among Chosŏn literati with the ‘writings

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of the Interpeters’ Bureau (譯院文字)’ and with the ‘words and phrases of Mandarin, called ŏrokch’e in the vernacular (官話句語。俗稱語錄體).’46 Another example can be found in the explanatory notes (pŏmnye 凡例) to the early eighteenth-century Korean vernacular exegesis (ŏnhae 諺解) of Pyŏnghakchinam 兵學指南: ‘The main text has some ŏrokch’e 語錄體 mixed in with it here and there that makes some of the sentences complicated. So we took care to translate the words (ŏrok 語錄) according to their real meaning. For example, 打 “do”, 他 “that person”, 按 “press”, 着 “do”, 起身 “embark; set off”, etc. Moreover, in cases where an expression has different meanings in Literary Sinitic and ŏrok 語錄, we interpreted appropriately on a case-by-case basis. An example would be kisin 起身 which in ŏrok 語錄 means “set off; depart” but which in Literary Sinitic means “get up, stand up” or “succeed in life”.’47 Here is another example. Yu Chaegŏn 劉在建 (1793-1880), in his Ihyang kyŏnmun nok 里鄕見聞錄 of 1862, recounts the following story of a professional reciter of narrative fiction by the name of Yi Chasang 李子常: Yi Chasang (李子常; I can’t remember his exact name) was smart and had an excellent memory. Of all the various divination texts, there was none that he hadn’t read, and he was also so well-versed in fictional narrative that he was thoroughly familiar with works related to the novelistic vernacular [語 錄文]. He was poor and unable to sustain himself, so sometimes frequented the homes of ministers where he was praised for his skills in reciting fiction. In his later years he earned a modest stipend in a military household and frequently relied on acquaintances of old for food and shelter.48

Yet another example from the late nineteenth century can be found in the Hajae ilgi 荷齋日記, the diary of Chi Kyusik 池圭植 (1851-?), an unusually enterprising and well-connected commoner employed in the porcelain works that supplied the royal kitchens. Chi’s diary covers the period from approximately 1891 to 1911, and in the entry for the kyŏngja 庚子 day of the first month of the chŏng’yu 丁酉 year (1897), we find the following entry: 46 第五集政法集第十八卷○牧民心書卷三; 奉公六條○文報奉公第四條 . Cited from Database of the Korean Classics. 47 Cited from https://www.krpia.co.kr/viewer?plctId=PLCT00004543&tabNodeId=NODE059 35005#none 48 ‘李子常忘其名， 聰明强記， 諸種術書， 無不閱覽. 又嫺於稗官諸書， 凡係語錄文，盡爲通曉. 而貧不 能自資， 或出入宰相門下， 以善讀小說稱. 晩年得軍門斗料，多寄食於知舊之家’. Cited from Yi Minhŭi, 16~19 segi sŏjŏk chunggaesang, 145-147, who used the annotated translation of the Silsihaksa Kojŏnmunhak Yŏn’guhoe published by Minŭmsa in 1997 (p. 358 in kwŏn 7).

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Clear. Early in the morning I set off from Seoul with Pyŏn Chuhŏn and by sunset we had entered town. When we reached the home of Mogyo Yun T’aeha 毛橋 尹泰夏, his sarangch’ae annex had fallen into such a state of neglect that the hypocausts were so defective that it was impossible to start a fire. For that reason, we asked to use the room across from the inner quarters and spend the night. The weather was so extremely cold that we bought in three nyangs’ worth of firewood. After supper, Yun’s boy brought over Xixiangji and asked me how to read literary vernacular Chinese [問語錄讀法], so I pushed the lamp to one side and taught him. 49

This particular example is interesting also for its indication that adolescents were avid readers of the play. Finally, a twentieth-century example of an explicit reference to the language and style of literary vernacular Chinese as ‘Ŏrok Style’ comes from none other than Yŏ Kyuhyŏng 呂圭亨 (1848-1921), a staunch advocate of the retention of Literary Sinitic in newly modernizing Korea. In one of his essays (nonsŏl 論說) published in the fourth issue of the Taedonghakhoe wŏlbo 大 東學會月報 in 1908, Yŏ criticizes Chosŏn literary practices, complaining that Koreans never sought to learn the ‘Ŏrok Style’ and do not understand chŏn’gi sosŏl 傳奇小說, which we must presume is a blanket reference to the kinds of works glossed in Chosŏn ŏrokhae glossaries, all because of their lack of sufficient knowledge in ‘Ŏrok Style’.50

The Ŏrok Style as mute vernacular If, within the various appellations for and hazy notions about types of contemporary Chinese language in late Chosŏn,51 the closest approximation to a commonly used term for the language of the popular works like Shuihu zhuan and Xixiangji was ‘Ŏrok Style’, and even though there is evidence that 49

庚子 晴 早朝與卞柱憲作京行 夕陽入闉 至毛橋尹泰夏家 舍廊久廢 房堗未完 不能炊火 因權借內越

房 要一宿 日寒斗劇 貿松斫三兩盡燒 夕飯後 尹少年持西廂記來 問語錄讀法 因排燈敎讀… Cited from

Database of the Korean Classics. On Chi Kyusik, see Pak Ŭnsuk, 2009. ‘Punwŏn kongin Chi Kyusik’. According to http://kostma.net/FamilyTree/PersonPopup.aspx?personid=pd039804, the boy could be either Yun Chaesŏng 尹在星 or Yun Chaeyŏng 尹在英. 50 The original text reads: 又至於語錄方言都不講究凡支那文之帶語錄氣者 上自性理文字下至傳奇小 說全然不通 與支那人筆談彼此茫然不解 緣於彼爲語錄而我則以我之俚語俗＜5＞尙之文法故也 如此而求其 讀書作文章不可得也. I am indebted to Caleb Park for this information. For detailed information on Yŏ Kyuhyŏng and his defense of Literary Sinitic, see Wells, ‘A Limited, Legacy Literacy’, pp. 53, 317-329, 396-397. 51 On this haziness, see Sugiyama, ‘Cong Yŏrha ilgi’ and Yi Hyŏnhŭi et al., Kŭndae Han’gugŏ.

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Chosŏn literati associated this register with spoken, colloquial Chinese and equated it in some way with their own ‘vernacular’ (recall Nam Kuman’s disparaging remark about the Chinese ŏrokch’e as equivalent to Korean idu), it is important to note immediately that all the evidence from the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ makes it clear that this was quite divorced from any practical concerns with learning to pronounce literary vernacular in contemporary Chinese (whatever that might mean), let alone to learn or master spoken, colloquial Chinese (Mandarin). In this respect, the lateChosŏn fascination with the novelistic vernacular was quite different from the craze for these same materials in Edo Japan. Instead, the Chosŏn readers of Xixiangji appear to have seen the language of the play as simply another (albeit captivating) register of muncha 文字 – a distinct variety of Literary Sinitic that differed in lexis and grammar, and where the crux (and excitement) lay in a slew of new and strange vocabulary items pertaining to everyday, mundane things and activities, and in a similarly new and unfamiliar repertoire of grammatical function words. The perception of ‘Ŏrok Style’ as essentially a new set of (vernacular) vocabulary to be acquired alongside new and different grammatical particles can be seen in the extant manuscripts through the ways in which copies of the play or its glossaries were sometimes bound together with other works of a lexicographical nature. One such example of a Korean Xixiangji glossary being bound together with other lexicographical works is the Chongno Tosŏgwan copy of the Chibyŏng kwan’gamju 集英觀紺珠, a version of the Yŏmmong mansŏk extended glossary discussed above. This manuscript is composed of five different parts: 1) Sŏsanggi ŏnju chiphae 西廂記諺註集解 (Compendium of vernacular notes and explications to Xixiangji, i.e., the Yŏmmong mansŏk); 2) Hwaŏryuaek ch’o 華語類掖鈔 (Excerpts from the pocket Spoken Chinese by Categories); 3) Pulgaŏch’ong 佛家語叢 (Thicket of Buddhist vocabulary); 4) Togaŏch’ong 道家漁叢 (Thicket of Daoist vocabulary); and 5) Chuja ŏrokhae (朱子語錄解 (Vernacular explanations of Zhuzi yulei). What immediately draws our attention here is the second section, the Hwaŏryuaek ch’o 華語類掖鈔. This is clearly a version of the late-Chosŏn thematic guide to spoken Chinese vocabulary printed with movable type in 1883 as the Hwaŏryu ch’o 華語類抄,52 as a comparison with the first page of the Asami Collection copy at the University of California, Berkeley readily shows. The most salient difference, though, is the absence of any indications 52 For this text, see Pak Chaeyŏn, ‘Inyong munhŏn haeje’, pp. 1-5.

204 Ross King Figure 6.14  Hwaŏryuaek ch’o 華語類掖鈔 section of the Chongno Tosŏgwan copy of the Chibyŏng kwan’gamju 集英觀紺珠

of the contemporary Chinese pronunciations in the Hwaŏryuaek ch’o. These have been stripped from the text in the Chongno Tosŏgwan copy. Another case in point is the Kŏn’guk Taehakkyo copy of Xixiangji with the cover title Pogam 寶鑑. Bound together with the text of the play are: Suhoji ŏrok ch’o 水滸誌語錄抄 (excerpts from a glossary of the Shuihu zhuan);

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Figure 6.15 UC-Berkeley copy of the Hwaŏryu ch’o 華語類抄

Chuja ŏrok ch’o 朱子語錄抄 (excerpts from a glossary to the Zhuzi yulei); and, most interestingly for our discussion here, Tamjing ch’o 談徵抄 (excerpts from the Tanzheng). The Tanzheng is a Qing-era lexicon of dialect and folk expressions dating to Jiaqing 嘉慶 20 (1815).53 Here again, there is no indication of Mandarin pronunciations using the Korean script as one finds in numerous other pedagogical materials designed specifically to impart a knowledge of contemporary spoken Chinese. To the best of my 53 For a reproduction and short introduction, see Nagasawa, Min Shin zokugo.

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knowledge, this work has never been noticed in Korean scholarship, but it has garnered substantial attention recently from Chinese scholars in both linguistics and folkloristics.54 The point here is that cases like these where manuscript copies of Xixiangji were bound together not only with glossaries specific to the play but also with lexical compendia dedicated to contemporary vernacular Chinese folk and dialect vocabulary – devoid of any indication of Chinese pronunciations – evince a strong fascination with vernacular Chinese words in their written guise (and presumably also a strong desire to incorporate words like these into the inscriptional practice of the Chosŏn readers and copyists). In any case, this strong interest in Chinese vernacular lexical items, without any concomitant concern for contemporary Chinese pronunciation, runs throughout all of the glossaries and lexical annotations connected with Xixiangji: these Chinese words were enjoyed in written form and read in Sino-Korean, not Mandarin.

The charm and challenge of ‘Ŏrok style’ It remains to try to pinpoint in more detail what it was exactly – besides the many different colloquially derived lexical items pertaining to mundane, daily affairs – that Chosŏn readers found so charming and alluring but also so challenging about the ‘Ŏrok style’ register they encountered in The Western Wing. Here it is worth revisiting the notion of ‘recorded sayings’ or ‘records of words’55 style and how Korean attitudes toward it changed over time. Under one understanding of the notion of ‘records of words’ style, its origins are to be traced back to the question-and-answer-style dialogues in the Analects and Mencius. In particular, it is the high proportion of empty function words (xuzi 虛字) in connection with the attempt to simulate spoken exchanges and gesture toward the spoken vernacular that characterize the genre, and this is why Kim Sŏngjung, for example, calls attention to the fact that in most editions of the Analects, function words and particles occupy a higher percentage of the text than in other genres; for example, he notes that ‘也’, ‘而’, ‘矣’, ‘於’, and ‘乎’ appear as many as 530, 330, 180, 170, and 150 times, respectively – i.e., ‘to the extent that the Analects can indeed be called

54 See Li Yang, ‘Tanzheng yu minsu’; Zeng, ‘Suyu cishu’; Zeng, ‘Lun Ming Qing’; and Zeng and Li, ‘Tanzheng’. 55 See Hymes, ‘Getting the Words Right’.

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the founding father of the “Ŏrok Style”’.56 More to the point, though, is his other claim, namely, that despite this defining characteristic of this style or genre, East Asian exegeses and annotations of the Analects paid little or no attention to these function words. Until, that is, Chonjae Wi Paekkyu 存 齋 魏伯珪 (1727-1798) and his Nonŏ ch’aŭi 論語箚義 (1792), where he homed in on such particles and subjected them to extended analysis and discussion.57 That a Korean Neo-Confucian scholar and exegete should have dedicated such attention to function words and particles as part and parcel of ‘Ŏrok style’ in the eighteenth century at a time when Korean fascination with literary vernacular Chinese was in full swing is surely no accident. In his study of the ‘Shuihu complex’ and the rise of the Chinese literary vernacular, Ge Liangyan takes up the question of the stylistic characterization of the individualized speech of the protagonists in Shuihu zhuan, and reminds us that Jin Shengtan celebrated ‘… the linguistic stratification and individualization with great enthusiasm: “The Shuihu zhuan does not contain literary language particles like zhi, hu, zhe, and ye [之, 乎, 者, 也 – RK] . Each individual character is made to speak in his own individual way. This is truly marvelous skill!”’58 Korean glossed editions of Xixiangji certainly take note of the many new and different non-orthodox grammatical particles, annotating them repeatedly, if mostly indiscriminately, as just ŏsa 語辭 ‘particles’, although further research may perhaps uncover a certain level of nuance to the glossators’ terminology.59 But these particles were clearly part of the attraction of this new literary style, as evidenced by the remarks by Hut’an 後歎 (‘Latter-day Jin Shengtan’) Mun Hanmyŏng 文漢命 (1839-1894) in the front matter to his 1885 Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsanggi 後歎先生訂正註解 西廂記:

1. Sinographs like ‘的’, ‘子’, ‘得’, ‘着’, ‘地’, ‘那’, ‘這’, ‘些’, ‘個’, ‘兒’, ‘子’, ‘里’, ‘過’, ‘起’, ‘恁’, ‘怎’, ‘偌’, ‘般’, ‘麽’, ‘甚’, ‘他’, and ‘也’ follow the glossaries to the Cheng brothers (程子) and Zhu Xi (朱子) where they connote conjunction,

56 Kim Sŏngjung, ‘Chonjae Wi Paekkyu’, p. 362. 57 Ibid., pp. 60-66. 58 Ge, Out of the Margins, pp. 52, 188. 59 See Chŏng Yunch’ŏl, ‘No-Pak chimnam’ for the claim that in his sixteenth-century guides to colloquial Chinese, Ch’oe Sejin 崔世珍 (1465?-1542) used the terms ŏsa 語辭, chosa 助詞 and ŏjosa 語 助辭 to refer to different types of function word. Ito, in ‘Grammatical Markers’, demonstrates some of the many difficulties encountered by fifteenth-century Korean Buddhists when translating the vernacular Chinese elements – especially aspectual particles – of Mengshan’s Sayings (Mongsan hwasang pŏbŏ yangnok 蒙山和尙法語略錄) into Middle Korean.

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doubts about semantics, convolutions and distortions, and difficultto-understand expressions.60

2. The sinographs ‘呵’, ‘呀’, ‘哩’, ‘咦’, ‘囉’, ‘㕰’, ‘呸’, ‘哦’, ‘咳’, ‘嗤’, ‘咱’, ‘喒’, ‘波’, ‘沙’, and ‘每’ all denote the sounds in Buddhist language (佛語) where words and clauses come to an end. These are truly a fantasy land for the man of letters and a marvel to behold.61



3. None of the sinographs ‘赸’, ‘颩’, ‘丢’, ‘歪’, ‘忐’, ‘忑’, ‘呆’, ‘矁’, ‘[火+臿]’, ‘掂’, ‘ 喒’, ‘衠’, ‘[手+尙] ’, ‘您’, ‘ ’, ‘㕰’, ‘呸’, ‘屙’, ‘[尸+巾]’,” ‘唓’, and ‘嗻’ occur in the rhyme books and were created in this book [the Xixiangji]. By guessing at their meanings, one can grasp their significance. These are truly the unfathomable domain of the divine.62

Instead of a conclusion: the problem of the literary vernacular What, then, are we to make of the late-Chosŏn fascination with Xixiangji and with glossing and annotating the language in it? What does the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ tell us about vernacularization and translation in late Chosŏn? Much work remains to be done on the rich corpus of Xixiangji manuscript and print editions from Chosŏn that evince marginalia, glossing, and reader commentary, along with independent glossaries and reader’s guides, but I can suggest a number of tentative conclusions and avenues for future investigation. For starters, the predominant narrative to date in modern Korea about vernacularization has been one of script triumphalism – of the inevitable and preordained rise to greatness and hegemony of the vernacular, housed exclusively in the vernacular Korean script. This narrative paints a stark black-and-white picture of the underdog han’gŭl pitted against the evil and hegemonic ‘Chinese’ language and script, and has little patience for more nuanced understandings of the latter. Moreover, little 60

的子得着地那這些個兒子里過起恁怎偌般麽甚他也 等字，俱從程朱兩 先生語類中，來接續疑義扭轉

難辭者也 . See also the chapter by Oh and Ling in this volume for more on Mun Hanmyŏng and

his text. For the text here, I have consulted both Chŏng Yongsu, Hut’an sŏnsaeng, pp. 27-28, and the original held by the Kyujanggak Archives, Seoul National University. 61 呵呀哩咦囉㕰呸哦咳嗤咱喒波沙每 等字， 俱是佛語中， 語落句絶聲， 此文章家幻境也奇境也. 62

赸(山)颩(三)[丢](別)歪(非)忐(潛)忑(漸)呆(哀)矁(水)[火+臿](挿)掂(占)喒(潛)衠(眞)[手+尙](倘)[您](任) [

](

杳)[㕰](毛)呸(非)屙(我) [尸+巾](是)唓 (居) 嗻(且) 等字，皆不見於輯彙，而刱於此書者也. 推其意義，足可攄得， 此文章家神境也不可測之之境也 .

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has been written about the persistence of Literary Sinitic well into the 1930s (what Scott Wells has called the ‘hanmun hangover’63) or of the way in which Japanese colonialism co-opted Literary Sinitic and the ‘old style intellectuals’.64 What the late-Chosŏn Xixiangji materials show us, I believe, is that a ‘third way’ was entertained – a sort of vernacularization conceived within sinographic writing. In other words (and following the lead of Si Nae Park65), we need to separate out questions of script from questions of vernacularization and stop pretending that the only vernacularization of any consequence in premodern Korea was housed exclusively in the Korean script, or that the vernacular could not be represented sinographically. The ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ indexes a keen interest in ‘how to be vernacular’ while remaining true to sinographic inscription and simultaneously mobilizing the vernacular to better understand and approximate a new kind of Literary (Vernacular) Sinitic. One could even argue that this was the primary goal and use of the vernacular script from its inception right up to the end of the Chosŏn dynasty. The ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ also forces us to dig deeper into Chosŏn ideologies of language and writing and their relation to the Ming-Qing transition, the rise of Sojunghwa 小中華 ideology, and Tongŭm sasang 東音思想 or ‘Eastern [Korean] Sounds’ ideology.66 With the fall of the Ming, Korean Ming loyalist sympathies led to a reinforced sense of Chosŏn as the last bastion and guardian of Central Efflorescence and the Way, but also to an increased interest in and awareness of the utility of the vernacular script to record Sino-Korean pronunciations – which were known to be somehow older, more conservative, or more archaic (and thus closer to antiquity and to the ‘correct sounds’ prized by the closely related Chŏngŭm sasang 正音思想 or ‘Correct Sounds Ideology’ that was so important in Neo-Confucian cosmology) and thus more authentic than contemporary spoken Mandarin pronunciations, fed into the dis-interest in spoken Chinese that accompanied the otherwise intense interest in Literary Vernacular Sinitic. We should also remember that there was at this time still no (European-inspired) concept of ‘write as you speak’, and similarly, that according to Chosŏn ideologies of language and writing, Literary Sinitic was not yet conceived of as a foreign language – at least, 63 64 65 66

Wells, ‘A Limited, Legacy Literacy’, p. 40. But see, for example, Kang Myŏnggwan, ‘Ilche-ch’o’. Si Nae Park, The Korean Vernacular Story. For ‘Eastern [Korean] Sounds’ ideology, see Yi Kunsŏn, ‘Chosŏn sain’.

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not in the modern sense, and not for most readers of Xixiangji. Instead, it (or they, given that Chosŏn readers were dealing with multiple registers) was simply a higher register or mode along a continuum of sinographic inscriptional practices, some of which were more vernacular(ized) than others. In essence, the process of reading Xixiangji and tackling its newfangled diction, vocabulary, and function words was far more than just a mechanical or technical linguistic or lexicographical problem of how to deal with a new register of Literary Sinitic/‘Chinese’; instead, it must have triggered questions of how best to mobilize the vernacular language and script to understand it (which in turn led to attempts to translate it), along with questions of how to incorporate vernacular Korean into literary practice (while continuing to write using sinographs). In this sense, the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ connects organically to other late-Chosŏn sino-graphico-lexical pursuits and experimentation. For example, Yun Chiyang has conjectured that the many different mulmyŏng (ko) 物名(考)-type glossaries of indigenous Korean ‘words for things’ rendered in sinographs is part of this broader reckoning with vernacularization.67 The ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ was part of a larger late-Chosŏn sino-graphico-lexical preoccupation – as embodied especially in the mulmyŏng ko ‘words for things’ glossaries – that has, thus far, been studied almost exclusively (and wrongheadedly and anachronistically) from the perspective of etymology and historical linguistics (of Korean), with little or no attention to understanding why so many vernacular glossaries and word lists were compiled in the first place, or what their function was in late-Chosŏn literary culture. Although it would require a separate monograph to unravel, in terms of the history and conceptions of translation in late Chosŏn, the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ constitutes a marvelous database for tracking how the play was received in Korea and for tracing the different translation strategies used. One notable fact is that it seems to have taken at least three centuries from the first documented mention of Xixiangji in 1505 in the Yŏnsan’gun ilgi 燕山君日記 until the appearance of an independent, stand-alone vernacular translation of Xixiangji. The vast majority of Korean editions of the play, including the print editions from the first decades of the twentieth century, include the original Sinitic and the vernacular Korean alongside each other – typically with the hanmun original broken up into bite-sized chunks (accompanied by interlinear glossing, lexical annotations, and cultural and/or reader commentary 67 Yun Chiyang, ‘Chosŏn ŭi Sŏsanggi suyong’, pp. 49-50.

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in the upper margins), followed then by a reprise in Korean. That is, for some three centuries at least (dating is always a problem, but we have to assume that most of what we have is from the nineteenth or even early twentieth century) the vernacular ‘translations’ of the play were always parasitic and tethered to, or handmaidens for, the original Sinitic – they were paratextual and designed to assist the readers in appreciating the play in its original LVS. This kind of paratextual (often partial) translation activity in the margins of the text does not fit comfortably with traditional and simplistic dichotomies of ‘foreignizing’ vs. ‘domesticating’ translations, and if we take seriously the notion that neither LS nor LVS were ‘foreign languages’ in any modern sense, the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ also raises questions about the applicability of Roman Jakobson’s tripartite typology of translation into interlingual, intralingual, and intersemiotic translation.68 It is tempting in this regard to combine the notion of paratexts as ‘interpretive thresholds’ with a valuable insight from Young Kyun Oh’s comments about the status of the Chŏngŭm vernacular Korean ‘translations’ in the upper margins (sŏmi 書眉 ‘eyebrows’) of the pages of the early-Chosŏn Confucian ethics primer, the Samgang haengsilto 三綱行實圖 (Illustrated conduct of the three bonds). For Oh, too, these vernacular renditions functioned as paratextual components, and he calls attention to the ‘evident demarcation between Chinese and Korean languages’ in the mise en page. He continues: ‘the concept of “translation” applies poorly to the vernacular texts of the Samgang haengsil-to. Translation, after all, presupposes that the two languages are hierarchically equal or comparable, or at least that whatever was expressed in one could be articulated in the other, which was not conceivable at this stage for Chosŏn literati.’69 Oh of course is talking primarily about early Chosŏn (fifteenth and sixteenth centuries); the demarcation between Sinitic and vernacular that we find in the textual layouts of the Korean Xixiangji manuscripts is certainly looser (and thus more hospitable to the vernacular) than what we find in the Samgang haengsil-to, but the demarcation is there nonetheless, especially in Xixiangji manuscripts like the Adan Mun’go Yŏmsa kuhae 艶詞具解, pictured below:70

68 Jakobson, ‘On linguistic aspects of translation’. See also King, ‘Inscriptional repertoires’. 69 Young, Engraving virtue, pp. 160, 168. 70 Call number 823.4-서52. For details on this text, see Kim Hyomin and King, ‘Charyo haeje’.

212 Ross King Figure 6.16 The Adan Mun’go copy of Yŏmsa kuhae 艶詞具解

Were Sinitic (whether LS or LVS) and the vernacular hierarchically equipollent by the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in late Chosŏn? Absolutely not, though certainly more so than in early Chosŏn. To continue with Oh’s terminology, Xixiangji manuscripts show that vernacular Korean had been ‘allowed’ down onto the main page, but it was still parasitic to the hanmun, and the upper margin continued to accommodate all manner of interpretive foot traffic. It was, as it were, not just an interpretive threshold but a sort of vestibule or staging area where certain interpretive preliminaries could be tried on for size before a full-fledged and untethered translation could emerge as an independent text. Let me conclude by returning to the notion of a ‘vernacular third way’ in Chosŏn. I would argue that the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ can be understood as simultaneously reflecting and generating a search for a literary register that gestured toward or even incorporated vernacular and colloquial elements but was still only ever conceived as something written in muncha 文字 – i.e., sinographs – with vernacular ŏnmun 諺文 functioning primarily as an extension and a gloss. I submit that the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’ is just one part

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of a larger complex of manuscript literary and lexicographical production that comprises an important but neglected site for the study of the history of vernacularization in Korea – a history that heretofore has focused narrowly on script and the triumph of han’gŭl over sinography in a narrative dominated by the teleology of the modern nation. The remarkable point perhaps in the history of Korean vernacularization is not so much the belated triumph of Korean vernacular language and script, but that this other alternative existed, and that this alternative conception of ‘literary vernacular’ had such a robust shelf life and was still alive and kicking well into the first decades of the twentieth century.

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Sugiyama, Yutaka. “Cong Yŏrha ilgi 熱河日記 kan Pak Chiwŏn dui hanyu baihua de renshi” 從《熱河日記》看朴朴趾源對漢語白話的認識. In Qingdai Minguo Hanyu yanjiu 淸代民國漢語硏究, edited by Endō Mitsuaki 遠藤光曉, Pak Chaeyŏn 朴在淵 and Takekoshi Minako 竹越美奈子, pp. 139-152. Seoul: Hakkobang, 2011. Takahashi, Tōru 高橋亨. “Chōsen bungaku kenkyū: Chōsen no shōsetsu” 朝鮮文 学硏究: 朝鮮の小説 . Nihon Bungaku Kōza 日本文学講座 15 (1932): 105-142. Keijō: Shinchōsha. Takashima, Toshio 高島俊男. 1991. Suikoden to Nihonjin: Edo kara Shōwa made 水 滸伝と日本人: 江戸から昭和まで. Tokyo: Taishūkan Shoten, 1991. Tether, Leah. “Mise en page, mise en écran: What Medieval ‘Publishing’ Practices can Tell us about Reading in the Digital Age.” Logos 25, no. 1 (2014): 21-36. Wang, Shifu. The Story of the Western Wing, edited and translated with an introduction by Stephen West and Wilt L. Idema. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1995. Wang, Shou-ren. The Theatre of the Mind: A Study of Unacted Drama. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1990. Wang, Sixiang. “The Sounds of Our Country: Interpreters, Linguistic Knowledge, and the Politics of Language in Early Chosŏn Korea.” In Rethinking East Asian Languages, Vernaculars, and Literacies, 1000-1919, edited by Benjamin A. Elman, pp. 58-95. Leiden: Brill, 2014. —. “The Story of the Eastern Chamber: Dilemmas of Vernacular Language and Political Authority in Eighteenth-Century Chosŏn,” Journal of Korean Studies 24, no. 1 (2019): 29-62. Wells, S. William. “A Limited, Legacy Literacy: Reconfiguring Literary Sinitic as Hanmunkwa in Korea, 1876-1910.” PhD diss., University of British Columbia, 2020. Wittern, Christian. Das Yulu des Chan-Buddhismus: Die Entwicklung vom 8.-11. Jahrhundert am Beispiel des 28. Kapitels des Jingde chuandenglu (1004). Bern, Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, New York, Paris, Vienna: Peter Lang, 1988. Wŏn, Chuyong 원주용. “Yŏmal Sŏnch’o Mogŭn sanmun ŭi kŭlssŭgi yŏnghyang e taehan koch’al: Chuso ŏrokch’e rŭl chungsim ŭro” 麗末鮮初 牧隱 散文의 글쓰기 영향에 대한 고찰: 註疏語錄體를 중심으로. Hanmun kyoyuk yŏn’gu 漢文敎育硏究 28 (2007): 267-296. Yanagida, Seizan. “The Development of the ‘Recorded Sayings’ Texts of the Chinese Ch’an School.” Translated by John R. McRae. In Early Ch’an in China and Tibet, edited by Whalen Lai and Lewis Lancaster, pp. 185-205. Berkeley, CA: Asian Humanities Press, 1983. Yi, Ch’angsuk 李昌淑. “Sŏsanggi ŭi Chosŏn yuip e kwanhan sogo” 『西廂記』의 조선 유입에 관한 소고. Taedong munhwa yon’gu 大東文化硏究 73 (2011): 7-31. Yi, Hyŏnhŭi 이현희, Kim Han’gyŏl 김한결, Kim Minji 김민지, Yi Sanghun 이상훈, Paek Ch’aewŏn 백채원 and Yi Yŏnggyŏng 이영경 (eds). Kŭndae Han’gugŏ sigi

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ŭi ŏnŏgwan, munchagwan yŏn’gu 근대 한국어 시기의 언어관, 문자관 연구. Seoul: Somyŏng Ch’ulp’an, 2014. Yi, Kawŏn 李家源 . “Ch’unhyang ka ka Myŏng kok esŏ ibun yŏnghyang: Chu ro Sanyuan ji, Huanhun ji esŏ” 「春香歌」가 明曲에서의 받은 影響: 주로「三元記」, 「 還魂記」에서. Kugŏ kungmunhak 국어국문학 34/35 (1967): 204-205. Yi, Kunsŏn 李君善. “Chosŏn sain ŭi ŏnŏ muncha insik” 朝鮮士人의 言語文字認識 . Tongbang hanmunhak 東方漢文學 33 (2007): 35-54. Yi, Minhŭi 이민희. 16~19 segi sŏjŏk chunggaesang kwa sosŏl, sŏjŏk yut’ong kwan’gye yŏn’gu 16~19세기 서적중개상과 소설, 서적 유통 관계 연구. Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2007b. Yi, Sanghyŏn 이상현 and Ryu, Ch’unghŭi 류충희. “Tak’ahasi Chosŏn munhangnon ŭi kŭndae haksulsajŏk hamŭi: Tak’ahasi Toru ŭi “Chōsen bungaku kenkyū: “Chōsen no shōsetsu” (1932) ŭl chungsim ŭro” 다카하시 조선문학론의 근대학술 사적 함의: 다카하시 도루의 「朝鮮文學硏究― 朝鮮の小說」(1932)을 중심으로 . Ilbon munhwa yŏn’gu 日本文化硏究 42 (2012): 353-379. Yi, Tongsul 李東述. Chuhae ŏrok ch’onglam saegin 註解語錄總覽索引. Seoul: Yŏgang Ch’ulp’ansa, 1992. Yu, Chaegŏn 劉在建. Ihyang kyŏnmun nok 里鄕見聞錄. Annotated translation by the Silsihaksa Kojŏnmunhak Yŏn’guhoe 실시학사고전문학연구회. Seoul: Minŭmsa, 1997. Yu, Sŭnghyŏn 劉承炫 and Min Kwandong 閔寬東 . “Chosŏn ŭi Chungguk kojŏn sosŏl suyong kwa chŏnp’a ŭi chuch’e tŭl” 朝鮮의 中國古典小說 수용과 전파의 주체 들. Chungguk sosŏl nonch’ong 中國小說論叢 33 (2011): 175-205. —. “Sŏsanggi kongmun pŏnyŏkpon kwa kakchong p’ilsabon ch’ulhyŏn ŭi munhwajŏk paegyŏng yŏn’gu” ≪西廂記≫ 곡문 번역본 고찰과 각종 필사본 출현의 문 화적 배경 연구. Chunggukhak nonch’ong 中國學論叢 42 (2013): 215-250. Yun, Chiyang 윤지양. “Tongsang ki e nat’ananŭn munch’e sirhŏm ŭi yangsang koch’al” 『東廂記』에 나타나는 문체 실험의 양상 고찰. Han’guk hanmunhak yŏn’gu 韓國漢文 學硏究 48 (2011a): 435-467. —. “P’ilsabon Sŏsanggi ŏrok ŭi pullyu mit kak p’ilsabon ŭi t’ŭkching koch’al 筆寫 本 ｢西廂記語錄｣의 分類 및 각 筆寫本의 特徵 考察. Chungŏ chungmunhak 中語中文 學 50 (2011b): 103-124. —. “18~20segi ch’o Sŏsanggi kungnae suyong yangsang koch’al 18세기～20세기 초 『西 廂記』 국내 수용 양상 고찰. Taedong munhwa yŏn’gu 大東文化硏究 83 (2013): 163-200. —. “Chosŏn ŭi Sŏsanggi suyong yangsang yŏn’gu” 조선의 『西廂記』 수용 양상 연구. PhD diss., Seoul National University, 2015. Zeng, Zhaocong 曾昭聰. “Suyu cishu Tanzheng de zuozhe yu yuyanxue jiazhi” 俗語 辭書〈談徵〉的作者與語言學價值. Hanyushi yanjiu jikan 漢語史研究集刊 14 (2011): 222-232. —. “Lun Ming Qing suyu cishu de shouci tedian: Jianlun cishu bianzuan zhong de ‘yuci fenli’ guanyu ‘yuci jianshou’ guan” 论明清俗语辞书的收词特点:兼论辞书

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编纂中的“语词分立”观与“语词兼收”观 . Jinan xuebao (Zhexue shehui kexue ban) 暨

南学报(哲学社会科学版) 6, no. 161 (2012): 139-164. — and Li Jinmin 李进敏. “Tanzheng de zuozhe” 《谈征》的作者. Cishu yanjiu 辞书 研究 3 (2011): 187-189.

About the author ross king serves as Professor of Korean at the University of British Columbia. A student of Korean in all its historical stages of development, he is particularly interested in the history of Korean ideas about language and writing, and in how Koreans before the twentieth century participated in the broader Sinographic Cosmopolis.

7

Vernacular Eloquence in Fiction Glossaries of Late Chosŏn Korea Si Nae Park

Abstract The standard origin story of Chosŏn fiction glossaries of Shuihuzhuan, Xixiangji, Sanguozhiyanyi, and Xiyouji goes that they emerged primarily because Chosŏn readers lacked linguistic proficiency in vernacular Chinese. Contextualizing fiction glossaries within the Chosŏn reception discourse of the four Chinese works and examining the patterns of explication undergirding fiction glossaries in comparison with those of a glossary of Zhuzi yulei, I instead assert that fiction glossaries were Chosŏn readers’ cultural response to the eloquence of plain Chinese in novelistic writing. Further, I explain that fiction glossaries are a textual space within which the creative, performative, and affective eloquence of Korean is contrasted with the limited articulacy of Literary Sinitic. Keywords: fiction glossaries (sosŏl ŏrokhae), Chosŏn Korea (1392-1910), late imperial Chinese fiction, vernacular eloquence

By one count, as many as two hundred different works of late imperial Chinese fiction found readers in Chosŏn Korea (1392-1910).1 Among them, only four titles – Shuihuzhuan 水滸傳 (The Water Margin), Xixiangji 西廂 記 (The Romance of the Western Wing), Xiyouji 西遊記 (The Journey to the West), and Sanguozhiyanyi 三國志演義 (The Romance of the Three Kingdoms), the first three of which overlapping with the ‘four masterworks of the Ming novel’2 – gave rise to reading aids known as ‘sosŏl ŏrokhae’ 小說語 錄解 (‘glossaries of colloquialisms found in [Chinese] vernacular fiction’). 1 2

Chŏng Yŏngho, ‘Chungguk paekhwa t’ongsok sosŏl ŭi kungnae yuip kwa suyong’. Andrew Plaks, The Four Masterworks of the Ming Novel.

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch07

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Previous researchers have argued that fiction glossaries helped Chosŏn readers to grasp the meaning of words that are difficult to understand (nanhaeŏ 難解語). Their argument is that f iction glossaries emerged in response to the spread of Chinese vernacular fiction (paekhwa sosŏl 白話小 說; ‘fictional works written in a plain style’) in Chosŏn, where the educated population acquired literacy in Literary Sinitic (hanmun 漢文) without any knowledge of spoken Chinese (hanŏ 漢語) and therefore lacked knowledge of plain Chinese (paekhwa 白話).3 First introduced in the 1930s, this standard explanation continues to hold sway even though it offers only a partial picture of the cultural significance of fiction glossaries and the late Chosŏn literary landscape that fostered them. Spoken Chinese proficiency was a skill honed in the domain of SinoKorean diplomacy, and learning it was a task shouldered by official interpreters (yŏkkwan 譯官), who belonged to a secondary-status hereditary group beneath the aristocratic yangban 兩班 elites of Chosŏn Korea. The yangban themselves mostly did not bother to learn spoken Chinese. It is also true that the language of Chinese vernacular fiction is liberally intermixed with colloquial expressions that form a close relationship with spoken language. However, as Ross King’s study in this volume demonstrates, within Chosŏn literary culture, the glosses in fiction glossaries that explain ŏrok 語錄 (lit. ‘recorded sayings; colloquialisms’), as the lemmata subject to glossing were called at that time, were ‘divorced from any practical concerns with learning to pronounce’ (emphasis original) spoken Chinese. The present study builds on this important distinction between hanŏ and ŏrok; ignorance of hanŏ did not prevent one from reading texts containing ŏrok. At the same time, the misleading yet common explanation that foregrounds the lack of linguistic prof iciency or the need to comprehend difficult-to-understand phrases in the genesis story of fiction glossaries needs to be rethought more broadly. To think about language-related questions undergirding fiction glossaries in terms of language only misses their linguistic-literary and stylistic orientation. To make this point, I situate their emergence with the growing reputation of the four Ming novels as exemplars of outstanding writing (kimun 奇文 or myomun 妙文) comparable and even superior to the preexisting literary canon. I emphasize that fiction glossaries were tethered to these four titles which grew in stature in Chosŏn as highly subversive and refreshingly innovative pieces of literature amounting to a subversive literary canon. Next, I compare fiction glossaries with their little-explored antecedent, the Ŏrokhae 語錄解 based on Zhuzi 3

Ōtani, ‘Ŏrokhae e taehayŏ’.

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yulei 朱子語類 (Classified Conversations of Master Zhu; 1270). Although both the fiction glossaries and the Yulei Glossary were created as reading aids, their principles of explication operate differently. The Yulei Glossary primes readers to perform vernacular reading, whereby the vernacular (Korean) plays an auxiliary role to show the linguistic structure and literal meaning of the texts. In contrast, fiction glossaries explain more than the literal meanings of the lemmata, and their glosses tend to serve as vernacular translation. That is, glossators of fiction glossaries tend to attempt at fixing textual interpretation.4 The main thrust of this paper is that, more than a tool for unraveling difficult-to-understand phrases, fiction glossaries are Chosŏn readers’ response to the eloquence of the language of the four works of Chinese fiction as a new example of outstanding writing. Before I proceed, it is necessary first to specify the meanings attached to the various terms used in this chapter: Literary Sinitic, vernacular Korean, baihua, plain Chinese, and ŏrok. By Literary Sinitic, I refer to the type of written Sinitic commonly called literary Chinese or wenyan 文言 (lit. ‘literary language’). In this paper, I use Literary Sinitic conservatively to refer to a classical register contrasted with the language of Chinese vernacular fiction. Literary Sinitic thus refers to a written Sinitic that is self-consciously maintained to be a highly mannered style and to stay as a kind of ‘demicryptography largely divorced from speech’, following a definition afforded by Victor Mair (1994).5 Literary Sinitic served as a classical, orthodox medium. Most commonly characterized as baihua 白話 (lit. ‘unadorned/plain speech’), the language of Chinese vernacular fiction is, on the one hand, a type of written Sinitic, like Literary Sinitic. On the other hand, it accommodates a liberal amount of expressions that have ‘close correspondence with spoken forms of living Sinitic’.6 Although Literary Sinitic and plain Chinese differ on a grammatical level, lexical difference is the primary determinant in distinguishing wenyan from baihua; the latter exhibits a remarkable intermixing of varying styles that render the written words more mimetic of language in diverse social contexts.7 Further, the 4 For this distinction between vernacular reading and vernacular translation, see chapter 7, ‘Reading Sinitic Texts in the Vernaculars’, and chapter 8, ‘Written Vernacular’, in Kornicki, Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts. 5 Mair, ‘Buddhism and the Rise of the Written Vernacular in East Asia’, p. 708. 6 Ibid. For a discussion of vernacular Sinitic as a type of Literary Sinitic that accommodates stylized colloquialisms rather than recorded spoken language elements, see Mair, ‘Baihua’, pp. 306-308. 7 For the stylistic difference between Literary Sinitic and plain Chinese and the aesthetics of plain Chinese, see Hanan, Chinese Vernacular Story; Porter, ‘Toward an Aesthetic of Chinese

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assumption of a stark difference between wenyan and baihua is a modern invention traceable to the terms’ conceptualization in the hands of early twentieth-century May Fourth scholars because within the Chinese literary tradition, ‘stylists in both Literary Sinitic and baihua traditions seldom … employed an unalloyed form of these two types of written Sinitic’.8 The difference between wenyan and baihua is more profitably understood as stylistic orientation. Late imperial full-length Chinese fiction is a textual space within which an ‘array of different styles and prosodic forms reside in the same work’.9 The language of the Shuihuzhuan, often celebrated as a paragon of baihua literature, turns away from the typical enforcing of an ‘illusory image of verbal-ideological homogeneity of the social reality’ found in genres written in the classical and more orthodox Literary Sinitic. Instead, it presents the ‘individual voices and dialects of various social groups’, thus ‘creating a varisemblance [sic] to real life’ (emphasis original).10 Not only does the language of late imperial Chinese fiction contain expressions having close connection with speech, but it also presents ‘a simulacrum of the stratified language’.11 At the same time, the language of Chinese vernacular fiction achieves a significant degree of ‘correspondence between a string of symbols and a string of sounds in a speech utterance’.12 In Chosŏn Korea, spoken Chinese was not a critical element in either reading or text production among literati in general, and for that reason the Korean case forms a stark contrast with Edo Japan (see Yuan Ye’s and Hedberg’s chapters in this volume).13 How Chosŏn literati understood the correspondence between spoken Chinese and baihua is a topic that remains to be researched and is beyond the scope of this paper. Here I am interested in examining how Chosŏn readers, especially the cultural elites, considered the expressive Vernacular Fiction’; Ge, Out of the Margins. 8 Wei, ‘Writing and Speech’; Mair, ‘Buddhism and the Rise of the Written Vernacular in East Asia’, p. 708. 9 Hanan, Chinese Vernacular Story, p. 21. 10 Ge, Out of the Margins, p. 52 11 Ibid., p. 187. 12 Ibid., p. 4. 13 Having said that, I would like to bring your attention to a variety of concerns late Chosŏn literati had with respect to the speech sounds of Korean and Chinese. Some, like Yu Hyŏngwŏn 柳馨遠 (1622-1673) proposed that the Chosŏn state prescribe the pronunciations of the Hongwu zhengyun 洪武正韻 (Correct Rhymes of the Hongwu Era; 1375) for the vocalization of the Confucian classics, instead of Sino-Korean pronunciations, as a step toward promoting the learning of spoken Chinese among literati. See Palais, Confucian Statecraft and Korean Institutions, pp. 639-640. Some theorized that the Sino-Korean pronunciations of sinographs formed a repository of the ‘purity of the central efflorescence’ (chunghwa 中華). See Cho Sŏngsan, ‘Chosŏn hugi soron-gye ŭi kodaesa yŏn’gu wa chunghwa chuŭi ŭi pyŏnyong’.

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and literary dimensions of the language of the four works of Chinese fiction stylistic novelty.

Late Chosŏn responses to Jing Shengtan’s fiction criticism and fiction glossaries In the latter half of his reign, King Chŏngjo 正祖 (r. 1777-1800) accused contemporary literati of writing clumsily and called for rehabilitation of the ‘untainted use of old phraseology’ (sunjŏng komun 純正古文), exemplars of which he found in the writings of the Eight Masters of the Tang and the Song. In particular, Chŏngjo condemned the imported literature of the late Ming and early Qing as ‘miscellaneous books’ (chapsŏ 雜書) and ‘vulgar learning’ (sokhak 俗學), singling out Chinese collected works (munjip 文集) and vernacular fiction (p’aegwan chapsŏl 稗官雜說) as books that eroded the authority of the Classics (kyŏngsŏ 經書).14 At the heart of Chŏngjo’s literary rectification campaign lies a belief, a linguistic ideology, that the style in which literati wrote had a direct social implication.15 He proclaimed that ‘literary style is determined by the mores of the scholar, and the mores of the scholar are none other than the fundamental vitality of the state’.16 It is in this climate of Chŏngjo’s suppression of contemporary Chinese books and his promotion a discourse of literary orthodoxy (munch’e panjŏng 文 體反正) that fiction glossaries emerged.17 On the one hand, Chŏngjo’s view is nothing other than the general Confucianism-inflected formulation that literature is a vehicle for – and be subordinate to – moral philosophy (chae to chi mun 載道之文). This point was advocated by early architects of the Chosŏn state and was continuously reaffirmed by pillars of Chosŏn Confucianism such as Yi Hwang 李 滉 (1502-1571). In this culture of privileging literature’s functionality over literature’s expressive capacity, the language of the Classics and the literary 14 近日嗜雜書者, 以水滸傳似史記, 西廂記似毛詩. 此甚可笑, 如取其似而愛之, 何不直讀史記毛詩. Chŏngjo, ‘Sokhak’, Hongjae chŏnsŏ 50. 15 By ‘linguistic ideology’, I refer to a ‘sets of beliefs about language articulated by users as a rationalization or justification of perceived language structure and moral and political interests’, following Silverstein, ‘Language Structure and Linguistic Ideology’, p. 193. 16 文體隨士氣, 士氣卽國之元氣 . Chŏngjo sillok 33 朝鮮王朝實錄 (15/08/04/Pyŏngo). 17 The f irst study to use ‘munch’e panjŏng’ to describe this event is Takahashi, ‘Gusaiō no buntai hansei’. The panjŏng 反正 (‘rectification’) is probably Takahashi’s appropriation of the term used twice in Chosŏn history when reigning kings – later termed Prince Yŏnsan 燕山君 (r. 1494-1506) and Prince Kwanghae 光海君 (r. 1608-1623) – were deposed in the name of rectifying the wrong and restoring correctness.

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canon was revered as formal, stylistic exemplars. One’s pursuit of stylistic innovation and idiosyncrasy could easily invite criticism. Thus writers often downplayed their creative endeavors using rhetorical strategies such as calling themselves a ‘scholar of comprehensive learning’ (t’ongyu 通儒) or self-effacingly trivializing the merit of their innovation.18 On the other hand, Chŏngjo’s literary rectification was an indisputably political move arising from the circumstances of the time. The factional politics in the last decade of the eighteenth century was such that the politically weaker Southerners faction was under serious attack from its Patriarchs opponents because several of its members were accused of being practitioners of Christianity, which had entered Korea in the seventeenth century in the form of books written by Jesuit missionaries in China which were subsequently brought back to Chosŏn by visitors to Beijing and which began to attract converts in the late eighteenth century despite the fact that it was consistently viewed as a heterodox belief.19 When the issue of Catholicism was brought to his attention, Chŏngjo pinpointed unregulated reading of late Ming and early Qing literature, rather than books of Catholicism per se, as the cause for the growing deterioration of the mores of literati at the time because it was a trend particularly prominent among those affiliated with the Patriarchs faction, members of which restricted his exercise of monarchical power. By commenting on the mores of his subjects in the name of governance (kyŏngse 經世), Chŏngjo controlled the factional tension and exercised monarchical power.20 The last two decades of the eighteenth century, literati were officially discouraged from reading imported Chinese books. In 1789, Chŏng Yagyŏng 丁若鏞 (1762-1836), a scholar-official of the Southerners faction, drafted a policy to elucidate Chŏngjo’s vision, condemning the spread of late imperial Chinese fiction as the greatest of all human-caused disasters: [Chinese fiction contains] licentious words and vile stories that manipulate people’s minds and spirits; their wicked emotions and bizarre traces 18 Prefatory writings to the Comprehensive Abridgement of the Extensive Records of the Taiping Era (Sangjŏl T’aep’yŏng kwanggi 詳節太平廣記) by Sŏng Kan 成侃 (1427-1456) and Insignificant Chats by Old Man Oak (Yŏgong p’aesŏl; Nagong pisŏl 櫟翁稗說) by Yi Chehyŏn 李齊賢 (1287-1367) reflect such a cultural behavior. 19 Baker, ‘Different Thread’, p. 201. 20 Succeeding Yŏngjo 英祖 (r. 1724-1777), Chŏngjo further enhanced his power to consolidate his own legitimacy, compromised by the unfortunate death of his father (also known as Prince Sado 思悼世子 [1735-1762]), and to curb the factional politics that had led to the monopoly of ministerial positions by members of the Patriarchs faction. For how Prince Sado’s death impacted Chŏngjo’s legitimacy, see JaHyun Kim Haboush, trans., Memoirs of Lady Hyegyŏng. For Chŏngjo’s political motivations and moves, see Pak Hyŏnmo, Chŏngch’iga Chŏngjo.

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bewilder people’s understanding; through absurd and strange talk, they give rise to arrogance among people; through charming and fragmentary writings, they dispirit people.21

The proposal called for gathering and burning all relevant books in Chosŏn and punishing those involved in their importation and circulation. In the meantime, Chŏngjo prescribed numerous normative texts by publishing personally anthologized and prefaced books. Chŏngjo once declared that he had never read Chinese vernacular fiction, yet some of his criticisms indicate he was familiar with Jin Shengtan’s 金聖歎 (1610-1661) writings: ‘Those who love reading indiscriminately assert that Shuihuzhuan is like the Shiji 史記 (Record of the Grand Historian) and that Xixiangji is like the Maoshi 毛詩 (Mao commentary on the Book of Songs). How laughable! If affinity drives their proclivity, why can’t they just read the Shiji and Maoshi?”22 It is difficult to measure the impact of Chŏng Yagyong’s policy proposal and Chŏngjo’s publications. Nevertheless, we can get a sense that there existed that the spread of late imperial Chinese fiction among literati was a social problem. Such a climate would have created a culture where reading imported Chinese books would be openly criticized or treated as guilty, if not clandestine, pleasure. Late imperial Chinese fiction, along with various other books from China’s book market, had entered Chosŏn as early as the late seventeenth century through private importation by those who participated in the Chosŏn embassies to Beijing (yŏnhaeng 燕行). By the late eighteenth century, women of the elite families, especially Seoul dwellers, became readers of Korean vernacular renditions of Chinese fiction.23 Importantly, around this time, the commentary editions (pingbiben 評批本) of Jin Shengtan reached Chosŏn literati, especially Seoul-dwellers. In his commentary, Jin 21

淫詞醜話, 駘蕩人之心靈, 邪情魅跡, 迷惑人之智識 , 荒誕怪詭之談, 以騁人之驕氣 , 靡曼破碎之章, 以

消人之壯氣 . Chŏng Yagyong, ‘Munch’ech’aek’. Elsewhere, Chŏng laments that talented scholars

and outstanding Confucians of his time were preoccupied with Shuihuzhuan and Xixiangji: Chŏng Yagyong, ‘Tosan sasungnok’. For more on the orthodox view during Chŏngjo’s literary rectification, see Evon, ‘Chinese Contexts, Korean Realities’. I have slightly modified Evon’s translation (p. 64). 22 近日嗜雜書者, 以水滸傳似史記, 西廂記似毛詩. 此甚可笑. 如取其似而愛之, 何不直讀史記毛詩. Chŏngjo, ‘Iltŭngnok 3’, Hongjae chŏnsŏ, p. 163. Li Zhi’s 李贄 (1527-1602) praise of Shuihuzhuan as a book about loyalty, not banditry, and his ‘how-to-read’ (dufa 讀法) treatise had reached Chosŏn readers prior to the spread of the Jin Shengtan commentary editions in Chosŏn. For the Chosŏn reception of Li Zhi and late Ming iconoclasm, see Kang, Konganp’a wa Chosŏn hugi hanmunhak. 23 See, for example, Sohyeon Park, ‘Reception, Reappropriation, and Reinvention’; Pastreich, ‘Transmission and Translation of Chinese Vernacular Narrative in Chosŏn Korea’.

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Shengtan put Xixiangji – a play that was read as a work of fiction within Chosŏn rather than as a theatrical text24 – and Shuihuizuan on a pedestal by including them in his ‘Six Books of Genius’, along with Zhuangzi 莊子, Lisao 離騷 (Parting’s Sorrow), Shiji (The Record of the Grand Historian), and the poetry of Du Fu 杜甫 (712-770). Jin provided commentary (pingdian 評點) and made extensive editorial interventions to Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan, presenting his editions as explications of the ‘original authorial intention’.25 He restructured and truncated the preexisting Shuihuzhuan into seventy chapters, created a new prefatory material called ‘Prologue’ (xiezi 楔子; ‘wedge’), and supplied his edition with detailed analyses of the plot, narrative devices, and characters.26 Elevated by Jin Shengtan, Shuihuzhuan and Xixiangji gained a reputation as a subversive canon in China, and this reputation reached Chosŏn readers. Jin Shengtan’s commentary editions showed Chosŏn literati a new literary exemplar outside the Classics and the established literary canon. Change (pyŏnhwan 變幻) was the most feared and desired impact of imported Chinese fiction. Some found the novelistic writing praised by Jin was too undiscriminating, frivolous, and contagious. But others enthusiastically received the Jin Shengtan editions of Chinese vernacular fiction as writing deserving of connoisseurship and emulation. Some of the most iconoclastic stylists of the time, such as Pak Chiwŏn 朴趾源 (1737-1805) and Yi Ok 李鈺 (1750-1815), and high-ranking officials were known to be readers of late Ming and early Qing literature and Jin Shengtan’s fiction commentary.27 Here, it is of import to be reminded that, as Patricia Sieber emphasizes, textual migration does not occur ‘in the abstract’ but by the circulation of ‘particular editions of certain titles’.28 Late Chosŏn readers were probably most familiar with these two works: the 1641 Di wu caizi shu Shi Nai’an Shuihuzhuan 第五才子書施耐庵水滸傳 (Fifth Book of Genius: Shi Nai’an’s ‘Water Margin’) and the 1658 Guanhuatang di liu caizi shu Xixiangji 貫華 堂第六才子書西廂記 (Sixth Book of Genius: Guanhuatang’s ‘Romance of the 24 Having said that, I would like to draw attention to numerous remarks about the experience of viewing theatrical performances of Xixiangji that Chosŏn participants of yŏnhaeng attended while in China. Xiaoqing Ling and Young Kyun Oh’s paper in this volume touches upon this. Interesting though this is, Xixiangji was typically read as a piece of fiction in Chosŏn. 25 Ge, ‘Authoring “Authorial Intention”’. 26 Rolston, Traditional Chinese Fiction and Fiction Commentary. 27 All of these writers were subject to Chŏngjo’s criticism. On how Yi Ok suffered for having used highly unorthodox diction in his civil service examination answers and on Yi Ok’s literary vision, see Wang, ‘The Story of the Eastern Chamber’. 28 Sieber, ‘Imprint of the Imprints’, pp. 35-36.

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Western Wing’) and their later reprints. According to Chŏng Sŏnhŭi (2005), these books began entering Chosŏn in the mid-1770s preceding Chŏngjo’s emphasis on literary orthodoxy that became intense in the last two decade of the eighteenth century.29 Yu Manju 兪晩柱 (1755-1788), who meticulously documented his reading history of Chinese vernacular fiction, reveals that he read Jin’s Xixiangji in 1779 and Shuihuzhuan in the early 1780s.30 Of the ten different Chinese editions of Shuihuzhuan that survive in Korea, the majority are editions based on the seventy-chapter structure created by Jin.31 Of 180 Chinese editions of Xixiangji found in Korea to date, 100 are identifiable as Jin Shengtan commentary editions.32 Of the seven different annotated or translated editions of Shuihuzhuan, six are identifiable as associated with Jin’s commentary editions.33 These numbers indicate the sweeping influence on Chosŏn of Jin Shengtan’s commentary editions of Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan.34 The Jin Shengtan editions of Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan and the Chosŏn fiction glossaries based on the two works correspond with each other in several ways. As King’s chapter in this volume illustrates, Chosŏn manuscript copies of Jin Shengtan’s Xixiangji contain kugyŏl 口訣 (lit. ‘oral formula’) glosses, which are a set of syllables that indicate Korean particles and endings and allow readers to decode the syntax of Sinitic texts and generate a Korean version. Although oral reading was a pervasive and normal way of reading, especially for canonical texts, extant Korean books indicate that kugyŏl glosses were written on the pages of books that their owners read closely or repetitively; the presence of kugyŏl glosses in the various manuscripts and printed editions of Xixiangji attest to the work’s popularity in Chosŏn Korea. Furthermore, the fad of Xixiangji reading gave birth to a variety of offshoot glossarial texts. These include annotated editions such as Sŏsang chinam 西廂指南 (Handbook of ‘The Western Wing’), Sŏsanggi soju pyŏlchŏn 西廂記小註別傳 (Special Transmission of ‘The Western Wing’ with Small-Character Annotation), and the Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsanggi 後歎先生訂正註解西廂記 (Master Hut’an’s Collated and Annotated Edition of ‘The Western Wing’), as discussed in great detail in Xiaoqiao Ling 29 Chŏng Sŏnhŭi, ‘Sŏngt’an p’yŏngbibon’, p. 309. 30 Yu notes that prior to reading these, he had already read The Plum in the Golden Vase and Hou Shuihuzhuan 後水滸傳 (Sequel to ‘The Water Margin’) prior to these Kim Hara, ‘Yu Manju ŭi Suhojŏn tokpŏp’. 31 Yu Ch’undong, ‘Suhojŏn ŭi kungnae suyong’, p. iv. 32 Yun Chiyang, ‘Chosŏn ŭi Sŏsanggi suyong’, 5n16. 33 Chŏng Sŏnhŭi, ‘Sŏngt’an p’yŏngbibon’, 309n10. 34 Yun Chiyang, ‘Chosŏn ŭi Sŏsanggi suyong’; Yu Ch’undong, ‘Suhojŏn ŭi kungnae suyong’.

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and Young Kyun Oh’s chapters in this volume, and glossarial commentaries such as Yŏmmong mansŏk 艶夢謾釋 (Desultory Explication of the First Sixteen Acts of ‘The Western Wing’) and Yŏmsa kuhae 艶詞具解 (Phrase-by-Phrase Unraveling of the First Sixteen Acts of ‘The Western Wing’). Xixiangji glossaries form a unique element within ‘the Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’, a ‘rich and interconnected repertoire of texts’ that includes Chinese printed editions of Xixiangji (King’s chapter in this volume). The existence of kugyŏl glosses and commentarial texts lends support to Kim T’aejun’s 金台俊 (1905-1950) hyperbolic remark that there were no Chosŏn literati who did not read the work.35 At the same time, it attests to the emergence of the Xixiangji glossaries in Chosŏn in response to hermeneutic impulses formed around Xixiangji, rather than as an aid for overcoming lacking linguistic proficiency. As mentioned above, nearly all extant Shuihuzhuan glossaries are based on the Jin Shengtan edition of the Shuihuzhuan. Yet Shuihuzhuan does not seem to have garnered the same level or kind of reader response as Xixiangji. For example, there are no made-in-Chosŏn commentaries or similar kinds of reading aids explicitly tethered to it. However, even though Shuihuzhuan did not inspire the same level of literary engagement, the relationship between the Shuihuzhuan glossaries and the Jin Shengtan edition reveals that the glossary for Shuihuzhuan, too, helps readers to appreciate the stylistic aspects of Shuihuzhuan. I present what follows as preliminary observations on the cultural significance of the Shuihuzhuan glossaries as a reading aid not so much focused on linguistic explication as on the expressive value of specific phrases connected to Jin Shengtan’s literary criticism. The first lemma of every glossary of Shuihuzhuan that is organized according to the order of the chapters is ‘with a staff as tall as himself he smote so hard that four hundred prefectures and districts acknowledged Zhao’s sovereignty’ (一條桿棒等身齊, 打四百座軍州都姓趙), found in the ‘Prologue’ of the Jin Shengtan edition.36 Its corresponding Korean gloss reads ‘길과갓 흔막ᄃᆡ하나ᄒᆞ로ᄉᆞᄇᆡᆨ좌군쥬ᄅᆞᆯ고로로쳐도모지됴시셰상을만드니’.37 If one looks for where this phrase appears in the Jin Shengtan’ edition, one notices that immediately following this phrase is Jin Shengtan’s in-text commentary (pi 批) on diction: ‘絕妙好辭’ (‘utterly wonderful and lovely words’). Other lemmata that are quotes from the ‘Prologue’, too, such as ‘簌簌地響’ (‘a 35 For Kim T’aejun’s remark on fiction glossaries, see Kim T’aejun, Chosŏn sosŏlsa, p. 217. 36 The English translation is from Shi and Luo, Outlaws of the Marsh, trans. Sidney Shapiro, p. 2. 37 Shuihuzhuan VI. See Appendix.

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hissing sound from the ground’; the description of a snake’s unexpected appearance), ‘捉對兒廝打’ (‘[as if] they had been beaten up’; the description of someone’s teeth chattering out of fear), and ‘笑吟吟地’ (‘emerges smiling’; the description of the physical manner of someone emerging while playing a flute), are also phrases that co-occur with Jin’s laudatory remarks such as ‘寫得出色’ (‘description is outstanding’), ‘奇句’ (‘extraordinary phrase’), and ‘ 筆墨變幻不可言’ (‘words fail to describe how the writing changes’). Jin’s other laudatory remarks such as ‘寫得妙極’ (‘descriptions are most outstanding’), ‘如畫’ (‘picturesque’), and ‘奇妙之極’ (‘extremely wonderful’) can be linked to several other lemmata of the glossary for Shuihuzhuan that are often segments of sonic and kinetic descriptions. What do such connections indicate? I argue that numerous lemmata of the glossary for Shuihuzhuan cue users to locate Jin’s literary criticism. Not a guide for navigating linguistic difficulty, and certainly a guide for the source text in its entirety, the glossary for the Shuihuzhuan, at least the ones organized according to the order of chapters, is a handy guide where readers can easily locate sections where Jin Shengtan’s praises for examples of eloquence. Then, the close connection between the Jin edition and the glossary for Shuihuzhuan is yet another piece of evidence that linguistic difficulty is an inadequate explanation for the rise of the fiction glossaries and that our understanding of fiction glossaries is improved by recognizing elements of reader-response in them.38 I posit that viewing the glossaries of Shuihuzhuan and Xixiangji as more than a linguistic aid but a space for reader-response activities provides us with further clues to map out the development of fiction glossaries. Among surviving editions of fiction glossaries, the glossaries of Shuihuzhuan and Xixiangji are far more numerous, better stocked, and more diverse than those connected to Sanguozhiyanyi and Xiyouji. Moreover, there are two different sequencing principles used in the glossaries for Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan, one based on chapter sequence and the other on the number of syllables. The co-existence of two different systems indicates more options for users. In contrast, the glossaries for the other two are always ordered according to chapter sequence. The greater complexity of the 38 The lemma ‘門上使著胳膊大鎖鎖著交叉’ is derived from a longer description, reading ‘門上使 着胳膊大鎖鎖着, 交叉上面貼着十數道封皮, 封皮上又是重重迭迭使着朱印’ (A lock as thick as a man’s arm clamped together its double doors. A dozen strips of paper, pasted across the crack where the doors met, were stamped with innumerable red seals). The lemma in the Shuihuzhuan glossaries, therefore, indicates erroneous parsing because it takes 交叉 to be the tail end of the preceding phrase ‘門上使著胳膊大鎖鎖著’.

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glossaries on these two works corresponds with enthusiastic reception of Shuihuzhuan and Xixiangji connected to the spread of the Jin Shengtan editions in Chosŏn. However, even though Shuihuzhuan and Xixiangji received the lion’s share of the praise and criticism generated by the four titles, all four titles seem to have achieved the status of examples of novelistic writing in Chosŏn. Writing a couple of decades prior to Chŏngjo’s literary orthodoxy, Yi Imyŏng 李頤命 (1658-1772) made a blanket criticism of fiction by mentioning Sanguozhiyanyi, Xiyouji, and Shuihuzhuan in one breath.39 An Chŏngbok’s 安鼎福 (1712-1791) Four Masterworks (sadae kisŏ 四大奇書) of Chinese fiction includes three of the four works associated with fiction glossaries and has Jin ping mei instead of Xiyouji, and he noted that his contemporaries were enamored of the various commentary editions of these titles. 40 Yu Manju praised Shuihuzhuan and Sanguozhiyanyi as the ‘two masterworks’ (idae kisŏ 二大奇書) for their remarkable writing. 41 A clear picture of how fiction glossaries developed requires further research. Nevertheless, it seems safe to surmise that Chosŏn readers’ enthusiastic reception of the Jin Shengtan’ editions of Shuihuzhuan and Xixiangji in the late eighteenth century served as the primary catalyst for the development of fiction glossaries centering on Xixiangji (likely first within the Xixiangji glossarial complex) and Shuihuzhuan (next). That is, the glossaries based on these two titles probably stimulated the emergence of glossaries on the other two titles as a kind of ripple effect. The glossaries for Xiyouji and Sanguozhiyanyi were, it seems, a kind of epiphenomenon in response to the rise of the glossaries for Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan. What is of import here is that only these four titles, and no other, inspired fiction glossaries in Chosŏn. This exclusivity, in my view, suggests that the rise of fiction glossaries reflects a canonizing process of select late imperial Chinese fiction in late Chosŏn. Moreover, the material condition of surviving fiction glossaries support that even though the glossaries for Xiyouji and Sanguozhiyanyi were derivative of those for Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan, the two-tiered development did not indicate an absolute hierarchy for individual readers. Typically, two or more fiction glossaries appear as sections within a single bound volume. And most of them contain just the glossaries for Shuihuzhuan and Xixiangji. However, in some, the glossary for Xiyouji is prioritized over Shuihuzhuan

39 Cho Hŭiung, Han’guk kososŏlsa k’ŭn sajŏn, pp. 161-162. 40 Ibid., pp. 165-166. 41 Kim Hara, ‘Yu Manju ŭi Suhojŏn tokpŏp’, 405n52.

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or the glossary for Xixiangji is absent. 42 Further research on which specific editions of Xiyouji and Sanguozhiyanyi reached Chosŏn readers when and how promises to expand our understanding of why the glossaries for them remain underdeveloped. 43 To understand the origins of fiction glossaries, the late eighteenth-century Chosŏn importation and spread of Jin Shengtan’s commentary editions of Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan that elevated the merit of novelistic writing and King Chŏngjo’s literary orthodoxy cannot be overemphasized. Stressing only their function as a tool for navigating linguistic difference misses the important cultural and literary dimensions in the late Chosŏn reception of the language of select late imperial Chinese fiction as a new kind of literary eloquence. Although the primary catalyst for the emergence of fiction glossaries reflects Chosŏn literati’s exposure to Jin Shengtan’s literary criticism, the fiction glossaries developed within a uniquely Chosŏn canonization of late imperial Chinese fiction. Our question as why fiction glossaries are not as well stocked as they should be – a question especially directed to the glossaries for Xiyouji and Sanguozhiyanyi – may be better formulated. Instead of expecting fiction glossaries to be dictionary-like comprehensive reading aids, a more productive question seems: in what ways fiction glossaries reflect the particular ways in which Chosŏn readers appreciated the four texts?

The division of linguistic labor in fiction glossaries and the eloquence of Korean glosses As aids for appreciating an alternative literary eloquence, f iction glossaries operate on a division of linguistic labor between Literary Sinitic and Korean glosses and on the versatility and eloquence of Korean glosses. While Literary Sinitic and Korean join forces to explain, Literary Sinitic glosses are generally more auxiliary, serving as literal glosses, contrasted with Korean glosses used to convey both denotational and connotational meaning. This sort of division of linguistic labor is a consequence, of course, of the simple fact that the objects of explanation represented a distinct, creative departure from orthodox Literary Sinitic writing. However, the 42 See Appendix, II and VII. 43 One speculation applicable to the glossary of Sanguozhiyanyi is the very nature of its language as ‘half classical and half vernacular’ (banwen banbai 半文半白), as May Fourth Chinese intellectuals called it, and as such something greatly more navigable for Chosŏn readers.

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eloquence of Korean glosses in fiction glossaries is not merely derivative but further enhances the eloquence of the source texts. In what follows, I compare f iction glossaries and the glossary of Zhuzi yulei 朱子語類 (Classified Conversations of Master Zhu; 1270) to show that although both facilitated Chosŏn readers’ access to texts written in a medium intermixed with Chinese colloquialisms, their principles of explanation differ. The glossary of Zhuzi yulei explains to offer users a tool of vernacular reading, or linguistic filtering. In contrast, the principle of explanation in fiction glossaries encompass vernacular translation where the vernacular shapes textual interpretation roles. With the growth of neo-Confucian scholarship in mid-Chosŏn, literati became interested in a new canonical text: Zhuzi yulei (hereafter ‘Yulei’). Created by Song (960-1279) neo-Confucians who appropriated Chan Buddhists’ practice of recording the spoken words of their masters for teaching purposes, Yulei exalts Zhu Xi’s 朱熹 (1130-1200) teaching and Zhu Xi as a founding figure of the neo-Confucian school of thought.44 Leading Chosŏn scholars like Yi Hwang and Yu Hŭich’un 柳希春 (1513-1577) each developed their own glossary of Yulei. Their glossaries at first circulated within scholarly circles as manuscript copies. In 1657, a certain Chŏng Yang 鄭瀁 (1600-1688) assembled preexisting Yulei glossarial materials, organized them by number of syllables, and block-printed his aggregated version under the title Ŏrokhae 語錄解 (Glossary of the Chinese Colloquialisms [of Zhuzi yulei]; referred to here as Yulei Glossary). According to Chŏng’s postface, Yulei Glossary inherited its title and contents from preexisting manuscripts and that the blocks used for printing it were leftover woodblocks from the Chosŏn court’s recent reprinting of Yulei. The origin of the Yulei Glossary reflects the dual needs of addressing the linguistic difficulty of Yulei for Chosŏn readers and shoring up Cheng-Zhu Confucianism as the state ideology. Cheng Yi 程頥 (1033-1107) and Zhu Xi deployed ‘colloquialisms’ (sŏgŏ 俗語) to facilitate teaching, Chŏng tells us, and that, although such expressions permeated epistolary writing [in China], the colloquialisms rendered Yulei impenetrable for Chosŏn scholars because people use a different language in Korea.45 These colloquialisms, called ŏrok culled from Yulei constitute the lemmata in the Yulei Glossary. By the end of the seventeenth century, Chŏng’s 1657 edition had been updated to be used in royal lectures (kyŏngyŏn 經筵) for King Hyŏnjong 顯宗 (r. 1659-1674). The 44 Hymes, ‘Getting the Words Right’, p. 55. 45 An Pyŏnghŭi, ‘Ŏrokhae haeje’.

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update was equipped with a postface by Song Chun’gil 宋浚吉 (1606-1672) and was printed in 1669 by the Bureau for the Advancement of Literature (Hongmun’gwan 弘文館). The 1669 edition for royal lectures indicates a significant shift in terms of form, contents, principle of organization, and ideological orientation. Most noticeably, it suppresses a glossary for fictional works that Chŏng Yang included. The 1657 edition was not confined to Confucian scholarship only, as it had an appendix (purok 附錄) containing two other glossaries having little to do with Confucianism: f irst, a glossary of expressions culled from spoken Chinese language (hanŏ) textbooks such as the Collection of Annotated Expressions Found in Chinese Language Textbooks (Hanŏ chimnam chahae 漢語集覽字解) and No-Pak Chimnam 老朴集 覽 (Compendium of Notes on the ‘No’ and ‘Pak’) and, second, a glossary of expressions culled from f ictional narratives whose sources remain unidentif iable under the title the Chŏn’gi chega 傳紀諸家 (Assortment of Tales). 46 In the 1669 edition, there is no main/addendum division. All three glossaries (the Yulei Glossary, the glossary of hanŏ textbooks, and the glossary of an assortment of fictional narratives) are integrated under the single head of ‘Ŏrokhae’. The new edition also dropped some 100 lemmata on grounds of redundancy or irrelevance. 47 The new edition thus even more foregrounds Confucian scholarship for the intended use of the Yulei Glossary and downplays the mixed nature of its antecedent. Although not explicitly acknowledged, this new direction probably reflects the intensifying Cheng-Zhu Confucian orthodoxy in Chosŏn after the Ming-Qing transition of 1644. That the Yulei Glossary is founded on the principle of vernacular reading and thus gives users a tool to convert a source text into some working form of the vernacular is unsurprising. This method was standard for philosophical and literary canons with the intended goal of ‘keeping’ the result of glossing ‘very close to the original’ with an eye toward achieving ‘bound translation’. 48

46 No and Pak refer to the Nogŏltae 老乞大 (Old Cathayan) and Pak T’ongsa 朴通事 (Interpreter Pak), respectively. 47 Other aspects of revamping included addition of lines of demarcation (kyesŏn 界線) on the pages, removal of kugyŏl glosses, improvement of the carving quality, and reduction of unglossed entries. An Pyŏnghŭi, ‘Ŏrokhae haeje’, p. 158. 48 Kornicki, Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts, p. 168. Wiebke Denecke uses the expression ‘a world without translation’ to emphasize this pressure of proximity to the original in vernacular reading. Denecke, ‘Worlds without Translation’.

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In contrast to the Yulei Glossary that was published twice under the state sponsorship as a Confucian text, fiction glossaries circulated in manuscript only and at a great remove from Confucian scholarship. Prior to the publication in 1919 of the Chuhae ŏrok ch’ongnam 註解語錄總覽 (Compendium of Annotated Glossaries of [Chinese Colloquialisms]; hereafter the Annotated Glossaries), all fiction glossaries circulated exclusively in manuscript. Moreover, the Annotated Glossaries is the very first book to bring together all four fiction glossaries – in contrast to fiction glossaries in manuscript that rarely have all four fiction glossaries in the same bound volume – and is the first book to use the title ‘sosŏl ŏrokhae’.49 The Annotated Glossaries includes two other glossaries: the Yulei Glossary (based upon the 1669 edition) used for Confucian scholarship and the Imun ŏrok 吏文語錄 (Compendium of Glossaries for Documentary Writing) used for clerk writing.50 As befits the title claiming to be a compendium, the fiction glossaries included in Annotated Glossaries have a greatly expanded lexical repertoire. There are 2,180 entries just for Shuihuzhuan, 1,829 for Xiyouji, 605 for Xixiangji, and 156 for Sanguozhiyanyi in Annotated Glossaries.51 The expansion probably resulted from culling ŏrok materials from multiple editions of the works that entered Chosŏn since the late eighteenth century.52 These increased numbers contrast with the averages of 280 entries for Xixiangji, 340 for Shuihuzhuan, and 360 for Xiyouji that are typical inventory sizes of the fiction glossaries that circulated in manuscript.53 The Yulei Glossary was created at the hands of scholars and officials for pedagogical purposes and was off icially published with prefatory materials. Unlike the Yulei Glossary, attribution of authorship is one of the most challenging aspects in the study of fiction glossaries. Questions such 49 As recently as Min, ‘Suhojŏn ŏrok kwa Sŏyugi ŏrok yŏn’gu’, pp. 109-110, published in 2008, scholarship on fiction glossaries speculated that fiction glossaries might have been published along with or around the same time as the 1669 edition of the Yulei Glossary. This speculation, however, has never been substantiated and continues to be refuted. Ōtani, ‘Ŏrokhae e taehayŏ’, p. 187; Yu Ch’undong, ‘Suhojŏn ŭi kungnae suyong’, p. 73. 50 Here imun 吏文 is short for idu documentary writing (idumun 吏讀文), sinographic writing used for non-literary, administrative purposes and thus to be distinguished from the highly stylized diction used exclusively in the context of Sino-Korean diplomacy and also called imun. For the difference between the two, see Yang, ‘Imun kwa Imun chesŏ chimnam ŭi ŏnŏ’. For the significance of the co-existence of fiction glossaries and aids for idu writing, see King’s paper in this volume. 51 Ōtani, ‘Ŏrokhae e taehayŏ’, p. 184. 52 Yu Ch’undong, ‘Suhojŏn ŭi kungnae suyong’, p. 75. 53 The information about the Xixiangji, Xiyouji, and Shuihuzhuan glossaries is from Kim Hyomin, ‘Sosŏnggi ŏrokhae-ryu ŭi sangho yŏn’gu’, Min, ‘Suhojŏn ŏrok kwa Sŏyugi ŏrok yŏn’gu’, and Yu Ch’undong, ‘Suhojŏn ŭi kungnae suyong’, respectively.

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as who compiled ŏrok for fiction glossaries and conducted the linguistic analysis, or how readers used them remain unanswered. Furthermore, there is a striking absence of records to help us extrapolate in what ways readers utilized fiction glossaries.54 Despite this paucity of information about the life of fiction glossaries, the scholarly consensus is that reliance on fiction glossaries would have been a sine qua non. This observation is based upon the fact that glosses added by hand to several annotated copies of Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan accord closely with entries in the Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan glossaries. Further, while manuscript circulation of fiction glossaries entailed variation, existing scholarship confirms that the contents of dictionary-type fiction glossaries (that is, not the commentarial type found in the Xixiangji glossarial complex), whether chapter-based or syllable-based, exhibit remarkable consistency and stability.55 This stability, 54 For a brief mention of a Chosŏn scholar teaching a young man how to decipher the ŏrok in Xixiangji, see the discussion of an 1891 diary entry of the Hajae ilgi 荷齋日記 (Diary of Hajae; 1891-1911) kept by a commoner named Chi Kyusik 池圭植 (1851-?) found in King’s paper in this volume. Note, however, this rare account does not specify whether Chi taught with a glossary. While awaiting future research, I suspect that there might have been concealment of interpreters’ linguistic labor and agency as glossators. Could the lack of attribution in fiction glossaries reflect the social context whereby spoken Chinese was stigmatized as a skill for technicians only and not deemed an honorable enough pursuit for the elites? The revamping of the 1688 edition of the Yulei Glossary erased earlier interconnections between hanŏ and ŏrok that Chŏng Yang had made explicit. This kind of erasure, too, is reminiscent of what Sixiang Wang has called the ‘social obscurity of interpreters’, despite their ‘political indispensability in Sino-Korean diplomacy’. See Wang, ‘Sounds of Our Country’, p. 58. It seems that behind the lack of information about the genesis and social life of fiction glossaries lies a culture where interpreters’ roles as suppliers of books and language experts were taken for granted. 55 Kim Hyomin, ‘Sosŏnggi ŏrokhae-ryu ŭi sangho yŏn’gu’; Yu Ch’undong, ‘Suhojŏn ŭi kungnae suyong’. The chapter-based ordering evokes the format of the lexicographical tradition of ‘glossaries of names of things’ (mulmyŏng or mulmyŏng-go 物名攷), whose genesis in Chosŏn is traceable to the Sigyŏng ŏnhae mulmyŏng [ko] 詩經諺解物名 (Glossary of the Vernacularized ‘Book of Songs’) of the early seventeenth century as part of the Confucian pursuit of the ‘investigation of things’ (kyŏngmul 格物). Chŏng Sŭnghye, ‘Mulmyŏng-nyu ŭi t’ŭkching kwa charyojŏk kach’i’. Which type emerged first for different sets of fiction glossaries remains to be ascertained. Yu Ch’undong (‘Suhojŏn ŭi kungnae suyong’, p. 73) suggests that the syllable-based type would have come first, while Min (‘Suhojŏn ŏrok kwa Sŏyugi ŏrok yŏn’gu’) speculates that the chapter-by-chapter format emerged before the syllable-based type. I speculate that the chapter-based (or act-based for Xixiangji) format that reflects the structure of the source text would have come first and the simplified dictionary-type would have emerged to be integrated into the growing late Chosŏn lexicographical practices. On that note, the massive compendium of glossaries entitled Kogŭm sŏngnim 古今釋林 (Forest of Interpretations, Old and New), prefaced in 1789 and compiled by Yi Ŭibong 李義鳳 (1733-1801), contains a glossary titled ‘Chŏn’gi’ 傳奇 (Tales), which includes nearly all the entries found in Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan glossaries in manuscript form and deserves more research to ascertain the textual trajectory of fiction glossaries. Yi Ŭibong, Kogŭm sŏngnim 3, pp. 207-321.

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along with the fact that significant expansion of fiction glossaries is found in the 1919 Annotated Glossaries only, suggests that there was little accretion in the contents of fiction glossaries that circulated in manuscript. I thus surmise that there was considerable textual stability in both Yulei Glossary and fiction glossaries and that we can expect consistency in the way the glosses are used in fiction glossaries. How does the Yulei Glossary make use of Literary Sinitic glosses and Korean glosses, and what is the relationship between the two types of glosses? In the Yulei Glossary, a lemma could have three types of glosses: Literary Sinitic only, Korean only, or a combination of Literary Sinitic and Korean. Literary Sinitic glosses give as literal a meaning as possible, especially using synonyms or substitutes. Literary Sinitic glosses that indicate grammatical parsing other linguistic elements (counters, particles, etc.) are specified as ‘語辭’ (ŏsa; grammatical particles). Literary Sinitic glosses also indicate Sino-Korean pronunciations. Table 7.1 displays some examples. Note that ‘Korean glosses’ indicate glossing in the Korean language, glossing where the Korean script is exclusively used. Table 7.1  Glossing types of the Yulei Glossary by language of glossing Glossing languages (1) Literary Sinitic only

Lemma (a) 箇

語辭有一 ~ 二 ~ 之意

(b) 棒

音방杖打也O 又杖也

(d) 奔命兵

賊之歸順者曰~ ~ ~

(c) 靠

(e) 未解有父

(2) Literary Sinitic and Korean in (a) 底 succession (Literary Sinitic leading, Korean auxiliary) (b) 幹了 (3) Korean only (a) 閑

(b) 激惱人

(4) Word-by-word annotative (Korean only) (5) Literary Sinitic and Korean in succession (Korean leading, Literary Sinitic auxiliary) (6) Vernacular reading

Gloss

音告憑也

見大學九章小註 …

當處也惑作的又그런거시眉巖 柳希春訓也後凡眉 訓敍此根~也又與地同又語辭

爲其事之骨子也맛다ᄒᆞ다若妻則幹家 奴則幹事 노다又쇽졀업다又힘힘타

사ᄅᆞᆷ을도도와보채단意

按伏

按누르다伏항복

(a) 冷着

우이녀긴다猶冷笑

(b) 泥

音녜걸리다 O杜詩致遠思恐泥之泥也

(b) 奔程趁限

奔에程ᄒᆞ며限에趁ᄒᆞ다

(a) 做將去

工夫ᄒᆞ여가다

Based on an edition held by Harvard-Yenching Library (TK 5179 8230) Notes: ‘~’ here and hereafter marks a substitute for the entry word or phrase. ‘O’ indicates additional gloss. The superscript indicates split-column notes (hyŏpchu 挾註). ‘又’ indicates ‘or’.

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As shown in section (1) above, a typical Literary Sinitic gloss contains common expressions such as ‘–也’; ‘(言)猶–’ or ‘–意’; ‘謂–’ to explain. As in the case of 1b and 1c, a Sino-Korean pronunciation is provided using either homonymic sinographs or the Korean alphabet. In section (2), Korean and Literary Sinitic appear in succession. As shown in 2a and 2b, contrasted with (5), Literary Sinitic glosses are prioritized, and Korean glosses are auxiliary. As shown in section (3), some lemmata have Korean glosses only. ‘又’ (or) in 3a and ‘意’ (and) in 3b function as symbols and do not affect the explanation. In (4), Korean glosses are used to annotate individual sinographs comprising compound lemmata. In (5), Literary Sinitic and Korean glosses appear in succession, with Literary Sinitic as auxiliaries offering synonyms. As shown in (6), some lemmata have glosses in which sinographs and Korean script are mixed. In contrast with sections 1-5, the examples in section (6) give a kugyŏl-like vernacular reading whereby the glossing simply deconstructs the grammatical structure of the lemmata, without explaining (in Literary Sinitic or Korean) or introducing synonyms, such as 6b. 6a is similar but further explains by using a synonym. For parts of speech like verbs and adjectives in Korean, the citation form ‘–다,’ which is the same as the modern-day dictionary form, is used. While not pervasive, another important principle of explanation is referencing prior texts. As exemplified in 1e and 5b, canonical texts such as the Daxue 大學 (Greater Learning) and Du Fu’s poetry, respectively, are mentioned. In the case of 2a, earlier sources such as ‘Mi-hun’ 眉訓 (‘Mi’ for Yu Hŭich’un’s sobriquet Miam 眉巖) and ‘Kye-hun’ 溪訓 (‘Kye’ for Yi Hwang’s sobriquet T’oegye 退溪) are indicated. When Korean and Literary Sinitic glosses occur together, their relationship is complementary. However, overall, the Yulei Glossary maintains the conventional hierarchy between Literary Sinitic and the auxiliary role of the vernacular. Of the 1,050 entries in the 1669 edition, about 300 have exclusively Korean glosses, and among the entries in which a combination of Literary Sinitic and Korean is used, only about 130 have Korean-leading glosses. What is shared between Literary Sinitic glosses and Korean glosses is that they do not secure the meaning of a given lemma. Even though the glosses explain the meaning of a given lemma, the explanations are never context-bound. For example, 3a enumerates three different concepts for ‘閑’, with ‘노다’ (to be at leisure), ‘쇽졀업다’ (to be futile), and ‘힘힘타’ (to be bored). This method of explanation does not tell users which is most appropriate. The decision is up to the user. The user is expected to correctly identify

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the meaning in context. On the one hand, the Yulei Glossary functions as a dictionary. Yet, while functioning like a dictionary, glosses such as 6a and 6b indicate that the Yulei Glossary embodies the principle of vernacular reading, a method of reading that prioritizes readers’ interiorization of a text’s original diction over comprehension or interpretation of written words. The lemmata of fiction glossaries are assemblages of expressions culled not from books of orthodox Confucian learning but from hotly controversial books accused of damaging Confucian orthodoxy. Moreover, the lemmata are phrases chosen to represent an alternative kind of literary eloquence. In what ways do fiction glossaries explain the lemmata? At first glance, the overall principle of fiction glossaries may seem to be the same as that of the Yulei Glossary. Both explain the meaning of ŏrok lemmata using Literary Sinitic and Korean or a combination of the two. In fiction glossaries, too, Literary Sinitic glosses typically use Sino-Korean synonyms or substitutes (Table 7.2): e.g., ‘貼隣’ glossed as ‘近隣’ (‘next-door neighbor’), ‘靈牌’ as ‘紙榜’ (‘paper tablet’), and ‘上戶’ as ‘富者’ (‘a rich person’).56 Literary Sinitic glosses often end with ‘–也’ or ‘–猶言’ and Korean glosses typically end with the citational form (–다) in expressions such as ‘–ㅅ단 말’ or ‘–한단말/–하단말’ or ‘–이라/–ㅁ이라’, both meaning ‘it refers to/its meaning is’.57 However, such similarities notwithstanding, the Yulei Glossary and fiction glossaries differ significantly at the level of their appearance and principle of explanation. In fiction glossaries, there are far more Korean glosses than Literary Sinitic glosses. This feature is more prominent in the Xixiangji and Shuihuzhuan glossaries. The predominance of Korean glosses is most obvious in the Shuihuzhuan glossaries and least applicable to the Xiyouji glossaries. More important than their visual prominence is what the Korean glosses do. They reflect an interest in providing users with a more precise gloss instead of a semantic field consisting of multiple paraphrasal glosses of similar or related meaning to choose from. The glosses often convey a specified sense, and thus aiding readers’ understanding not so much of the structural and grammatical aspect of the source text as the meaning of a given lemma as an expression. The Korean glosses thus facilitate users’ interpretation of the meaning of their source texts. As a result, unlike Literary Sinitic glosses, which can explain only so much by providing readers with the literal meaning of a word or a phrase, Korean glosses convey a wide range 56 Shuihuzhuan: IV. 57 Xixiangji: I.

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of meaning, including tone, nuance, mood, register, collocation (habitual juxtaposition of a particular word with another word, or a combination of words with a frequency greater than chance), morphemes (verbal affixes), and sound and motion expressions (ideophonic expressions). See Table 7.2 for examples of Korean glosses that are sound and motion expressions. Korean glosses explain sound and motions expressions in two ways: by evoking the situation or by evoking the sound values. Table 7.2  Sound and motion expressions

(1) Explanations of sound and motion

(2) Ideophones

Ŏrok

Source Chapter (Act)/ Gloss (See Appendix) Syllables

(a) 嗤

Xiyouji: VI

前候

裂紙聲 (the sound of paper ripping)

(b) 嚎

Xiyouji: VI

閙齋

즁경닑ᄂᆞᆫ소ᄅᆡ (the sound of a monk

(c) 忽喇的一聲

Xiyouji: IV

Ch. 4

훌젹ᄒᆞᄂᆞᆫ소ᄅᆡ (the sound of sobbing)

(d) 搖搖擺擺

Xiyouji: VI

Ch. 1

行步翩翩翩皃흔들흔들 (waveringly)

(a) 吉丁當

Xiyouji: VI

琴心

뎅겅덩겅 (gong, gong)

Xiyouji: VI

Ch. 4

(c) 心中忐忑

Xiyouji: I

Ch. 44

(d) 嘓啅

Xiyouji: VI

Ch. 22

(e) 吽吽

Xiyouji: VI

Ch. 30

(b) 參辰卯酉

reciting a sutra)

어근버근 (all out of joint)

마음이벌덕벌덕又言不正 (the sound of one’s heart going pitter-patter)

齒牙音又ᄭᅮᆯᄯᅥᆨᄭᅮᆯᄯᅥᆨ (gulp, gulp) 훔훔牛吼聲 (the sound of a cow calf

suckling)

In f iction glossaries, physical manners are explained with descriptive phrases that end with a suffix such as ‘–皃’ (=貌) and sound expressions are explained with descriptions ending with suffixes such as ‘–聲’, ‘–音’, ‘–ㄴ소 ᄅᆡ’, as exemplified in ‘the sound of paper ripping’ for 1a or ‘the sound of a monk vocalizing a sutra’ for 1b. But the more frequent way is to the use of Korean glosses as ideophones to express onomatopoeia, as exemplified in 2a through 2e. 1d provides both an explanation using the suffix ‘–皃’ and Korean onomatopoeia. In examples 1c, 2d, and 2e, there is a remarkable correspondence between how the sinographs would have been read according to Sino-Korean pronunciations and the Korean glosses: e.g., ‘훌젹’ for ‘忽喇’

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and ‘ᄭᅮᆯᄯᅥᆨ’ for ‘嘓啅’; ‘훔훔’ for ‘吽吽’. This fact seems to indicate that these Korean glosses are onomatopoeic expressions that originated in Sino-xenic readings. However, more predominantly, Korean ideophonic glosses are Korean equivalents of Chinese expressions that can register unique verbal expressions and sound values of the Korean language: e.g., ‘벌덕벌덕’ for ‘心 中忐忑’ (2c) and ‘흔들흔들’ for ‘搖搖擺擺’ (1d). Korean glosses are explanations rooted in the sociocultural realities of the Korean language in use. Some Korean glosses amplify the linguistic identity of Korean as an agglutinative language with ‘a complex system of inflectional suffixes attached to various stem types’.58 That is to say, glosses articulate a given lemma’s sense through a variety of Korean inflectional suffix markings. See Table 7.3 for examples. Table 7.3  Korean glosses reflecting the agglutinative identity of Korean

(1) Connective

Ŏrok

Source

Chapter

Gloss (suffixes underlined)

斂褌劄褲

Xiyouji: VI

18

옷ᄌᆞ락을허리의ᄯᅴ에ᄭᅩᆺ고

(Tucking the hem of his top around his waist)

套上衣服

(2) Propositive (3) Imperative (4) Declarative (5) Exclamatory

38

(Putting on clothes)

茶的三杯

Shuihuzhuan: V

照管

Shuihuzhuan: V

44

做箇抄事

Shuihuzhuan: VI

36

害殺小僧

Shuihuzhuan: V

44

(6) 做一團口裡只 Retrospective 吐白水

以衣加身曰套옷입고

54

초초이셔너잔먹자

(Let’s just take time and have some cups of tea.) 보ᄉᆞᆲ히라

(Take care of them.) 셔기ᄅᆞᆯᄉᆞᆷ노라

([I] designate him to be a scribe.) 소승이샹ᄉᆞ병알으리로다

(This humble monk shall get lovesick.) Shuihuzhuan: VI

37

웅숭그려업듸여멀건물만토ᄒᆞ더라

(He simply curled himself up and kept vomiting bile.)

The simplest type is the connective ‘–고’ attached to a verb or copula. The more elaborate kinds are connective suffixes (‘–거늘’ and ‘–더니’), propositives (‘–자’), imperatives (‘–라’), declaratives (‘–노라’), exclamatory (‘–로다’), and retrospectives (‘–더라’). Literary Sinitic glosses are incapable of expressing these grammatical suffixes. 58 Cho and Whitman, Korean: A Linguistic Introduction, p. 116.

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Examples of ‘초초이’ (slowly) in (2) and ‘샹ᄉᆞ병알으리로다 ’ (to get lovesick) in (6), furthermore, show how the glossator’s contextualized interpretation of a given lemma makes room for excess whereby expressions unfound in the source text are added for the clarification of textual meaning. Besides onomatopoeia and grammatical elements, Korean glosses in fiction glossaries make use of colloquialisms and idioms. Colloquialisms and idioms typically do not appear in glosses that contain appendages such as ‘–ㅅ단 말,’ ‘–한단말/–하단말 ’, ‘–이라/–ㅁ이라 ’, or ‘–意 ’ and ‘ 謂–’. Instead, Korean glosses illustrate Koreans would say in comparable situations and achieve a kind of sense-for-sense translation of their source texts. Table 7.4 Lexical exuberance of Korean glosses Lemma

Source text

Chapter

Gloss

爭些兒

Shuihuzhuan: I

Prologue

하마트면

我的造物

Shuihuzhuan: IV

(3)

一昧地

Shuihuzhuan: VI

42

(4)

釘了暗椿

Shuihuzhuan: V

56

(5)

兜頭一杓永永

Shuihuzhuan: V

61

(6)

割猫兒尾拌猫

Shuihuzhuan: V

61

(1) (2)

兒喫

(as near as a toucher) 31

(it’s all due to the stars I was born under.) 얼결의

(in my moment of bewilderment) 가만이말독을박다

(quietly drove in a post) 머리골이셔늘ᄒᆞ여

(felt a sudden chill over his head) 괴ᄭᅩ리를베혀괴밥에 버무리는솀이로다

(it is like chopping the tail of a cat and mixing it with its food)

(7)

直下直上相

Shuihuzhuan: V

66

(8)

睁着髈眼

Shuihuzhuan: V

68

李逵

ᄂᆡ八字야

니규의우아ᄅᆡ훌터보니

(survey Yi Kyu[Li Gui] head to toe) 마늘눈을부릅ᄯᅳ고

(glare fiercely by making his eyes look like the shape of the character ‘manŭl [garlic], mo’ [厶])

When lemmata are insults (Table 7.5), Korean glosses offer both equivalents and carry strong emotions. In so doing, the glosses achieve the effect of the original diction. See Table 7.5 below for examples where ‘놈’ (insulting word for a man) are deployed in a variety of ways to indicate that the lemma are abusive remarks.

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Table 7.5 Examples of insults Lemma

Source

Chapter

Gloss

(1)

這厮

Xixiangji: VI

22

이놈이

(2)

少打的潑物

Xixiangji: VI

22

(3)

化頭

Shuihuzhuan: VI

48

(4)

你這與奴才做

Shuihuzhuan: VI

62

奴才的奴才

(a wretch)

덜마즌몹ᄡᅳᆯ놈

(a good-for-nothing that deserves still more beating) 거어지놈

(a wretched beggar)

네이종놈을위ᄒᆞ여종노릇ᄒᆞᄂᆞᆫ종놈아

(you are a wretched servant of a servant)

Discussions thus far demonstrate that Korean glosses in fiction glossaries encompass a wider range of interpretive activities. Thus, readers f ind word-for-word annotation and exuberant free translation at the other. That Korean glosses in fiction glossaries give equivalent effects indicate that the glossing was done with an urge to f ind le mot juste as much as possible. The creators of fiction glossaries were not always interested in preserving the original-language expressions but instead exerted themselves to make their glosses as eloquent as possible. On the one hand, the eloquence of Korean glosses in f iction glossaries is a byproduct of explaining the eloquence of the language of Chinese vernacular fiction. Because the lemmata in fiction glossaries were culled from texts known for intermixing varying styles, Literary Sinitic glosses could not help but serving as the less articulate tool vis-à-vis Korean glosses. Literary Sinitic glosses’ capacity to convey a more nuanced and contextualized meaning of a given lemma was more limited. That Korean glosses express what Literary Sinitic glosses could not reminds us of this observation by Peter Francis Kornicki: ‘[I]n the case of Chinese vernacular fiction of the Ming and Qing dynasties, translation was indispensable, for no amount of training in Sinitic made it possible for readers to deal with the language of Chinese fiction or popular Chinese dramatic works’.59 The different division of linguistic labor in fiction glossaries in comparison with that of the Yulei glossary reveals that the glossators of fiction glossaries used Korean to convey the expressive and affective capacity plain Chinese for Chosŏn readers. The upshot is the shaping of fiction glossaries as a site where Korean, with its

59 Kornicki, Languages, Scripts, and Chinese Texts, p. 187.

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rich verb endings, idioms, colloquialisms, and onomatopoeia, becomes the more articulate medium and Literary Sinitic becomes more auxiliary and comparatively inarticulate.

In conclusion Fiction glossaries of Xixiangji, Shuihuzhuan, Xiyouji, and Sanguozhiyanyi were created to aid Chosŏn readers’ appreciation of the expressive power of the four works of late imperial Chinese fiction reputed to a new kind of exemplary writing. By contextualizing the emergence of fiction glossaries in late eighteenth-century literary discourses and analyzing their contents and principle of explanation, this paper demonstrated that the significance of late Chosŏn fiction glossaries cannot be reduced to the question of linguistic difficulty alone. That the origins of fiction glossaries are closely connected to the Chosŏn reception of the fiction criticism of late imperial China, especially that of Jin Shengtan, and that the fiction glossaries were exclusive to the four select works indicate that fiction glossaries reflect the formation of a Chosŏn canon of late imperial Chinese fiction. The approach taken to fiction glossaries in this paper departed from an existing tendency to study fiction glossaries separately and to compartmentalize them one from another, that is, to examine how fiction glossaries relate to their respective source texts (e.g., Xixiangji and its glossaries). While such approaches are legitimate, because fiction glossaries were created as companions to their source texts, this paper’s treatment of fiction glossaries as a body of related texts offered a broader understanding how they were historically and stylistically interconnected. The title of this chapter alludes to Dante Alighieri’s (d. 1321) ‘De vulgari eloquentia’ (Concerning Vernacular Eloquence; 1307). I adopt Dante’s powerful wording to address the limitations – for the appreciation of the eloquence discussed in this paper – of Eurocentric views of vernacular eloquence that seem to equate assertions of vernacular eloquence with cultural representation and national affiliation. Dante used Latin – the cosmopolitan and classical language of European Latinitas, which was comparable to Literary Sinitic in the Sinographic Cosmopolis – to elevate the status of Italian writing by arguing for the existence of a ‘respectable and illustrious vernacular’ to be used for literary writing and esteemed on a par with Latin.60 The type of

60 Dante, Dante: De Vulgari Eloquentia, ed. and trans. Steven Botterill, p. 27.

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vernacular eloquence explained in my study was not so sensitive to cultural representation. Rather, the vernacular eloquence discussed in this paper was concerned with expanding and variegating the expressive capacity of the written realm. This impulse is, thus, distinguished also from the driving point of the modern nation-centered literary project of unifying writing and speech for the sake of constructing national literatures, languages, and written cultures. This paper’s engagement with fiction glossaries adds further nuance to the current discussion of the spread of Chinese vernacular fiction in late Chosŏn. Scholarship to date has focused on two research sites: (1) sinographic literary production by Chosŏn literati who adopted and appropriated elements of plain Chinese used in novelistic writing to write innovatively and (2) vernacular translations of late imperial Chinese fiction that formed a significant repertoire within the genre of Chosŏn vernacular novels (ŏnmun sosŏl 諺文小說), or novels written entirely in the Korean script. Examples of the former are as follows. A certain Master Soŏm 小广主人 rewrote the famous Korean vernacular novel Ch’unhyangjŏn (Tale of Ch’unhyang) under the title Kwanghallugi 廣寒樓記 (Record of Kwanghan Tower).61 Yi Hyŏn’gi 李玄綺 (1796-1846) used plain Chinese to write some stories in his story collection Kiri ch’onghwa 綺里叢話 (A Compendium of Stories by Kiri).62 No Myŏnghŭm 盧命欽 (1713-1775) experimented by writing tales in a medium that can be called Korean vernacular Sinitic (a medium within which Literary Sinitic is significantly hybridized with elements mimetic of the linguistic realities of contemporary Chosŏn, such as Korean lexicon) for his Tongp’ae naksong 東稗洛誦 (Repeatedly Recited Stories of the East).63 Yi Ok wrote the Tongsanggi 東廂記 (The Romance of the Eastern Chamber), a play in which he intermixed Chinese colloquialisms, Korean colloquialisms, and typical refrains found in Korean vernacular songs.64 For vernacular translations of late imperial Chinese fiction, examples are too numerous to list here. To these two sites, I propose to add fiction glossaries as another important site of literary production directly catalyzed by the spread of late imperial Chinese fiction in late Chosŏn. Not only were they closely connected to late

61 Chang, ‘Myŏng-Ch’ŏng-dae p’yŏngchŏm sosŏl pigyo rŭl t’onghan Chosŏn hugi p’yŏngchŏm sosŏl ŭi t’ŭksŏng yŏn’gu’. 62 Yi Sŭnghyŏn, ‘Kiri ch’onghwa yŏn’gu’. 63 Si Nae Park, Korean Vernacular Story, see especially the third chapter. 64 For the stylistic aspect of Tongsanggi, see Wang, ‘Story of the Eastern Chamber’, pp. 33-40. Many of these features of non-orthodox Literary Sinitic writing, as Wang notes, overlap with how No Myŏnghŭm composed the tales in Tongp’ae naksong.

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imperial fiction criticism, but they also afford us a new understanding that the spread of late imperial Chinese fiction as a cultural phenomenon. That is, we can look beyond the reception individual titles and full-blown texts to map out a larger pattern where late imperial Chinese fiction served as a conduit through which Chosŏn readers developed new literary sensibilities (whether through new narrative types in connection with plot, character, theme, etc.), new stylistic exemplars, and new ways of thinking about literature orbiting around the eloquence of novelistic writing. On that note, I would like to draw attention to a particular kind of late Chosŏn reception of Chinese fiction within which vernacular translation and the eloquence of Korean intersected. The case concerns the Cheil kiŏn Kyŏnghwa sinbŏn 第一奇諺 鏡花新翻 (Number-One Marvel among Vernacular Novels: A New Rendition of ‘Flowers in the Mirror’; 1835-1847?) written and prefaced by Hong Hŭibok 洪羲福 (1794-1859). This work is Hong’s vernacular translation of the Qing novel Jinghuayuan 鏡花緣 (Flowers in the Mirror; 1828). What merits our attention here is his preface written in Korean. Hong’s preface not only explains his motivation as a translator, but it also contains an overview of Chosŏn vernacular novels as a generic category and his praise of his translation as a superior kind among Chosŏn vernacular novels. The contents of Hong’s preface have been rightly pointed out as Hong’s motivation to ‘mak[e] the vernacular visible’.65 But I want to emphasize here how Hong voices his view. If Dante called for elevating Italian vernacular as a medium of literature in Latin, Hong chose Korean, the language of vernacular novels, for his preface rather than Literary Sinitic, the conventional medium for prefatory discourse. This unusual choice is of profound significance. Hong’s choice indicates that his discussion of literary merit of vernacular novels – something unprecedented – is done through his demonstration of the merit of Korean as an eloquent written medium – something equally unprecedented. Hong thus blurs the boundaries between Literary Sinitic and Korean to accommodate Korean as a medium for not only the genre of vernacular novels but also literature more broadly conceived. This remarkably rare act, however, is unsurprising in that the eloquence and expressive capacity of Korean and relative inarticulacy of Literary Sinitic for the genre of novelistic writing, as illustrated in this paper’s exploration of fiction glossaries, had already been a critical component in late Chosŏn reception of late imperial Chinese fiction.

65 For a full translation of Hong’s preface and discussion of the preface’s contents, see Pastreich, ‘Making the Vernacular Visible’.

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Appendix: Fiction glossaries discussed in this study

I

Cover title

Title page

滸廂遊語錄

忠義水滸志語

附吏頭

錄類

分回卷之上

II

西游記錄語

遊游記錄語

III

水滸傳語錄

水滸傳語錄

附水滸志語錄

Fiction glossaries included (in order of appearance) Shuihuzhuan (chapter-based, 1-70), Xixiangji (syllable-based, 1-10), Xixiangji (chapter-by-chapter/ act-by-act; the vast majority are unglossed entries), Xiyouji (syllablebased, 1-100) Xiyouji (chapterbased, 1-100), Shuihuzhuan (syllable-based; 1-5 only) Shuihuzhuan (syllable-based, 1-5 only) Shuihuzhuan (syllable-based, 1-12) Xixiangji (act-based)

Held by (call Glossaries other than fiction number) glossaries 吏頭 glossary (syllable-based, 1-10)

Ogura Collection at the University of Tokyo (L174430)

Ogura Collection at the University of Tokyo (L174858) 物名攷 吏讀

彙編

增補字彙略抄

Ogura Collection at the University of Tokyo (L174950)

濂洛語錄解抄

藝海珠塵駢字分箋

水滸傳語錄西廂記語 錄合本

水滸百八人

IV

水滸志語錄

水滸志語錄

V

水滸志語錄

水滸志語錄解

VI

語錄

西廂記語錄解

附西廂記西游記

西廂

水滸 西游

VII

小說語錄解 水滸志

西游記

小說語錄解

Shuihuzhuan (chapter-based, 1-70) Xixiangji (chapterbased, 1-100) Xixiangji (act-based) Shuihuzhuan (chapter-based, 1-70)

西廂記第六才子書目錄

X Xixiangji (syllablebased, 1-10), Shuihuzhuan (chapter-based, 1-70) Xiyouji (chapterbased, 1-100) X Shuihuzhuan (chapter-based, 1-70), Xiyouji (syllable-based, 1-9),

Ogura Collection at the University of Tokyo (L174951)

Ogura Collection at the University of Tokyo (L174952) East Asian Library at the University of California, Berkeley (34.1)

East Asian Library at the University of California, Berkeley (34.10)

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About the author si nae park is Associate Professor of East Asian Languages and Civilizations at Harvard University. Park examines how the interplays between cosmopolitan Literary Sinitic and vernacular Korean shaped literature, linguistic thought, and the materiality of texts. Her current book project examines Literary Sinitic as a heard language.

8

Imagined Orality Mun Hanmyŏng’s Late Nineteenth-Century Approach to Sinitic Literacy Xiaoqiao Ling and Young Kyun Oh Abstract This chapter studies Mun Hanmyŏng’s 1885 manuscript edition of a thirteenth-century Chinese play The Western Wing. In his effort to make sense of the play (in classical Chinese with patterned colloquial elements and steeped in a performance tradition foreign to late nineteenthcentury Korean readers), Mun sought commonalities between the play and the literary Sinitic tradition in Korea by invoking orality as a hermeneutic device. Drawing upon words from Confucian teachers, the poetic canon, and spoken Korean expressions, Mun was able to ‘translate’ the play not by crossing linguistic and cultural barriers but by aligning an unfamiliar linguistic experience within Chosŏn’s existing Sinitic tradition in an imagined textual continuum, thus reinforcing the act of reading as an emotionally charged, communal experience for moral cultivation. Keywords: orality, reading, Sinitic literacy, hanmun, Mun Hanmyŏng, The Western Wing

Introduction: Sinitic literacy, translation, and Mun Hanmyŏng The Story of the Western Wing 西廂記 is a thirteenth-century northern play attributed to Wang Shifu 王實甫. Reprinted repeatedly in a rich assortment of critical editions, the play remained the most popular reading matter

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch08

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throughout late imperial China.1 Reaching Chosŏn Korea as early as 1504,2 the play seemed to have drawn Korean scholar-officials’ attention mostly in a seventeenth-century edition bearing Jin Shengtan’s 金聖歎 (1608-1661) ‘Sixth Genius Book’ commentary,3 according to records that mentioned elite Chosŏn men of letters such as Yi Sanghwang 李相璜 (1763-1849), Yi Mansu 李晚秀 (1752-1820), and Pak Chega 朴齊家 (1750-1805). 4 But these records are typically couched in critical terms in tune with the political environment under the rule of King Chŏngjo 正祖 (r. 1776-1800), whose stern stance on reinvigorating Confucian classical learning and resisting what was considered frivolous styles in casual prose and fiction from China was exemplified by what modern literary historians have often called a Rectification Campaign 文體反正 following the term coined by Takahashi Tōru 高橋亨 (1878-1967).5 For example, the Northern Learning scholar Yi Tŏngmu 李德懋 (1741?-1793), in his letter to Pak Chega, dismisses Pak’s obsession with The Western Wing as mere folly – yet this critique is somewhat mitigated by the fact that Yi 1 The earliest extant copy of the play is a deluxe, fully illustrated edition printed in early 1499 of the Hongzhi 弘治 reign (1488-1505). For an extensive list of the extant sixty-one Ming editions and one hundred and seven Qing editions, see Zhou, Xixiang ji zhushi huiping, pp. 247-57. For a detailed sourcebook on the Ming editions, see Chen, Xiancun Ming kan Xixiang ji zonglu. For studies of the Ming editions of this play, see Jiang, Ming kanben Xixiang ji yanjiu and Xixiang ji de wenxian xue yanjiu; Huang, Xixiang ji yanjiu shi, and Sieber, Theaters of Desire. 2 This is recorded in Yŏnsan’gun’s daily records 燕山君日記 from the fourth month of 1505: ‘[Books such as] New Stories Told while Trimming the Wick, Remnant Stories Told while Trimming the Wick, A Collection of Awkwardly Imitated Tales, The Story of Jiaoniang and Feihong, and The Story of the Western Wing – have the emissaries on tribute trips [to China] purchase them for me’, 剪燈新話、剪燈餘話、效顰集、嬌紅記、西廂記等，令謝恩使貿來 . Ko, “Xixiang ji zai Hanguo de chuanbo yu jieshou,” p. 54. 3 Jin Shengtan’s 1656 edition, titled Sixth Genius Book The Western Wing 第六才子書西廂記, remained the most popular critical edition throughout late imperial China, going through more than 90 reprints and redactions in the Qing period (1645-1911). Zhou, Xixiang ji zhushi huiping, pp. 252-57. 4 For a brief discussion of the reception of The Story of the Western Wing in Chosŏn Korea, see Zhao, ‘Chaoxian shidai de Xixiang ji’. For a Ph.D. dissertation on this topic, see Yun, ‘Chosŏn ŭi Sŏsang ki suyong yangsang yŏn’gu’. Also see Yun, ‘18-20 segi ch’o Sŏsang ki’ and Min, ‘Sŏsang ki ŭi kungnae yuip kwa p’anbon yŏn’gu’. 5 Takahashi, ‘Kōshiō no buntai hansei’. Chŏngjo’s remark recorded in 1787 summarizes the king’s position well: ‘What I find most abominable are the so-called literary anthologies from late Ming and early Qing [China], as well as unofficial history and miscellaneous records – these are especially detrimental to the ways of the world. I have observed that literary styles of recent ages are shallow and flippant, unpolished to the extreme. The absence of [writings from] grand stylists from academies is all due to the abundance of miscellaneous volumes’, 最所切可惡者，所 謂明末、淸初文集及稗官雜說，尤有害於世道 . 觀於近來文體，浮輕噍殺，無館閣大手筆者，皆由於雜冊之 多出來 . Veritable Records on King Chŏngjo, kwŏn 24, p. 34b (Authors’ translation). The political, economic, and cultural implications of Chŏngjo’s stance on the writing style have recently been studied by many scholars, which is beyond the scope of this paper.

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Tŏngmu had also been reprimanded by Chŏngjo for having imitated the casual prose style in his own writings.6 The Western Wing is a book that bodes disaster. You are bed-ridden with illness, yet instead of relaxing your mind and stilling your vital energy, or withdrawing in quietude to appease your worries and tame your illness, all that you had poured ink upon, riveted your eyes on, and labored your mind with is nothing but Jin Renrui (Jin Shengtan’s commentary on The Western Wing). Now you still desire to summon a healer to discuss your medication. How could you be so ignorant! 《西廂記》，災書也。足下臥病，不恬心靜氣，淡泊蕭閑，為彌憂銷疾之地，而筆 之所淋，眸之所燭，心之所役，無之而非金人瑞，而然猶欲延醫議藥，足下何不 曉之深也?7

The apparent rhetorical thrust aside, Yi’s comment is a testimony to the appeal of books imported from China like The Western Wing. Despite the king’s aversion and the consequent reticence among scholars on such ‘light modes of reading’ (e.g. fiction and drama), Chosŏn elite from the eighteenth century were quite familiar with books for casual reading imported from China. As Suyoung Son has noted, the Seoul literati community had private circuits of obtaining books imported from China beyond the state monopoly.8 For example, on a trip to the Chinese capital, Pak Chiwŏn 朴趾源 (1773-1805) was able to identify two public performances in Beijing as enactments of scenes from The Water Margin 水滸傳 and The Western Wing respectively.9 How did books imported from China impact the literary landscape of eighteenth and nineteenth-century Korea, especially those censored by the court such as The Water Margin and The Western Wing? One telling explanation of a lack of direct influences of the Chinese vernacular register 6 According to a memorial essay from Yi Tŏngmu’s son Yi Kwanggyu 李光葵, Yi Tŏngmu once submitted a self-censoring prose essay to King Chŏngjo upon the king’s mandate that he rectify his writing style: ‘On the account of His Highness’s [request regarding the fact that] my deceased father’s essays at times resembled the style of unofficial history (i.e. tales and fiction), my late father had composed a self-incriminating essay to submit to the throne’, 上以先君之文或近稗官， 有自訟文製進之。Yi, ‘Remaining Affairs of My Late Father’ 先君府君遺事, in Ajŏng yugo, kwŏn 8, p. 16a-b. Yi Tŏngmu’s ‘Self-Incriminating Essay’ 自訟文 can be found in Yi’s ‘Chronicle’ 年譜 in Ch’ongjanggwan chŏnsŏ, kwŏn 71, pp. 329-30. 7 Yi, ‘Letter to Pak Chega’ 與朴在先齊家書, in Ajŏng yugo, kwŏn 7, p. 2b. All English translations of Chinese and Korean primary sources in this paper are our own unless noted otherwise. 8 Son, Writing for Print, p. 166. 9 Pak, Yŏrha ilgi, p. 32.

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on late Chosŏn Sinitic literacy is what Si Nae Park has noted as the privileged status of Literary Sinitic in pre-twentieth-century Korean literature and literary practices.10 Aside from classical-style prose and poetry endorsed by the court, there also emerged what scholars had loosely referred to as fiction 小說,11 narratives known as ‘unofficially circulating stories’ 野談 recorded in Sinographs that were mostly in koine-like demotic classical Chinese – a descriptive, simple register of literary Sinitic with minimal sets of syntax and grammar.12 For Sinographic writings that display direct influence of Jin Shengtan’s commentary on The Western Wing and The Water Margin,13 we need to look at two titles from mid-nineteenth-century Chosŏn: The Story of the Kwanghan Tower 廣寒樓記and Remnant Record of the Han and Tang Periods 漢唐遺事.14 Despite the fact that both titles adopted terminology of fiction commentary heavily reliant on Jin Shengtan’s commentarial language, the narrative proper remained in demotic classical Chinese. Literary outputs therefore cannot really answer the question of how Chosŏn readers made sense of linguistic experiences beyond the purview of classical Chinese in orthodox texts approved by the royal court, and neither can the usual understanding of translation as an act of transcoding from one linguistic realm to another based on syntactical correspondences. After the invention of Hangŭl as Korean’s own phonetic writing system under the auspices of King Sejong 世宗 (r. 1418-1450), the court printed Confucian 10 Park, The Korean Vernacular Story, pp. 115-25. 11 Min Kwandong, for example, has claimed that there are more than 300 existing titles that he considers ‘fiction’. Min, Zhongguo gudian xiaoshuo, p. 4. Min is counting all sorts of narratives or story cycles that do not fall into the traditional literary categories of prose and poetry without any distinctions made of the actual linguistic registers. Therefore, what constitutes the 300 titles of ‘fiction’ is a hodgepodge of pansori performances, narrative stories in Hangŭl script, and tales in classical Chinese. 12 ‘Unoff icially circulating stories’ (yadam) are short stories written in literary Sinitic on various topics ranging from history, anecdotal incidents, and didactic lessons to random tales heard or collected. Demotic classical Chinese as a register of literary Sinitic appeared not only in yadam stories but also in early Korean historiography as well as in specialized texts from various professions (e.g. medicine, mechanics) in traditional China. Hardly part of the literary canon, this particular register was nevertheless an indispensable part of the overall Sinitic textual production. On the rise of yadam stories, see Park, The Korean Vernacular Story. 13 Jin Shengtan’s commentary on the full-length vernacular novel The Water Margin was printed toward the end of the Chongzhen reign (1628-1644) titled The Fifth Genius Book The Water Margin 第五才子書水滸傳 and remained the most broadly read edition in Qing China. Eighteenth and nineteenth-century Chosŏn scholars were reading both The Water Margin and The Western Wing mostly in Jin Shengtan’s ‘genius book’ editions. 14 Yi, ‘Shilun Chaoxian Guanghan lou ji’; Cho, ‘Zhongguo gudai xiaoshuo xiqu pingdian’; Han, ‘Lun Jin Shengtan wenxue pingdian zai Hanguo de chuanbo’. Also see Si Nae Park’s discussion on the impact of Jin Shengtan in this volume.

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classics and Buddhist sutras with Hangŭl annotations known as ŏnhae 諺解 (vernacular exegesis) texts. There were also other ŏnhae texts for canonical works in literary Chinese. But these ŏnhae rarely ‘translate’ literary Chinese; they either loosely paraphrase the original to be explained to the illiterate by a reader-teacher or restructure the original text syntactically without interpreting the lexical words for pedagogical purposes.15 Nevertheless, we can sense a translation practice of a different kind from the following remark that reveals how a scholar-official like Yi Sanghwang appreciated The Story of the Western Wing: Among minor discourses Master Tong’ŏ (Yi Sanghwang) was extremely fond of The Western Wing. He often said: ‘All books that bear characters are good when they are being read, but one is over with them upon folding the volume. Only The Western Wing is good when read and, upon folding, calls for even more savoring, sending my imagination flying so much so that my soul melts away without my realizing it. This cannot be achieved by Han [Yu, 768-824], Liu [Zongyuan, 773-819], Ou[yang Xiu, 1007-1072], and Su [Shi, 1037-1101];16 nor by The Zuo Tradition, Discourse of States, Ban [Gu’s History of the Han], or [Si]ma [Qian’s The Grand Scribe’s Records],17 nor the Two Classics18 and the Three Treatises.’19 桐漁主小說酷好《西廂記》，常曰「 : 凡有字之書，見時雖好，掩卷則已。惟《西廂》 一書，見時好，掩卷愈味，想象肯綮，不覺其黯然魂銷。此韓、柳、歐、蘇不能為， 《­左》、 《國》、班、馬不能為，二典、三謨不能為。」20

It is noteworthy that Yi compared The Western Wing with nothing less than Confucian classics and the Chinese classical literary canon.21 As part of the 15 Oh, Engraving Virtue, pp. 154-69. For a discussion of the pedagogical purpose of ŏnhae texts, see Park, ‘The Sound of Learning the Confucian Classics in Chosŏn Korea’. 16 These are four of the Eight Master Prose Stylists from the Tang and the Song 唐宋八大家. 17 These are canonical historical narratives. The Zuo Tradition 左傳 is one of the three extant commentaries on Annals of the Spring and Autumn 春秋 and part of the Confucian classics. Sima Qian’s 司馬遷 (ca. 145 to ca. 87 BCE) The Grand Scribe’s Records 史記 was a foundational work in traditional Chinese historiography, and Ban Gu’s 班固 (32-92 CE) History of the Han 漢書 was the first of imperially sanctioned official history. 18 Namely the sagely kings Yao 堯 and Shun’s 舜 expositions in The Book of Documents 書經. 19 The Three Treatises refer to those of the Great Yu 大禹, Gaotao 皋陶, and Yiji 益稷 in The Book of Documents. 20 Hong, Chisu yŏmp’il, pp. 127-28. 21 There were arguments in prose essays from late Ming China that promoted ‘minor discourses’ (vernacular f iction and drama) as classics, such as those from the iconoclast thinker Li Zhi

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books imported from China to Chosŏn, these ‘minor discourses’ joined the existing corpus of classical Chinese literature to be read as a part of the repertoire. Thus, the need for translation – or converting a text written in Chinese (whatever the register was) into Korean – was not there, at least for Chosŏn literati. This does not mean that the act of translation did not occur. Given the lack of a textual tradition of performance literature in eighteenth-century Korea, a reader well versed in literary Sinitic makes sense of an unfamiliar linguistic segment by situating it within the different spheres of canonical Sinitic texts. Although there is no ‘foreign’ language at stake here, translation took place as part of reading by forging new associations through shuffling and re-situating various linguistic realms within Sinitic literacy. Mun Hanmyŏng’s 文漢命 Master Hut’an’s Collated and Annotated Edition of The Western Wing 後歎先生訂正註解西廂記 (preface 1885) provides a singular case that illustrates the cognitive parameters in such a translation practice.22 Mun reproduced in his manuscript Jin Shengtan’s edition of The Western Wing and punctuated it with his own Korean particles in Hangŭl, including notational ‘ku’ 句 indicating pauses, throughout the text.23 Mun’s ‘Chipchu’ 集註 (collected annotation, hereafter ‘Chipchu’) sections punctuate the entire play faithfully following Jin Shengtan’s jie 節 segmentation24 – though Mun’s glosses are exclusively focused on phrases from the arias, not any of the dialogues or stage instructions. From the way he signed his 1885 preface – ‘man of Namp’yŏng, Mun Hanmyŏng’ 南平人文漢命, Mun was most certainly a member of the Namp’yŏng Mun family 南平文氏. According to the genealogy of Namp’yŏng 李贄 (1527-1602). Such arguments followed the rhetoric of authenticity as a response to the

contemporary, unruly age filled with what were considered ‘phony’ Confucian thinkers who held public lectures at academies. Handler-Spitz, Symptoms of an Unruly Age. 22 This paper cites from Chŏng Yongsu’s modern punctuated edition, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, while consulting the manuscript kept at Kyujanggak 奎章閣 in Seoul National University. All changes made to characters and punctuation when citing from Chŏng’s modern edition are based on this manuscript edition. Besides Chŏng, only Yun Chiyang has studied Mun’s critical edition in her ‘Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki’. There is also a brief sample of Mun’s glossing of particles in Ross King’s contribution in this volume. 23 Orthographically, adding particles follows the traditional ŏnhae spelling practice which was established in the series of court-published Confucian classics ŏnhae texts. 24 Jin Shengtan distinguishes his own edition from all other commentarial editions of The Western Wing by providing his own segmentation for reading. These segments do not follow the standard demarcation of arias or dialogues. Rather, Jin has either combined arias in a long segment or split one aria into several small segments to reinforce his own critical analysis of the play. Mun Hanmyŏng has completely followed Jin Shengtan’s segmentation in his manuscript edition of The Western Wing.

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Mun,25 Mun Hanmyŏng was given a posthumous prestige title of Master of Thorough Precept 通訓大夫 and had assumed the literary name Manch’wi 晚翠. Mun’s own remark in the preface of his commentarial edition refers to some governmental position he had served in: ‘Here, in my leisure time after public service, I made a collated and annotated edition of The Western Wing’ 茲於公退之暇忘，有訂正註解之一部西廂記.26 Although the genealogy does not specify the position, the record of Mun’s league of association and his posthumous title as ranking the highest allowed to technocrats and concubinary sons suggest that Mun was most likely of Middle People 中人 class, rather than a yangban 兩班 aristocrat.27 It is not clear where he lived, but from the range of textual sources cited in ‘Chipchu’, it is not implausible that he lived around the capital city (Seoul), where reading fiction, plays, and contemporary writings from Qing China was a more widespread practice than the rest of Korea.28 Since no evidence indicates that Mun had ever studied spoken Chinese or had even traveled to China, it is all the more conceivable that Mun’s reading of The Western Wing was based on his reading knowledge, without any reinforcement by any sense of real, spoken-language orality. Therefore, Mun’s understanding in reading The Western Wing is informative of how a late Chosŏn scholar made sense of this dramatic text by evoking Sinitic literacy of his time. In the following, we will first investigate Mun’s own agenda in providing ‘Chipchu’ glossing to get a sense of how Mun engages his anticipated readers in a deliberately structured reading process. We will then discuss Mun’s evocation of orality in his commentarial endeavor as a structuring device that allowed him to tie together all canonical Sinitic literature in an imaginary textual continuum. This imagined orality turns the reading practice into an emotionally charged, communal act of self-cultivation, thus aligning Mun’s constructed linguistic continuum with the socio-political 25 Searchable at http://www.m-oo-n.com. Accessed on 1 November 2021. 26 Mun, ‘Preface’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 15. 27 Chŏng Yongsu hypothesized that Mun’s posthumous title and the presumably minor government position were part of a hereditary prestige due to his grandfather’s appointment as a Court Gentleman for Ceremonial Services 將仕郎. Chŏng, ‘Haeje’, p. 796. Middle People (chungin) is a term, at least in the mid to late Chosŏn context, referring to a social class between yangban literati and commoners, which comprised technocrats like interpreters, medical officers, court painters, as well as local functionaries and low-level administrators. 28 Mun Hanmyŏng is also known to have authored a literary-Chinese story titled A Record of the Kŭmsan Temple 金山寺記. For a study of this text, see Chŏng, ‘Kŭmsansa ki yŏn’gu’. This is a dream-sequence story that features four founding emperors of the Han, Tang, Song, and Ming of China in the narrator’s dreams. The story was widely popular from the eighteenth to early twentieth centuries in Korea both in literary Chinese and Hangŭl vernacular.

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function of poetry promulgated in the ‘Great Preface’ of The Book of Poetry – an ingenious way of ‘translating’ The Western Wing into the poetic canon.29 We will conclude with a short discussion of what Sinitic literacy and the notion of authorship might have meant for late nineteenth-century Korean literary men in light of the waning influence of the royal court.

Master Hut’an’s ‘Chipchu’ glossing Mun contributes most of his ‘Chipchu’ glossing in demotic classical Chinese. This means that the anticipated readers of these glosses need to share an equal aptitude with Sinitic literacy in order to understand Mun’s writing. It is significant that Mun named his glossing ‘Chipchu’ because the term is commonly seen in the commentarial canons of Confucian classics exemplified by Zhu Xi’s 朱熹 (1130-1200) exegetical oeuvre. Clearly, Mun sees himself writing as a Confucian gentleman well versed in classical learning, as we often witness him quoting lines from classical literature, in particular Categorized Speeches of  Master Zhu 朱子語類 as part of the main references for vernacular Chinese grammar.30 How did Confucian classics and other forms of belles-lettres help late nineteenth-century Chosŏn readers (for whom Mun presumably wrote) understand a northern dramatic text? Mun addresses this question in three consecutive items of his ‘Ways to Read’ list of 33 entries: – The art of rhyming started with The Book of Poetry with its flora, continued by ‘Encountering Sorrows’,31 and then transmitted to the masters of Qin and Han, the prose stylists from the Tang and Song, as well as [writers of] old songs of music bureau and tunes from Yuan writers – there was none who did not inherit and emulate this art. This is because without this art, there would be no means with which to harmonize the prosodies or to comprehend the profound marvelousness therein. – What we call songs and arias (sagok, Ch. ciqu) are song lyrics. These are what worldly views hold as ‘three-surpluses’: surplus of poetry, surplus of 29 For an English translation and critical discussion of the ‘Great Preface’ of The Book of Poetry, see Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, pp. 37-56. 30 See Ross King’s discussion of ŏrokch’e 語錄體 in this volume. 31 ‘Encountering Sorrows’, a long narrative poem in the Chuci 楚辭 style traditionally attributed to Qu Yuan 屈原 (ca. 340 to ca. 278 BCE), a loyal and slandered minister of the Chu kingdom, is a canonical piece representative of both the Chuci corpus and poetry’s expressive function for ‘literary men who do not meet their times’ (shi bu yu 士不遇), a perennial theme in Chinese literary tradition.

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painting, and surplus of singing. What poetry cannot exhaustively spell out, what paintings cannot exhaustively delineate, and what songs cannot exhaustively intone – [sagok are] what combine these three [surpluses]. – The orthodox classic (The Western Wing) derives prominently from the Categorized Speeches of Masters Cheng and Zhu, often intermixed with words from the Buddhist discourse and Daoist canon – this is what combines the text of sages from the Three Teachings. – 韻押之法，始自葩詩，繼於離騷，降自秦漢諸儒，唐宋文章，以至古樂府元人曲， 莫不祖述其法。蓋不如此，無以協音律，無以見精妙故也。

– 詞曲卽歌詞也，世稱三餘，詩餘也、畫餘也、歌餘也。詩之所不能盡言，畫之所 不能盡形，歌之所不能盡唱者，合此三者而成之者也。

– 正經以程朱語類爲主，中間多用佛語道經文字，此三敎聖人之文合而成之者也。32

Most notably, Mun Hanmyŏng departs from the entire Chinese commentarial tradition of The Western Wing33 by identifying the northern play as an ‘orthodox classic’ 正經 that combines the Three Teachings. He has also supported this understanding with his commentarial practice, conspicuously with his application of the t’o 토 notation in Hangŭl for vernacular Korean sentential particles.34 Mun is not indiscriminately applying this notation to Sinitic texts in order to evoke the orality of spoken Korean – he did not add any of these notations to his ‘Chipchu’ sections. Nor does Mun’s t’o notation always function well to bring out the oral dimension of the Sinitic text – the dialogues of the play, which are already in a purportedly spoken style, are cumbersomely compounded by the somewhat redundant t’o particles. It is therefore more likely that Mun is not taking the t’o notations simply as a device to parse all Sinitic sentences. Rather, he is presenting The Western Wing in its entirety (arias and dialogues) in ways comparable to the traditional practice of glossing Confucian classics, which renders literary classical Chinese into a vocalizable language. What also stands out is how Mun evokes orality in the sense of rhyming practices as a means to create a linguistic continuum that subsumes all the canonical writings and belles-lettres: The Book of Poetry, the Chuci corpus 32 Mun, ‘Ways to Read’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, pp. 23-24. 33 There is no known Korean commentarial tradition on The Western Wing that came before Mun, or any that Mun has demonstrated having relied upon. 34 T’o is a collective term for spoken Korean syntactic glosses added to the literary Chinese text: e.g., -i (subject marker), -nŭn (topic marker), -hago (clausal connective, ‘…and…’), etc. These glosses have a long history, having started in the Koryŏ 高麗 (918-1392) period, to indicate the sentential structure – thus having the effect of parsing the sentences.

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epitomized by ‘Encountering Sorrows’, masters’s literature from the Qin and Han, prose essays from Tang and Song, as well as the music bureau tradition and northern tunes of the Yuan Dynasty. Mun’s sense of orality is therefore strictly textual and imaginary: it excludes the actual, spoken elements of Chinese as well as Korean interpreters’ practice of translating Sinitic texts into spoken Korean. It also foregrounds the act of rhyming as what defines the established textual canon, thereby installing The Western Wing in the pantheon of literary immortality by prompting imagined chanting and vocalization. Let us first take a look at ‘Chipchu’ no.1 of the first aria, ‘Shanghua shi’ 賞 花時 at the beginning of The Western Wing to get a sense how Mun enlisted the full spectrum of canonical Sinitic literature for his glossing: ‘Enchanted by the Beauty’ is the name of the act. It refers to one seeing a dazzling beauty, smitten and in love. A Tang poem reads: ‘The flowers dazzle the eyes of the young man’.35 ‘Shanghua shi’ is the name of the tune, distinguished by a cartouche, and later cases follow this example. The Master refers to Minister Cui Jue. He is a judge of the Feng capital in Buddhist terms.36 To be young and fatherless is called orphan. A widow is a bereaved wife. Qin (Kr. ch’in) is a coffin. Because [Minister Cui] died away from home, it was called a traveling coffin. The Pŏm palace is a Buddhist monastery. To look ahead means to gaze. Boling is the Cui clan’s hometown. The Record of the Three Kingdoms has mentioned Cui Zhouping from Boling and [Zhuge] Kongming.37 The graph ch’ong (tomb) is identical to ch’ong (another graph with an earth radical). Blood-stained tears refer to the intensity of emotions that darkens the tears with blood. This is a reference to Shen Baoxu weeping for seven days at the Qin court.38 The cuckoo is a flower name. ❍ This section portrays the scene of [the old lady] speaking of her deceased husband, his coffin lodged in the monastery, her daughter still young, and herself stranded in her journey. She could not see the mountains where her ancestors were buried and so she shed blood-stained tears. 35 This line actually comes from the first song under the title of ‘Joy of Xiangyang’ 襄陽樂 in ‘Lyrics for Songs in the Pure Shang Mode’ 清商曲辭 of Guo Maoqian, Yuefu shiji, juan 48.10b. 36 The Feng capital is the place of the netherworld where the newly deceased are judged in popular Buddhist and Daoist imaginations. 37 Chen Shou, ‘Biography of Zhuge Liang’, in Sanguo zhi, juan 35.911. 38 Shen Baoxu sought support from the Duke of Qin when the Wu State attacked the Chu. He wept at the Qin court for seven days straight until his sincerity won the Duke’s sympathy, who thereupon dispatched an army in support of the Chu. The story is recorded in The Zuo Tradition. More on this later.

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驚艷，篇名，言見艷色而驚愛之謂也。唐詩曰：花艷驚郎目。賞花時，詞曲名，以 圍圈別之，下皆倣此。夫主，崔尙書玨，卽佛語所稱酆都判官者也。幼而無父曰

孤。孀，寡婦也。襯，棺也。客死故曰旅襯。梵宮，佛殿也。盼，望也。博陵，崔氏 貫鄉。 《三國志》博陵崔州平與孔明。冢，塚同。血淚，哭之情切則緇之以血也， 用申包胥七日秦庭事。杜鵑，花名。

❍ 此章，言夫既死而寄棺於寺中，女則幼而滯身於途中，望不見故鄉先山而徒洒 血淚傷時之景也。 39

As this section shows, Mun Hanmyŏng has consistently glossed all the phrases that are not immediately transparent, including referential terms such as ‘the Master’ 夫主. The semantic glosses are composed of alternative Sinographic scripts (e.g. the two variants of the word ‘coffin’) and at times followed by succinct explanations in literary Chinese. Mun’s glosses recall the ‘Explanations of Meaning’ 釋義 in the commentarial tradition of The Western Wing40 but depart from the Chinese counterparts with his lack of phonetic glosses. Several Ming editions of The Western Wing, for example, have glossed the word for coffin (chen 襯) as ‘reads as the word cheng’ 音秤 and the word for tomb (zhong 塚) as ‘reads as the word zhong’ 音踵. 41 Mun Hanmyŏng’s ‘Chipchu’ notes, while demonstrating a high grasp of Sinitic literacy, are different most distinctively on account of their lack of phonetic explanations. 42 It instead provides semantic glosses that explain the words with alternative graphs or words that were more commonly used in Chosŏn. Although Jin Shengtan had forsaken the tradition of ‘Explanations of Meaning’ by doing away with word glossing all at once, Mun Hanmyŏng seems to have been aware of such an interpretive community of Chinese commentators, likely because he had access to other commentarial editions 39 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no.1 on ‘Shanghua shi’ of the Xianlü 仙呂 mode in ‘Enchanted by the Beauty’ 驚艷 (Book 1, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 38. I follow Chŏng Yongsu’s numbering of the ‘Chipchu’ sessions in this paper and also provide Jin Shengtan’s act title and its place in The Western Wing. 40 Whereas the earliest extant tradition of The Western Wing from the wuwu year of the Hongzhi reign (1498) distributes glosses titled ‘Explanations of Meaning’ throughout the text proper, later editions typically gather these notes together either after each act or after the entire play in separate bindings. 41 See the interlinear comments in the 1611 Huayi 畫意 edition and the Tianshuiyue shanfang 田水月山房 edition from the Wanli 萬曆 period (1573-1620), both featuring commentary attributed to Xu Wei 徐渭 (1521-1693). Also see interlinear comments in Wang Jide’s 王驥德 (1540-1623) 1614 edition and eyebrow comments in the Wenxiu tang 文秀堂 edition of Nanjing from the Wanli period. Yang, Wang Shifu Xixiang ji huiping, p. 5. 42 Mun’s glossing practice coincides with what Ross King has discussed in this volume about the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’, which displays a lack of concern with contemporary Chinese pronunciations.

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of The Western Wing. His glossing of what was clearly a challenging phrase, huling 鶻伶 as ‘sharp and quick’ 伶俐也 seems to derive directly from Ling Mengchu’s 1620s edition. 43 At one point, Mun even participates in discussions within this community when glossing the phrase ‘four stars’ 四星 in the line ‘The bleakness of this night is four-starred’ 今夜淒涼有四星. 44 The phrase clearly puzzled the annotator in the Hongzhi edition, who follows his explanation of the phrase as a view of the Northern Dipper half-concealed with a disclaimer: ‘I have provisionally put down what I have heard, to wait for those informed’, 姑記所聞，以俟知者. 45 Later commentators in Xu Shifan’s 徐士範 1580 edition and the Sanhuai tang 三槐堂 edition (1573-1620) challenged this explanation and glossed the term as a measure word to mean the full degree (100 percent). 46 Yet another tradition represented by Xu Wei commentary glosses the term ‘four stars’ as an expression indicating that something is at stake as a reference to Student Zhang’s hopeful mind.47 Mun Hanmyŏng participated in this discussion by offering his own understanding of the phrase as a reference to Oxherd and the Weaving Maid in the heavenly realm and the romantic characters of the play in the earthly realm. 48 For the most part, however, Mun did not engage with this hermeneutic community. After all, he did gloss in ways that complied with his own knowledge base as a Chosŏn Korean scholar. Let us return to the first ‘Chipchu’ for indications of Mun’s glossing for his own community in late nineteenth-century Korea. An immediate departure from Chinese commentators is Mun Hanmyŏng’s understanding of Minister Cui (Oriole’s father) and the Cui clan. Chinese annotators have typically situated the place name Boling in Tang times: ‘The Cui clan of Boling was a 43 ‘Chipchu’ no.12 on ‘Xiao Liangzhou’ 小梁州 from ‘Borrowing the Wing’ 借廂 (Book 1, Act 2), in Mun, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 89. This phrase has appeared in various commentarial editions with a variant huling 胡伶. The anonymous eyebrow glossing in the 1610 Qifengguan 起鳳館 edition combines the phrase together with lulao 淥老 as an expression from the pleasure quarters without any semantic explanation. The eyebrow commentary in the 1611 Huayi edition reads the phrase as a reference to a hawk’s eyes. Mun’s glossing most closely follows Ling Mengchu’s 凌濛初 (1580-1644) glossing in his 1620s edition: ‘Huling appears as huling in Dong [Xieyuan’s All Keys and Modes Western Wing]. It means being sharp and quick’, ‘胡伶’， 董詞作 ‘鶻鴒’，言伶利也。Yang, Wang Shifu Xixiang ji huiping, p. 36. 44 The line comes from the tune ‘Mian daxu’ 綿搭絮 in ‘Matching the Poem’ 酬詩 (Book 1, Act 3). Translation from Idema and West, The Western Wing, p. 142. 45 Wang, Xinkan dazi kuiben, p. 100. 46 Ling Mengchu also cites Xu Shifan in his 1620s edition. Yang, Wang Shifu Xixiang ji huiping, pp. 65-66. 47 Yang, Wang Shifu Xixiang ji huiping, p. 66. 48 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no.12 on ‘Mian daxu’ in ‘Matching the Poem’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 141.

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prominent clan in the Tang’ 博陵崔氏，唐著姓.49 Mun Hanmyŏng, by contrast, conflates two textual traditions in his glossing: the popular perception of the Tang figure Cui Jue 崔珏 (fl. 633) as Judge of the Netherworld in story cycles related to the Chinese vernacular novel The Journey to the West 西遊 記 on the one hand50 and Chen Shou’s 陳壽 (233-297) The Record of the Three Kingdoms 三國志 on Cui Zhouping in the ‘Biography of Zhuge Liang’ 諸葛 亮 (181-234) on the other. Creating fresh textual links between the sources enlisted and the glossed dramatic character/moment is in fact a defining characteristic of the ‘Chipchu’ sections. These connections are also informative on the mechanism with which a Sinitic textual inventory likely conditioned readers’ cognition as an integral part of reading experience for Mun Hanmyŏng and his readers. In his ‘Chipchu’, Mun often referred to Chinese vernacular fiction as ‘Buddhist sources’ 佛語 to gloss popular religious elements in The Western Wing. This is perhaps because, as Mun stated in his ‘Ways to Read’, Buddhist and Daoist texts, along with Masters Cheng and Zhu’s Categorized Speeches, provided referential tools for him to make sense of the vernacular phrases. By referring to Chinese vernacular fiction as Buddhist sources, he was also able to cite well-known stories while avoiding undercutting his interpretive authority with explicit citations from ‘minor discourses’ condemned by the court. This tacit evocation of the Chinese vernacular novel is also discernible in Mun’s glossing of the phrase Tripitaka 三藏 (the historical Xuan Zang 玄奘 [602-664]) in ways revealing of how The Journey to the West likely shaped Chosŏn readers’ perception of the orthodox Buddhist figure: Tripitaka is the name of a monk. An eminent monk of the Tang. He entered the place of Tathāgata at the Thunder Sound Temple in India of the Western region, from where he commuted on horseback to transmit eighty thousand scriptures. On his scripture-seeking route he often met demons that assumed the guile of female charm. When Pigsy urged him to carry out intercourse, he would always shut his eyes without any word, looking vexed.

49 See, for examples, the comments from the 1580 Xu Shifan edition, 1592 Xiong Longfeng 熊

龍峯 edition, and 1598 Jizhizhai 繼志齋 edition in Yang, Wang Shifu Xixiang ji huiping, p. 5.

50 See the tenth chapter of The Journey to the West. Cui Ziyu 崔子玉 (Ziyu is Cui Jue’s courtesy name) as the netherworld judge who has granted additional years to the lifespan of Emperor Taizong of the Tang had been part of a popular story, its earliest rendition appearing in the Dunhuang narrative.

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三藏，僧名，唐時高僧也。入西域天竺國雷音寺如來所在處，駄出八萬經也。取經之

路，多遇妖魔之化女色者，而豬八戒，勸其交合，則輒閉目不語，有煩惱之態也。51

Aside from vernacular f iction (disguised as Buddhist sources), off icial histories 正史 are also an important part of Mun’s sources enlisted to gloss the play. We have already seen in ‘Chipchu’ no. 1 how Mun evoked both The Journey to the West and The History of the Three Kingdoms as background information for Oriole’s father. When glossing the seemingly common word nu 弩 (crossbow) in ‘Like a crossbow bolt’s sudden leaving of the string’ 似弩 箭離絃 in the aria to the tune of ‘You hulu’ 油葫蘆,52 Mun cites the historical knowledge of two important figures associated with the wielding of the crossbow: ‘A crossbow is a giant bow. Just like the Grand Marshal’s repeating crossbow and Sun Bin’s ten-thousand archers’ 弩，大弓也。如武侯連弩，孫 臏万弩之數。53 The ‘Grand Marshal’ is a reference to Zhuge Liang, whose ingenious design of a crossbow that allowed multiple bolts to be shot with one movement was recorded along with his other military innovations in Chen Shou’s The Record of the Three Kingdoms: ‘[Zhuge] Liang was brilliant with artful thoughts. The repeating crossbows and [a walking machine known as] wooden ox and gliding horse were all his idea’, 亮性長於巧思， 損益連弩，木牛流馬，皆出其意.54 Sun Bin’s (382-316 BCE) army of archers is another well-known story that cemented Sun’s fame as a military strategist recorded in Sima Qian’s 司馬遷 (ca. 145-87 BCE) The Grand Scribe’s Records 史記.55 This particular glossing shows the degree to which historical sources as a prominent part of Sinitic literacy informed the sense-making process of a Chosŏn reader. Neo-Confucian texts make another essential component to the fresh textual connections Mun has established through his ‘Chipchu’. In fact, Mun attributed special importance to Categorized Speeches of Neo-Confucian 51 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no.14 on ‘Chao tianzi’ 朝天子 in ‘Borrowing the Wing’ (Book 1, Act 2), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 94. For a general survey of the transmission and circulation of The Journey to the West in Korea, see Min, ‘Sŏyu ki ŭi kungnae yuip kwa p’anbon yŏn’gu’. The multifaceted intertextual presence of the Xiyouji in Chosŏn Korea is discussed in Wall, ‘Transformations of Xiyouji’, especially chapter 1. 52 Translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 118. 53 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no.5 on ‘You hulu’ in ‘Enchanted by the Beauty’ (Book 1, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 47. 54 Chen Shou, Sanguo zhi, juan 35.927. The sixteenth-century Chinese vernacular novel The Romance of the Three Kingdoms also amplified Zhuge Liang’s mechanical ingenuity. Given the broad circulation of The Romance of the Three Kingdoms in Chosŏn Korea, it is also possible that Mun was citing the vernacular fiction rather than Chen Shou’s history. 55 Sima Qian, Shiji, juan 65.2164.

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scholars in comprehending the rhetorical finesse in The Western Wing in his ‘Ways to Read’: Those places in songs and arias where one cannot talk one’s way through or turn things around mostly derive from Categorized Speeches of Masters Cheng and Zhu. If it had not been for Categorized Speeches, there would have been no means by which to comprehend each minute detail or to explain with exhilarating precision. This is where the author had invested his deliberations. I have also parsed these down to bring joy to the heart of my readers. 詞曲中每當說不去扭不轉去處，多從程朱兩先生語類中出來。若非語類，則無以 摸得仔細、說得痛快，此作者苦心也。此亦一一卞劈，以快讀者之心。56

We can see how, in ‘Chipchu’ no. 4 on ‘Ying xianke’ 迎仙客 (Book 1, Act 2), Mun mentioned what must have been a familiar attribute of Cheng Hao 程顥 (1032-1085) to bring out the rhetorical panache with which the play describes the abbot at the monastery where Oriole stays. The line in the aria reads: ‘Just like a molded statue of Sengjia’ 便是捏塑的僧伽像,57 followed by Mun’s note: ‘To mold is to mold with mud. Master Cheng sits still throughout the day like an earth statue’ 塑，泥塑也。程子終日坐如泥塑。58 The connection made here – between the abbot’s observed outlook and a defining characteristic of a Neo-Confucian figure – foregrounds the centrality of Neo-Confucian learning among Chosŏn scholars in not only sustaining a shared moral anchor from which to assign values but also serving as a common narrative reference in a potentially unfamiliar textual environment. Similarly, in ‘Chipchu’ no.7 on ‘Shang xiaolou’ 上小樓, Mun cites from Zhu Xi’s The Family Ritual 家禮 to gloss the phrase that describes Student Zhang’s eagerness to accept Old Lady’s invitation to a family banquet expecting to be wedded with Oriole (‘pouring out agreements’ 喏喏連聲): ‘nuo (Kr. ya/ nak) is the sound of quick replies. The Family Ritual says: “Whenever those who are baser and younger reply to those who are esteemed and elder, it is 56 Mun, ‘Ways to Read’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 24. 57 Translation adapted from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 56. 58 The description of Cheng Hao appears in several Neo-Confucian sources, including Reflections on Things at Hand 近思錄 compiled by Zhu Xi and Lü Zuqian 呂祖謙 (1137-1181): ‘Master Mingdao sits [all days] like an earth statue. But when he is in contact with others he is completely amicable’, 明道先生坐如泥塑人，接人則渾是一團和氣 . Zhu and Lü, Jinsi lu, juan 14.360. Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 4 on ‘Ying xianke’ in ‘Borrowing the Wing’ (Book 1, Act 2), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 77.

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called singing agreements”’, 喏，速答聲。家禮曰，凡卑幼答尊長曰唱喏.59 The domestic hierarchy prescribed by The Family Ritual structures Student Zhang’s romantic longing and contains it within a sense of propriety with which Chosŏn readers were quite at home. Among all the sources, Mun Hanmyŏng made most extensive use of the poetic tradition to explain the arias of The Western Wing, drawing upon The Book of Poetry, commonly referred to as Sijŏn 詩傳,60 Tang and Song poetry (often identifying well-known poets in phrases such as Du [Fu’s] poetry 杜詩 and [Su Dong]po’s poetry 坡詩), music bureau songs (yuefu, Kr. akpu 樂府), and northern sanqu songs 散曲 from the Yuan. He also made a special remark about the imperative of tracing the poetic sources in his ‘Ways to Read’: The cited meaning of songs often come out of poetry from the Tang writers, old music bureau songs, and tunes by Yuan writers. Even if it is the case of one single line or a single character, if one is not clear about its source, it would then be a let-down of the author’s enlightened mind and numinous ingenuity. I have therefore specifically cited the original sources with respective annotations, in order to please the eyes of my readers. 詞曲中，引用文義，多出唐人詩、古樂府、元人曲，雖一句一字之間，若昩其出處，則 反爲辜負其作者之慧心靈竅，故特從其引用本處，一一註解出來，以悅讀者之目。61

In ‘Chipchu’ no. 1 introduced above, Mun cited a music bureau song (though identified as a Tang poem) to explain the meaning of the title of the act. When glossing, he often quoted multiple poems as a way to explain a line. Take Mun’s ‘Chipchu’ no. 11 on ‘Shiliu hua’ 石榴花 in ‘Commotion over the Letter’ 鬧簡 (Book 3, Act 2), for example. When glossing the line ‘Today in the upper room where you make your evening toilette, apricot blossoms fade, / And yet you still fear the single layer of your gown’ 你晚粧樓上杏花 59 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 7 on ‘Shang xiaolou’ in ‘Inviting to the Banquet’ 請宴 (Book 2, Act 2), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 243. Mun’s remark here is a synopsis of the following injunction in Master Zhu’s Family Ritual 朱子家禮 with its annotation in smaller-sized characters: ‘Those who are baser and younger all need to inquire after the esteemed and elder in the morning and bid good night in the evening. Men bow while uttering their tributes. Women say “a myriad blessings” [in the morning] and “good night” [in the evening]’, 凡卑幼於尊長晨亦 省問夜亦安置。丈夫唱喏婦人道萬福安置。Zhu, Zhuzi jiali, juan 1.12a. 60 Sijŏn technically means the commentary to The Book of Poetry, particularly Zhu Xi’s commentary known as Shi jizhuan 詩集傳. But the term was also commonly used in Chosŏn to refer to the text of The Book of Poetry itself. 61 Mun, ‘Ways to Read’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 24.

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殘，猶有祛衣單,62 Mun cited what he identified as two Tang poems and two

song lyrics to expand the meaning of this line to more general lyricization of the early spring and the chill the season brings upon a lonesome poetic subject.63 These cited lines, extrapolated from anthologies devoid of authorial attributions, point to a context-based reading of lyrical moments that, in practice, reorganizes the existing poetic repertoire by making new connections among isolated lines. The extension of a particular dramatic moment for assimilation in a broadly anthologized lyrical tradition also produced new, emotionally charged cultural space. At play here is another major feature of Mun’s ‘Chipchu’: the citation of colloquial Korean expressions as ‘vulgar sayings’ (soksŏl 俗說). Take one of the most well-known moments in The Western Wing, for example. After Oriole’s mother reneges on her promise of marriage, Student Zhang plays zither in the evening to vent his resentment, as Oriole, listening to the music, expresses her own lovesickness and frustration. In the aria to the tune of ‘Tiaoxiao ling’ 調笑令 in this act, ‘Thoughts Conveyed by the Zither’ 琴心 (Book 2, Act 4), Oriole sings about her perception of the sound of the zither: ‘Could it be the sound of ivory rules and scissors sending off [the traveler]’ 是牙尺剪刀聲相送?64 Here Mun Hanmyŏng writes: Ivory rulers are rulers for sewing. Du [Fu’s] poem reads: ‘At the time of Cold Food, everywhere ruler and blade hasten.’65 A Tang poem reads: ‘Tailoring, I could not decide on the length, / So I carried rulers and scissors 62 Translation based on Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 202. 63 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 11 on ‘Shiliu hua’ in ‘Commotion over the Letter’ (Book 3, Act 2), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 378. The first line Mun identified to have come from the Tang poetry reads: ‘Apricot blossoms at the Cold Food festival, amidst the thinning sound of the rain’ 杏花寒食雨聲殘. We are not able to find this line in the existing corpus of Tang poetry. The second ‘Tang poetry’ line reads: ‘The weather is still cold, and I fear my thin spring blouse’ 天寒尚怯春衫薄. This comes from a song lyric to the tune ‘Yi Qin’e’ 憶秦娥 by Kang Yuzhi 康與之 (fl. 1127-1145) collected in Huang Sheng’s 黃昇 (fl. 1245) Hua’an’s Collection of Song Lyrics, Second Collection 花菴詞選續集, 1.8b. Among the two cited song lyrics, the first line, ‘In the frigid spring chill, I am dazed with wine’ 料峭春寒中酒迷離, is a truncated citation from Wu Wenying’s 吳文英 (ca. 1200-1260) song lyric to the tune ‘Fengrusong’ 風入松: ‘Inebriated in the frigid spring chill, / On top of this, dream at dawn [disturbed by] chirping orioles’, 料峭春寒中酒，交加曉夢啼鶯. Wu’s line can be found in Zhou Mi’s 周密 (1232-1298) Most Remarkably Good Songs 絕妙好詞, 4.4b. The second line, ‘Up in the tower, at dusk, apricot blossoms are cold’ 樓上黃昏杏花寒 comes from Ruan Yue’s 阮閱 (fl. 1123) song lyric to the tune ‘Yaner mei’ 眼兒媚, collected in Huang Sheng’s Hua’an’s Collection of Song Lyrics, 6.4a. 64 Translation based on Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 185. 65 This line comes from Du Fu’s first of the eight regulated poems titled ‘Stirred by Autumn’ 秋 興: ‘Everywhere clothes for cold weather hasten ruler and blade, / walls of White Emperor Castle

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with me when attending to my mother-in-law.’66 Scissors are blades with intercrossing legs, as in the vulgar saying kaoy.67 A poet from ancient times has a poem on scissors that reads: ‘With affection, two waists stack on top of each other, / Laden with emotions, two feet wide open. / Rocking back and forth is up to me, / How deep or how shallow – the tailoring is up to you.’ 牙尺，針尺也。杜詩曰，寒食處處催刀尺。唐詩曰，裁縫長短不能定，自持刀尺向 姑前。剪刀，交股刀也。俗說 動於我在，深淺任君裁。68

。古人剪刀詩曰：有意變腰合，多情兩腳開。搖

What Mun created is not only an extended poetic space in which the sound of tailoring and sewing foreground ethically toned emotions such as a loving wife’s devotion to a parting husband and that of a devoted daughter-in-law. With the introduction of the Korean phrase kaoy, he also shifts the cultural space to Chosŏn Korea.69 One may wonder why Mun felt the need to connect particularly the word for scissors to a ‘vulgar’ spoken Korean counterpart, but the poem that he cited right after it provides an answer. Introduced as one from ‘a poet from ancient times’, the poem is apparently ripe with sexual insinuation and assumes a female, somewhat risqué voice. Yi Sugwang’s 李 睟光 (1563-1628) Categorized Sayings Collected by Chibong 芝峯類說 contains the same poem with a slight change – chest 胸 instead of waist 腰 and thighs 股 for feet 腳. Yi attributed the poem to ‘a woman of recent years whose name I know not’ 近世婦人不知誰氏 and dismissively commented: ‘Crafty language, though excessively obscene’ 語巧而太褻.70 Mun refrained from high, pounding blocks urgent in dusk’, 寒衣處處催刀尺，白帝城高急暮砧。 Qiu, Du shi xiangzhu, juan 17.1484. Translation from Owen, The Poetry of Du Fu, vol. 4, p. 353. 66 The ‘Tang poem’ is from Zhang Ji’s 張籍 (ca. 766 to ca. 830) ‘Song on the White Linen’ 白紵 歌. Peng, Quan Tang shi, juan 22.288. 67 From here on, the Korean text Mun Hanmyŏng wrote in Hangŭl will be transcribed in the Yale romanization system for Middle Korean, for Mun uses Hangŭl symbols that are obsolete in modern Korean, which cannot be romanized by the McCune-Reischauer system. 68 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no.5 on ‘Tiaoxiao ling’ in ‘Heart of Zither’ (book 2, act 4), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 309. 69 In addition to ‘vulgar sayings’, Mun has also used the phrase ‘local speech’ 方言 to introduce Korean scripts, but the number of appearances is far smaller compared to when he made use of ‘vulgar sayings’. Mun’s use of ‘local speech’ also typically points toward direct lexical correspondences (i.e., glosses on Sinographs) located in spoken Korean. By contrast, ‘vulgar sayings’ establish more complicated relationships between classical Chinese and Mun’s contemporary linguistic reality that is the focus of the next section. 70 Yi, ‘Munjangbu’ 文章部 7 (under the heading, ‘Ladies’ 閨秀), Chibong yusŏl, kwŏn 14. Perhaps because the poem was preceded by those of Hŏ Nansŏrhŏn 許蘭雪軒, some have presumed

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identifying the author of the Korean poem, rather dubbing it as ‘from a poet from the past’. Was Mun refraining from clear attribution of the poem in order to ‘pass’ a poem from a Korean writer as part of the ‘Chinese’ (and hence iconic) poetic tradition? What is the linguistic significance therein? We shall now investigate the rich cultural space opened up by the ‘vulgar sayings’ before coming back to ‘Chipchu’ no. 1.

‘Vulgar sayings’ – linguistic plurality and imagined orality The ‘vulgar sayings’ is an important device through which Mun Hanmyŏng established fresh connections between literary Chinese and colloquial Korean in ways that complicate the duality of Sinitic literacy and non-Sinitic orality. To begin with, not all the spoken Korean expressions fall under the ‘vulgar sayings’ category, indicating that linguistic registers are more complicated than what is often assumed. When glossing the line ‘How dare I be rash, since “there is a beautiful jade at hand”’ 怎因而有美玉如斯 in the coda of Book 3 Act 1,71 Mun wrote: ‘“ How” means “what to do”. “Therefore” is like saying homwulmye (all the more so [when])’, 怎，奈也。因而猶言 。72 Mun’s glossing of zen (how) here is not quite identical to the alternative graph nai (what to do) because in terms of register, zen is more vernacular than nai in literary Chinese. But to Mun who was well versed in standard Sinitic literacy, nai was conceptually more familiar than zen in the sense that it was more often used in hanmun writing. When offering a Korean phrase as an equivalent to the Chinese consequential adverb yin’er (therefore), Mun did not indicate that the Korean expression is a ‘vulgar saying’. Rather, he that the poem was by Hŏ Ch’ohŭi 許楚姬 (1563-1589), sister of the well-known Korean writer Hŏ Kyun 許筠 (1569-1618). See, for example, Pak, Chosŏn ŭi yŏsŏngdŭl, pp. 68-70. In promotion of his sister’s poems under her courtesy name Nansŏrhŏn 蘭雪軒, Hŏ Kyun showed her poems to a Ming scholar-official Zhu Zhifan 朱之蕃 (1575-1624) and reputedly gave a collection of Hŏ Ch’ohŭi’s poetry to some military officials like Lan Fangwei 藍芳威 and Wu Mingji 吳明濟 who led the relief army from Qing to Chosŏn in 1598, and therefore her poems were also circulating in China. Hŏ Kyun also collated the Nansŏrhŏn chip 蘭雪軒集 in 1607. The said poem cannot be found in any of these collections. Some also attributed the poem to the wife of a Kim Wŏnso 김원소 in an orally transmitted story, who on the wedding night composed it at her husband’s request, and was spurned by him for striking too wanton a tone. Hŏ, Uri ka chŏngmal araya hal uri kyubang munhwa, p. 45. 71 Translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 197. The citation is a pun on Analects, 9.12. 72 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 16 on ‘Coda’ 煞尾 of ‘The Earlier Waiting’ 前候 (Book 3, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 355.

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provided a kind of functional explanation, offering to gloss the literary Chinese as ‘just like saying’ 猶言, while replacing the Chinese consequential adverb with a stronger rhetorical adverb in spoken Korean (homwulmye, ‘all the more so when’, which is commonly translated into another Sinitic word kuang 况). We can see from this part of ‘Chipchu’ the multiple ways in which Mun engaged the linguistic senses of his contemporaries as part of a monitored reading experience. Sometimes Mun provided a glossing in Sinographs under the rubric of ‘vulgar sayings’. We can find an example in Mun’s glossing of the line ‘I thought he straightened out the flowered paper to sketch out a draft’ 我只 道拂花箋打稿兒 earlier in the same act (Book 3, Act 1)73 with the following glossary: ‘A draft is a script on grass-based materials. In vulgar saying, ch’otkŏn (grass-scribbled text)’, 稿，藁本也，俗說，草件也。74 Here the rubric ‘vulgar sayings’ does not introduce a non-Sinitic word (in hangŭl) but a Sinitic word in hanja. This Sinitic word, however, does not have a Chinese origin. The word jian 件 was typically used as a verb or a measure word in Chinese, and it was not until the twentieth century that the graph functioned alone as a noun to refer to a text. The phrase ch’otkŏn (scribbled text) therefore is a Korean word that uses Sinographs. This example points to the plurality of linguistic reality in Chosŏn Korea: Sinitic words coined in Korea using Sinographs – like kongch’aek 空冊 (notebook) and kamgi 感 氣 (a cold) – constitute a significant part of the Korean language, whether written or spoken. In other cases, Mun made use of ‘vulgar sayings’ as a platform on which to stage mutual translatability between literary Chinese and spoken Korean beyond word-for-word correspondences. When glossing the line ‘I shall never give a second thought, / But immediately bury my head to prepare for a wasting death’ 我卻沒三思，一納頭只去憔悴死,75 Mun wrote: ‘“No three thoughts” expresses [the meaning of] needless to think. In vulgar sayings, tu mal epsi (without two words)’ 沒三思，言不可費思量。俗說두말업시。76 Although ‘no three thoughts’ does not translate directly into ‘without two words’ in colloquial Korean, Mun was noting an interesting parallel between written 73 Translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 196. 74 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 13 on ‘Houting hua’ 後庭花 of ‘The Earlier Waiting’ 前候 (Book 3, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 350. 75 Translation based on Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 193. Jin Shengtan has changed the padding words so that the line comes to refer to Crimson herself rather than Oriole and Student Zhang. 76 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 4 on ‘Tianxia le’ 天下樂 of ‘The Earlier Waiting’ (Book 3, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 335.

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Chinese and spoken Korean (or, the written text and orality) when discussing a similar situation. The use of numbers (i.e., three thoughts and two words) is highlighted as an otherwise hidden structure that aligns the written script with the oral expression. Mun Hanmyŏng was therefore engaging ‘vulgar sayings’ as a rhetorical device to promote a distinctive mode of orality that obfuscates the duality between written scripts and spoken sounds. To a large extent, this is an imaginary orality that specifically excludes oral interpreters’ translations of written or spoken Chinese into colloquial Korean.77 Mun had never seen Chinese drama being performed, nor had he conversed in spoken Chinese. Yet he was certainly aware of the multiple registers of Chinese from highly literary to purposefully vernacular when glossing The Western Wing. By mobilizing spoken Korean expressions to establish connections with specific registers of literary Chinese beyond direct lexical correspondences, Mun was simulating an oral performance, drawing upon an inventory of literary learning and spoken expressions available to him.78 In so doing, he forged a readable space where his contemporary men of letters could experience all strata of Chinese with the corresponding emotional appeal. Perhaps the targeted linguistic senses and emotional experience did not quite match what Chinese commentators took care to explain to their audience, but this imagined oral space was precisely what Mun cultivated for his readers in late Chosŏn to share. We can see how Mun Hanmyŏng mapped out Sinitic literacy and ‘vulgar sayings’ as co-inhabiting his perception of linguistic reality in the way he glossed the word ‘bland’ in an aria to the tune of  ‘Gun xiuqiu’ 滾繡球 of ‘Crisis at the Temple’ 寺警 (Book 2, Act 1), sung by the impetuous monk Huiming 惠 明: ‘But the vegetable-stuffed buns I’ve been eating these days / Are really 77 Sixiang Wang has also discussed the consistent erasure of Korean interpreters’ voices in the Chosŏn politics of language in diplomatic settings. Wang, ‘The Sounds of Our Country’. 78 Another example that shows this simulated oral performance can be found in Mun’s glossing of the line ‘To see how you, this Qiannü of Departed soul, / Will deal with Pan An, showered with fruit’ 看你個離魂倩女，怎生的擲果潘安 (translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 207). In recognition of the line as part of Crimson’s singing that vents her resentment toward Oriole for having upbraided her as a messenger delivering a letter from Student Zhang, Mun offers the following explanation: ‘To see, in vulgar sayings, is “Where, let’s see…” that expresses (the intention) to seek vengeance’, 看，俗說， ，報復之意。The spoken Korean expression, etey pwoco, is a common phrase that introduces a sentence expressing a firm pledge as an act of revenge. By engaging this expression to gloss the verb ‘to see’ in the play, Mun is inviting readers to imagine the deliverance of the line in Crimson’s sharp tongue. Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 19 on ‘Third from Coda’ 三煞 in ‘Commotion over the Letter’ (‘Book 3, Act 2), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 400.

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tasteless’ 這些時喫菜饅頭委實口淡.”79 Mun’s glossing reads: ‘“Bland” is “clear and bland”. In vulgar sayings, singkewe. “The Thousand-Word Essay” says: “the ocean is salty and the river is bland.” The Record of the Three Kingdoms says: “Dong Zhao maintained a bland diet for thirty years,”’80 淡，清淡也。俗 說싱거워。千字文曰：海鹹河淡。三國志曰，董昭食淡三十年。81 In the spoken realm of Chosŏn Korea, the spoken word for ‘bland’ (singkep-) was so commonly used that its Sinitic morpheme (tam 淡) rarely stood alone as a word, more often appearing in compounds to mean the light or flavorless quality of things. By engaging the ‘vulgar saying’ here, Mun was calling attention to the original meaning of the Sinitic word as being capable of becoming the equivalent of the higher register of literary Chinese. The Thousand-Word Essay and the vernacular novel The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, then, became textual instantiation of what was a common Korean expression in literary Chinese. Such juxtapositions show exactly the malleability of Korean colloquial expressions as being capable of becoming part of the high register of literary Chinese. For Mun’s readers, there must have been a sense of immediacy and viscerality in evoking colloquial Korean expressions among literary Chinese phrases. Such is the case of Mun’s glossing of Oriole’s address to Crimson in the ‘Reprise’ of ‘Xinshui ling’ 新水令 in ‘Renegade on Marriage’ 賴婚 (Book 2, Act 3): ‘Don’t babble on, / Don’t be one who runs off at the mouth’ 你那裡休 聒，不當一個信口開合.82 Mun wrote: ‘To run off at the mouth, in vulgar sayings, ip uy mal nawonun taylwo (as words that come out of your mouth). It means those who, without discriminating proper styles of speech – honorific or low-form – say whatever comes to the tip of their tongues’, 信口開合，俗説 ，言不擇尊卑，隨口發言者也。83 Here Mun evoked a spoken Korean idiom tantamount to the Chinese phrase (literally ‘to trust the mouth’s opening and closing’), and then, for its visceral lack of scruples that is associated with the original Korean expression, proceeded to contain this unrestrained sense of ease with a translation back to literary Chinese: 79 Translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 159. 80 This line can be found in chapter fourteen of The Romance of the Three Kingdoms in Dong Zhao’s own words in response to Cao Cao’s question on his radiant look: ‘I do not have other tricks. Only I have had a light diet for thirty years’, 某無他法，只食淡三十年矣. Mao, Mao Shengshan piping Sanguo zhi,14.18a. 81 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 17 on ‘Gun xiuqiu’ of ‘Crisis at the Temple’ (Book 2, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 208. 82 Translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 176. 83 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 4 on ‘Reprise’ of ‘Renegade on Marriage’ (Book 2, Act 3), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 270.

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the kind of casualness that relaxes social hierarchy in conversations. In so doing, Mun defined the proper emotional experience of reading while reinforcing the experience with a trenchant sense of immediacy by evoking spoken Korean expressions. Eventually it is the affective dimension of reading that Mun Hanmyŏng strove to stimulate by staging the plurality of linguistic reality in his ‘Chipchu’ glosses. Let us return to his peculiar understanding of the phrase ‘blood-stained tears’ in ‘Chipchu’ no.1 as recalling the historical source of Shen Baoxu’s seven-day weeping at the Qin court. This gloss helped him develop a particular mode of reading that channels private sentiments through ethically validated, public emotions. Shen Baoxu’s story can be found in the fourth year of Duke Ding of Lu 定公 in The Zuo Tradition: ‘[Shen] stood leaning against the wall of the outer court and wept, his wailing non-stop days and nights; for seven days he did not touch any food or drink’, 立依 於庭牆而哭，日夜不絕聲，勺飲不入口七日。84 Given the level of literacy Mun displayed throughout the ‘Chipchu’ commentary, it is curious why he did not gloss the term according to the common association of the cuckoo’s wailing to blood-stained tears.85 Mun’s distinctive glossing prepares us for his own summary of the emotional situation of this aria in a parallel narrative prefaced by ‘This section’ 此章 demarcated by a circle toward the end of the ‘Chipchu’ section: ‘This section portrays the scene of [the old lady] speaking of her deceased husband, his coffin tugged away in the monastery, her daughter still young, and herself stranded in her journey. She could not see the mountains where her ancestors were buried and so she sheds blood-stained tears.’ Mun’s recapitulation of the aria re-frames the emotions expressed very much as a loyalist sentiment: Old Lady weeps tears of blood because her homeland (where her ancestors lay buried) is nowhere to be seen. The pathos of Shen Baoxu as a loyal minister therefore foreshadows the reading of Old Lady’s weeping not just as a stranded widow but as a devoted wife who strives to complete her duty by bringing her husband’s body back for a proper burial. Her plight, on a symbolic level, is that of a loyal subject longing for homeland. We see a similar case in which Mun evoked what must have been familiar historical knowledge and broadly shared public sentiments to him and his own community to explain a dramatic moment concerning Crimson 紅娘, the sharp-witted maid. In his glossing for ‘Xiao Liangzhou’ 小梁州 on the line 84 Yang, Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhu, p. 1548. 85 See the ‘Explanation of Meaning’ in the Hongzhi edition for example. Wang, Xinkan dazi kuiben, p. 59.

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‘This delightful lass’s face is made up, oh, so lightly; / She is wearing a set of plain white clothes’ 可喜龐兒淺淡粧，穿一套縞素衣裳 in ‘Borrowing the Wing’ (Book 1, Act 2),86 Mun wrote: ‘A light makeup goes with plain clothes. Crimson is a maid of a bereaved family, hence the plain clothes. Emperor Gaozu of the Han had worn plain clothes for three years in observance of Emperor Yi’s mourning ritual’, 淡粧，素服也。紅爲喪家之婢故素服也。漢高祖爲義帝發喪 三年縞素。87 Emperor Yi is King Huai of Chu 楚懷王 (d. 205 BCE), who had been installed by Xiang Yu 項羽 (232-202 BCE), one of the contenders for the throne after the fall of the Qin, as a puppet ruler for the purpose of claiming political legitimacy for the old state of Chu. King Huai became a tragic figure in the historical imagination because Xiang Yu had him killed eventually. For a Chinese reader, the mourning attire of a maid can hardly recall the event of the founding emperor of the Han paying homage to a puppet ruler. Yet this event resonates particularly for Chosŏn readers because Emperor Yi had been a central figure in an essay by Kim Chongjik 金宗直 (1431-93), ‘Lament for Emperor Yi’ 弔義帝文, which was intended to criticize King Sejo 世祖 (r. 1417-68) for his usurping the throne of his nephew, Tanjong 端宗 (r. 1441-57), and eventual murdering of the deposed nephew – one of the original sins of the Chosŏn court. Because of this essay, Kim, a crucial figure of the sarim 士林 (scholar-official community), was implicated and decapitated in postmortem, which in turn triggered the 1498 purge of scholar-officials from the throne occupied by King Yŏnsan’gun 燕山君 (r. 1494-1506), events that had a long-lasting impact on Korean intellectuals.88 Mun Hanmyŏng’s glossing therefore shows how he incorporated the reading of The Western Wing along with a rehearsal of specific historical memory as occasions to vent public and political emotions. By establishing an emotional tie between the (implied) author of the play and his anticipated readers (premised on readers’ full grasp of the author’s creative intention), Mun continued Jin Shengtan’s cultivation of an imagined community of talented readers of kindred spirits whose ‘brocade-like minds’ are charged by the same cosmic energy that empowers creative minds of ingenious authors.89 Whereas Jin Shengtan often carved out a dramatic space with his 86 Translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 129. 87 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no.11 on ‘Xiao Liangzhou’ in ‘Borrowing the Wing’ (Book 1, Act 2), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 88. 88 For details, see Oh, Engraving Virtue, p. 210. 89 Jin Shengtan lays out his imagination of such a readerly community in his extensive ‘Ways to Read’, which no doubt inspired Mun’s own list on ‘Ways to Read’. Jin makes quite a polemical claim that the phenomenal world is in fact a simulacrum of all the books read by talented readers, and that it is the act of reading that accounts for the emergence of marvelous books in the world.

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own voice to make an appeal to such a community in ritualized emotional outpouring,90 Mun Hanmyŏng laid out the affective dimension of reading in parallel narratives that consistently concludes all Mun’s ‘Chipchu’ glossing demarcated by a round circle. To these narratives we shall turn.

Parallel narratives: how to feel while reading The parallel narratives that Mun provides after his ‘Chipchu’ glossing play several different roles, all contributing to his control of the reading experience. One important role, as ‘Chipchu’ no. 1 demonstrates earlier about Mon’s note on the phrase ‘blood-stained tears’, is to facilitate Mun Hanmyŏng’s distinctive glossing as a way to delineate the affective dimension of reading. A similar case is Mun’s idiosyncratic glossing of a fairly common phrase ‘broken volumes and residual pieces’ 斷簡殘篇 in ‘Hunjiang long’ of ‘Enchanted by the Beauty’ (Book 1, Act 1).91 Instead of glossing the phrase in its immediately transparent sense as textual fragments, Mun alluded to Confucius’ ‘thrice wearing off the leather binding [of The Book of Changes]’ 韋編三絕 recorded in the ‘Hereditary House of Confucius’ 孔 子世家 in Sima Qian’s The Grand Scribe’s Record.92 This distinctive gloss helps reinforce Mun’s reading of the aria as a praise of perseverance and sustained efforts with one’s study, an emotional state summarized in his parallel narrative: ‘This section talks about one’s intention so set on the Poetry and the Documents that one never leaves them days or nights just like a bookworm … One must not be afraid that one’s patterned writings For a study of Jin’s idiosyncratic take of authorship and readership, as well as his promotion of this imagined reading community, see Ling, ‘Jinxiu caizi yu shehuixing yuedu’. 90 One example will suffice here. Jin made a dramatic appeal to this community of readers in his critical essay preceding ‘Thoughts Conveyed by the Zither’ (Book 2, Act 4): ‘I shall send words to the edge of Heaven, to talented men with brocade-like minds at who-knows-where – I desire to trim the lamp with you, our mats touching as we drink and laugh heartily. We shall chant, recite, expound, debate, call at this play and prostrate in its front’, 寄語茫茫天涯，何處錦 繡才子，吾欲與君挑燈促席，浮白歡笑，唱之、誦之、講之、辯之、叫之、拜之。Jin, Diliu caizishu Xixiang ji, p. 128. 91 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 4 on ‘Hunjiang long’ in ‘Enchanted by the Beauty’ (Book 1, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 44. The line in the aria ‘Hunjiang long’ 混江龍 reads: ‘I am afraid that you will not whittle insects and carve seal-script characters, / And stitch together broken strips and tattered texts’, 怕爾不雕蟲篆刻，斷簡殘篇。Translation adapted from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 117. 92 The original paragraph in The Grand Scribe’s Records reads: ‘In old age, Confucius enjoyed reading The Book of Changes… He read The Book of Changes [so much that he] wore off the leather binding three times’, 孔子晚而喜易…讀易，韋編三絕。Sima Qian, Shiji, juan 47.1937.

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are not artful or bedazzling, or that one’s efforts are not solid or firm. These are words on admonishing hard work’, 此章，言人之向意於詩書，晝夜不離，有 若蠹魚焉 … 慎勿畏其文字之不巧艷，工夫之不堅固也。蓋其益勉之辭.93 Another important role of the parallel narrative is to contain the various linguistic registers in The Western Wing, especially local and vernacular expressions that pose challenges to readers conventionally trained in classical Chinese. Mun achieved this by engaging the parallel narrative after his glossing to retell the story in demotic classical Chinese that recapitulates the colloquial expressions. The beginning line of the aria ‘Yuanhe ling’ 元和令 in ‘Enchanted by the Beauty’ (Book 1, Act 1), ‘Stunning knockouts – I’ve seen a million, / But a lovely face like this is rarely seen’ 顛不剌的見了萬千，這般可喜娘罕曾見,94 for example, has long puzzled Chinese commentators. The eyebrow commentary of the 1598 Jizhizhai edition offers a tentative explanation: ‘Dianbula, name of fine jade. Also name of a beautiful woman as a tribute from foreign regions. In addition, the Yuan people took buhua to be oxen and bula to be dogs. This is not relevant, but can still serve as a reference’, 顛不剌，美玉名。又外方所貢美女 名。又，元人以不花為牛，不剌為犬。此義不相涉，亦可以備考。95 In this case, the Chinese commentators took dianbula as one word, a phonetic transcription of a foreign term possibly from Mongolian. Mun Hanmyŏng, by contrast, split the phrase lexically with morphemebased glosses and recapitulated the line in the parallel narrative initiated by ‘This says’ 此言: Chŏn (Ch. dian) means to fall and lie down.96 The Book of Poetry says: ‘I was putting them on upside down.’97 Ral (Ch. la) means to force into something.98 ‘Like this’ is just like ‘such’. The word for ‘rare’ means scarce. … 93 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 4 on ‘Hunjiang long’ in ‘Enchanted by the Beauty’ (Book 1, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 45. 94 Translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 120. 95 This explanation can also be found in commentary of the 1580 Xu Shifan, p. 1592 Xiong Longfeng, and the Sanhuai tang edition. Yang, Wang Shifu Xixiang ji huiping, p. 13. 96 Mun may have been prompted by the classical Chinese word dianpei 顛沛 in glossing dian here. The Chinese phrase dianpei originates from the Greater Odes 大雅 of The Book of Poetry: ‘People have a saying; “When a tree falls utterly; / While its branches and leaves are yet uninjured; / It must first have been uprooted”’, 人亦有言，顛沛之揭，枝葉未有害，本實先撥。Translation from Legge, The She King, pp. 509-510. 97 This line comes from the Air of Qi 齊風 of The Book of Poetry. Translation from Legge, The She King, p. 154. 98 Mun seems to have seen the word ral 剌 (aberrant) here as a graph that looks very similar, cha / ch’ŏk 刺 (to pierce). Although the manuscript writes it as ral, his glossing, (Ch.) chongru /

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❍ Here it says that as for women who are not fair I have seen thousands of

them. Even if they would undress and lay flat on the ground, I eventually do not have any intention to force into them.

顛，沛臥也。詩傳曰：顛之倒之。剌，衝入也。這般，猶如此也。罕，稀也。… ❍此言 不美之女，曾見万万千千，而雖脫衣仰臥於地上，終無衝入之意也。99

Mun’s glossing here instantiates a demotic reading of classical Chinese – text perceived to be based on graphs and their individual lexical meanings.100 The negative particle bu in the phrase dianbula might have triggered such a lexical decoding. The unfamiliar expression that most Chinese writers perceived as phonetic transcription is therefore translated and contained within a straightforward register of morphemic-graph-based classical Chinese as a parallel narrative, its semantic content (homely girls with seductive poses) mapping out the earthiness of the foreign spoken expression to simulate the emotional experience of the dramatic moment. Most significantly Mun engaged his parallel narrative as a leveling device to create links among texts of different pedigrees (ranging from belleslettres to erotica) in order to prescribe a reading that enacts the anticipated emotional experience as a regulatory means of self-cultivation. A point of illustration is Mun’s interpretation of the most notorious scene in The Western Wing on the sexual intercourse between Oriole and Student Zhang. Mun made a bold move here with his ‘Chipchu’ glosses on the following lines in the aria to the tune of ‘Sheng hulu’ 勝葫蘆 in ‘Fulfilling the Letter’ 酬簡 (Book 4, Act 1): ‘Gently she adjusts her willowy waist, / And lightly splits the flower’s heart: / Dew drips; the peony opens’ 柳腰款擺，花心輕坼， 露滴牡丹開：101

Dew is the dew of flowers, an implicit metaphor of semen. In Tao [Qian’s] poem, the chrysanthemum dew inscribes the history of the Jin.102 A Tang (Kr.) ch’ungip (force into) suggests ‘to pierce’ (cha). 99 Mun, ‘Chipchu’ no. 8 on ‘Yuanhe ling’, in ‘Enchanted by the Beauty’ (Book 1, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 54. 100 This is a most revealing moment of Mun’s performative practice of hermeneutics, as his glossing departs from what Ross King, in this volume, has shown as an illustration of the ‘Xixiangji Glossarial Complex’, which treats the phrase as a single expression. By contrast, Mun is parsing the phrase in an idiosyncratic way to advance a deliberately monitored emotional experience of reading. 101 Translation from Idema and West, The Story of the Western Wing, p. 228. 102 This seems to be Mun’s reference to Tao Qian’s 陶潛 (365-427) line in the seventh of his poems titled ‘On Drinking Wine’ 飲酒: ‘Autumn chrysanthemums have lovely colors; / I pluck

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poem says: ‘I drip dew and crush cinnamon to highlight the diagram of The Book of Changes.’103 The graphs for mudan 牡丹 (peony) can also be written as mudan 牧丹. ‘On the Love of the Lotus’ says: the love for peonies applies to the multitude.104 In The Water Margin, the song on Pan Jinlian and Ximen Qing’s day-time rendezvous says: ‘One pair of waning moon revealed above the shoulders, / A few clusters of raven clouds beside the pillow. / Two feet facing the sky, / Slowly, the dew drips on the heart of the peony.’105 … ❍ This part delineates sexual intercourse between a man and a woman. For what reason does the waist adjust, why naturally flower’s heart splits – just when they are in each other’s embrace, entering and withdrawing on top of each other, the stem has already sunk deep in the organ, and the dew naturally drips on the flower heart. Shivering and numbness are the formula for a lustful girl, yet this entails the principle of necessity and the dynamics of the inevitable. 露，花露也，暗比精水也。陶詩曰：菊露寫晉史。唐詩曰，滴露研朱點周易。牡丹，牧 丹也。愛蓮說曰，牧丹之愛宜乎衆。水滸志潘金蓮與西門慶晝合詞曰:肩膊上露一

雙新月，枕頭邊堆數朶烏雲。兩腳朝天，涓涓露滴牧丹心 … ❍此形容其男女交合之

狀也。腰何故而擺動，花自然而輕坼，方其互相擁抱，俯伏進退之際，莖已沈於陰

中，露自滴於花間。抖顫麻木之症，乃是淫女之例套，而必有之理，必至之勢也。106

In his ‘Chipchu’ comments, Mun Hanmyŏng not only extended the dramatic moment of sexual intercourse to lyrical moments in Tao Qian’s poetic oeuvre and Tang poetry, he also made a connection to the descriptive verse from an erotic scene in vernacular fiction. Here Mun deftly promoted a reading of the word for ‘dew’ as a metaphor for liquid essence (semen) to make ingenious connections among texts of various cultural pedigrees: the fluid exchanged between the fornicating couple in The Water Margin is the same essence that defines Tao Qian’s lofty disposition as a Jin poet-historian and the perceptive mind in the Tang poem set to decipher The Book of Changes. In the parallel the blossoms dampened with dew’, 秋菊有佳色，裛露掇其英. Translation from Wendy Swartz in Cai, How to Read Chinese Poetry, p. 126. 103 This line comes from Gao Pian’s 高駢 (821-887) poem ‘Pacing the Void’ 步虛詞. Peng, Quan Tang shi, juan 598.6920. 104 This is the prominent Neo-Confucian figure Zhou Dunyi’s 周敦頤(1017-1073) ‘Discourse on My Love of the Lotus’ 愛蓮說, in Zhou Lianxi xiansheng quanji, juan 8.139. 105 These lines, except for the line ‘Two feet facing the sky’, are from a descriptive verse in chapter 24 of The Water Margin. Ling Geng, et al., Rongyu tang ben Shuihu zhuan, p. 353. 106 Mun, ‘Chipchu’” no. 32 on ‘Sheng hulu’ of ‘Fulfilling the Letter’ 酬簡 (Book 4, Act 1), Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 515.

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narrative, Mun pushed this connection further to argue that comprehending the truth within sexual climax is also inductive to the comprehension of Principle and inevitable dynamism as the absolute Heavenly law in the Neo-Confucian moral universe. Mun’s glosses and the parallel narrative (“❍ This part …”) work in tandem to prescribe how to feel when reading a sex scene. Rather than getting aroused, the reader is to sublimate any sense of excitement into contemplating the crucial essence of actions that are part of the moral law for an uninhibited, comprehensive understanding of the Heavenly Principle. There is also an underlying tongue-in-cheek playfulness in this injunction – could Mun have been gesturing toward a sense of complicity among readers who were consuming ‘lesser modes of discourses’ while justifying the act of reading with lofty classical references?

Conclusion: the meaning of Mun for a nineteenth-century Chosŏn reader We have discussed the linguistic plurality displayed in the cultural space opened up by Mun’s use of soksŏl (vulgar sayings) rubric. It would be anachronistic to interject the modern Korean sense of ‘(frivolous) popular belief’ in this term. Notable, rather, is the contrast between orthodox 正 (or refined 雅) and vulgar 俗. Following this division, the linguistic items Mun placed under ‘vulgar sayings’ are temporal and local to his own environment – the Qing-dynasty Chosŏn of the nineteenth century, whereas the original text of The Western Wing, which he called ‘orthodox classic’, is timeless and universal (so are his ‘Chipchu’ glossing by extension). ‘Vulgar sayings’, then, was an auxiliary device for which the actual, spoken Chinese orality of the time mattered little. The conspicuous indifference to the orality of spoken language (e.g. how a graph should be pronounced) in Mun’s glossing also testifies to the complexities of Mun’s linguistic reality: in this linguistic-cultural world, Chosŏn readers’ language was interwoven with many registers of literary and spoken languages, one that can never be captured by the dichotomy of native-spoken Korean in Hangŭl versus foreign-written Chinese in Sinographs.107 What makes this imagined orality and the underlying linguistic-cultural world a rewarding portal through which to perceive of The Western Wing as the ‘orthodox classic’ is Mun’s rhetorical construction of a poetics of surplus (yu, Kr. yŏ 餘) – his dubbing of sagok (ciqu, songs and arias) in ‘Ways to Read’ 107 For a compelling illustration of this point, see King, ‘Ditching “Diglossia”’.

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as the sum total of ‘three surpluses’ that are indispensable supplements to the entirety of Sinitic literacy. A culmination of the three surpluses, songs and arias (i.e. the northern play as a tradition epitomized in the text of The Western Wing) can fill in where the expressive function of poetry, the mimetic power of textual rendition,108 and performances of songs fall short. Mun’s articulation here attests to how foreign The Western Wing must have been for him and his readers who were well versed in Sinitic literacy (mun 文) but otherwise had no exposure to actual spoken or performance dimension of Chinese language. Yet by evoking the ‘surplus’ – that which lies beyond the boundary of the received textual repertoire, Mun ascribed to The Western Wing a sense of fullness that not only encapsulates the entirety of the orthodox textual traditions (Confucian classics and belles-lettres) but also accommodates inf inite possibilities in textual mutations and renditions. What Sinitic literacy (mun) meant for Mun Hanmyŏng and his readers is therefore an elastic and malleable concept that transcends the received textual repertoire. As Mun demonstrated through his ‘Chipchu’ glossing, the concept is rooted in Mun’s translation of his reading experience into an act of expanding the realm of orthodox Sinitic literacy into an open, virtual space in which multiple linguistic possibilities exist, and new associations from various textual pedigrees are constantly taking shape. In fact, Mun Hanmyŏng’s construction of the authorial figure of Jin Shengtan in his ‘Ways to Read’ also instantiates such an understanding of mun as a fluid composite of multiple, all-encompassing possibilities. Jin Shengtan, who was historically a marginalized man of letters tragically implicated in the Manchu court’s subjugating campaigns against southern Chinese gentries, appears through Mun’s description as at once a withdrawn official,109 a talented writer whose genius incurred a strike from Heaven that left him deaf and dumb, and, most interestingly, a loyal minister who spurns a usurping emperor – a detail highly evocative of the historical Fang Xiaoru’s 108 Although Mun seems to be referring specifically to painting in his phrase ‘what paintings cannot exhaustively delineate’ 畫之所不能盡形, he clearly meant by the word ‘to delineate’ (xing, Kr. kyŏng 形) in his preface the mimetic power of written text in the form of bound books to replicate the empirical reality: ‘Books are the great precious thing from a myriad of ages… What men cannot exhaustively speak about and what speeches cannot exhaustively delineate – all are spelled out through patterned words’, 書者萬萬世記事之一大寶物也…人之所不能盡言，言之所不 能盡形者，一從文字而寫出。Mun, ‘Preface’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 14. 109 In Mun’s words, a Minister of Personnel 吏部尚書 who ‘withdrew from office in his old age, hiding his traces in the mountains, and wrote books to impute his pride’ 晚年隱而不仕，遁跡山 中，以著書寄傲。Mun, ‘Ways to Read’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 25.

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方孝孺 (1357-1402) acclaimed confrontation with the Yongle 永樂 Emperor

(r. 1402-1424):110

learned of Master Shengtan’s unrivaled literary reputation and summoned him following the protocols. [Shengtan arrived and] only bowed deeply without prostrating. [The emperor] ordered him to draft the decree that was to issue grand amnesty [as a manifestation of the] imparted teaching. The Master was not willing to compose. Upon repeated requests, he then took to writing and produced in grand scripts four words, ‘❍❍❍❍.’ The uprightness of his unyielding courage and his loyalty demonstrated through unwavering allegiance will leave one awe-stricken when one tries to imagine. The emperor eventually did not inflict punishment. With redoubled courtesy he sent him off. Truly this was a sagely ruler. ❍❍❍❍

❍❍❍❍聞聖嘆先生文名高絶，以禮招至，輒長揖不拜。令作大赦天下頒敎之文，

先生不肯構艸。屢懇不獲，遂作一通起頭大書❍❍❍❍ 四字，其凜然不屈之氣概， 不二其節之忠義，令人想像而起敬。皇帝竟不加罪，優禮而送之，眞聖主也。111

The text includes several circles in place of certain characters at two spots. It is not clear whether Mun deliberately concealed the content in question or whether the replacement of the emperor’s name in the first spot and a four-word phrase in the second with empty circles was part of a precautionary practice of a later scribe, but the resemblance between this description and Fang Xiaoru’s story recorded in The History of the Ming 明史 is uncanny. According to The History of the Ming, Yongle wanted to capitalize on Fang’s scholarly reputation by ordering Fang to transcribe the newly enthroned emperor’s amnesty edict as a gesture of imperial largesse. Fang spurned the request and as a result was torn apart alive.112 This story received so much embellishment that, by the late eighteenth century, Fang Xiaoru’s name was broadly associated with his alleged penning of four words: ‘Bandit [the King of] Yan, usurper of the throne’ 燕賊篡位 and the unprecedented purging of his ten related clans 滅十族 (the tenth clan in addition to the family lineage based on biological ties is that of friends) as Yongle’s reprisal. Mun’s description here at once captures the dramatic flair of Fang Xiaoru’s story as an indication of the primacy of Ming loyalist sentiments among Chosŏn 110 See entries 22-24 in Mun, ‘Ways to Read’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 25. 111 Mun, ‘Ways to Read’, Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsang ki, p. 25. 112 Zhang, Ming shi, juan 141.4019.

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scholars and makes an idealized portrait of a political theater staging a sagely emperor’s acknowledgement of a loyal minister. Mun Hanmyŏng’s late nineteenth-century manuscript is both an extension of the ‘Xixiang ji Glossarial Complex’ and its transcendence with Mun’s quixotic attempt at raising the status of The Western Wing to that of an orthodox classic. In his hermeneutic performance, Mun mobilized a linguistic reality def ined by plurality and complexity emblematic of nineteenth-century Chosŏn Korea, shuffling multiple textual pedigrees within Sinitic literacy and establishing new connections between literary Chinese and colloquial Korean in ways that challenge the primacy of Sinitic literacy over Korean colloquialism. With a rhetorical construct of the poetics of surplus, Mun accentuated the anticipated experience of The Western Wing not just as a riveting narrative but as songs and arias (sagok). Orality defined by rhyming practices (rather than actual spoken Chinese or a Korean interpreter’s rendition of Sinitic texts into spoken Korean) is therefore the foundation on which Mun established his canon-making endeavor. Mun’s approach to Sinitic literacy compounds the conventional understanding of the act of translation as crossing cultural barriers by making linguistic correspondences. Instead of engaging the spoken and written dimensions of a local, Korean language system, Mun invoked an established Sinitic repertoire to seek and create commonalities between classical literature and the Chinese performance text. Such a process is a mode of translation that does not presume any sense of foreignness. Rather, at stake here is a translation of solitary, private reading into a rehearsal of public emotions and self-cultivation by investigating the Heavenly Principle of a Neo-Confucian moral world. It is in his discernible efforts at regulating the emotional experience of reading as a communal activity among like-minded scholar-readers that Mun continued what Jin Shengtan had started in his Sixth Genius Book edition of The Western Wing – he has truly lived up to his title as Master Hut’an, literally, ‘the latter-day [Jin] Shengtan’.

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Zhao Chunning 趙春寧. “Chaoxian shidai de Xixiang ji jieshou yu piping” 朝鮮時 代的《西廂記》接受與批評. Shanghai xiju xueyuan xuebao, vol. 191 (2016:3): 101-11. Zhang Tingyu 張廷玉 (1672-1755) et al., eds. Ming shi 明史. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974. Zhou Dunyi 周敦頤 (1017-1073). Zhou Lianxi xiansheng quanji 周濂溪先生全集. In Congshu jicheng chubian, vol. 1891. Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1935-37. Zhou Mi 周密 (1232-1298). Juemiao haoci 絕妙好詞. Annotations by Zha Weiren 查 為仁 (1695-1749) and Li E 厲鶚 (1692-1752). In Siku quanshu, vol. 1490. Zhou Xishan 周錫山, comp., Xixiang ji zhushi huiping 《西廂記》註釋彙評. 3 vols. Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 2013. Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130-1200) and Lü Zuqian 呂祖謙 (1137-1181). Jinsi lu 近思錄. Collected annotations by Ye Cai 葉采 (fl. 1248), introductory remarks by Yan Zuozhi 嚴佐之, compiled by Cheng Shuilong 程水龍. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2010. —. Zhuzi jiali 朱子家禮. In Siku quanshu, vol. 142.

About the authors xiaoqiao ling is Associate Professor of Chinese at Arizona State University. Her main field of interest is late imperial Chinese literature with a focus on performance texts, vernacular fiction, and print culture. She has published in both Chinese and English on fiction and drama commentary, the legal imagination in literature, and memory and trauma in seventeenth-century China. young kyun oh is Associate Professor of Chinese and Sino-Korean at Arizona State University. Young Oh works on the cultural connection among East Asian societies with a particular focus on the language and the book. He has published in both Korean and English on the linguistic histories, Sinitic literacy, and the culture of books of East Asia.

9

Linguistic Transformation and Cultural Reconstruction Translations of Gorky’s ‘Kain and Artem’ in Japan and China Xiaolu Ma

Abstract Language modernization in China was partly the result of a widespread movement to translate Western texts often via relay translations from Japanese. In a period of cultural and political revival, language reform carried specific significance as a manifestation of national rejuvenation. Amid this ongoing self-renewal, the translation of Russian literature was crucial to the dynamic and dialectical linguistic negotiation between East and West. To illustrate the linguistic transformation and cultural construction, this paper closely examines Futabatei Shimei and Wu Tao’s translations of Maxim Gorky’s short story ‘Kain and Artem’. By juxtaposing Chinese and Japanese translations with the Russian original, I investigate the opportunities and challenges Chinese and Japanese translators faced and the different directions to which they eventually committed themselves. Keywords: language modernization, Russia, Japan, China, translation

In the early period of the Russo-Sino-Japanese triangular relationship, language transformation was one of the pivotal effects to emerge from the introduction of Russian literature into East Asia. As Karen Thornber points out, ‘The many versions of baihua (the new written vernacular) that proliferated in China in the 1920s were hybrids not only of classical Chinese, the premodern vernacular, and contemporary colloquial speech but also of Japanese and western syntactical structures.’1 Most scholarly discussion 1 Thornber, Empire of Texts in Motion, p. 17.

Li Guo, Patricia Sieber, and Peter Kornicki (eds), Ecologies of Translation in East and South East Asia, 1600-1900. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2022 doi: 10.5117/9789463729550_ch09

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of language reform in China has focused on the negotiation between China and Western European languages; however, new insights can arise when we turn to the often-overlooked role of the Russian language in East Asian language reform.2 The translation of Russian texts was one of the earliest and most crucial ways that Japanese and Chinese writers engaged with the Western world. The introduction of Russian literature into East Asia tested the ability of Japanese and Chinese translators to work at the limits of their own languages’ intelligibility. Many aspects of the Russian language could not readily be translated into Japanese or Chinese; meanwhile, those languages had developed an integrated system of self-presentation, honed over thousands of years of practice, which made it less amenable to abrupt cultural change. On the other hand, though, the attempts to reconcile them led to literary innovation in both Japanese and Chinese. The sporadic adoption of Russian grammar and rhetorical invention in Japanese translation played a significant role at the beginning of the Japanese genbun itchi movement 言 文一致運動, a nineteenth-century movement that promoted the unification of speech and writing, specifically an approach to writing based on patterns of speech. To a certain extent, the Japanese language reforms that emerged in the nineteenth century also inspired the Chinese National Language Movement 國語運動 and the Chinese Vernacular Language Movement 白 話文運動. The slogan for these movements – ‘the unification of speech and writing’ 言文一致 – drew directly from Japanese language reform. Much has been written about Chinese and Japanese linguistic modernization and the rise of the vernacular;3 however, this chapter addresses an important piece that is often left out: the role of the early translations of Russian literature in Japanese and Chinese language reform. In particular, I focus on Wu Tao’s 吳檮 (1880?-1925?) translation of ‘Kain and Artem’ (Kain i Artem) by Maxim Gorky (1868-1936). Wu Tao’s translation was based on Futabatei Shimei’s 二葉亭四迷 (1864-1909) ‘The Fleeting Life of the Jews’ 猶 2 English research on Chinese language reforms and their Western inspiration include: DeFrancis, Nationalism and Language Reform in China; Masini, The Formation of Modern Chinese Lexicon and its Evolution toward a National Language; Zürcher and Haft, eds., Words from the West; Lackner, Amelung, and Kurtz, eds., New Terms for New Ideas. 3 Books that provide a detailed account of interconnections between Japanese and Chinese language reform include Shin, Kindai Nitchū goi kōryūshi; Zheng, Xixue de zhongjie; Shin, Jindai Zhong Ri cihui jiaoliu yanjiu; Fogel, Between China and Japan. There are also several studies that focus on Japanese or Chinese language reform individually such as DeFrancis, Nationalism and Language Reform in China; Habein, The History of the Japanese Written Language; Gottlieb, Language and the Modern State; Zhou, Placing the Modern Chinese Vernacular in Transnational Literature.

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太人の浮世 (1905) and was published in four installments in The Eastern

Miscellany 東方雜誌 from January to April of 1907. Given that Wu Tao and Futabatei Shimei were the first translators to render Russian literature into vernacular language in China and Japan respectively, these case studies cast light on the challenges and opportunities that Chinese and Japanese translators faced both linguistically and culturally in the early 1900s. Relay translation as a process that involves ‘a chain of (at least) three texts, ending with a translation made from another translation’4 was a common phenomenon during the late Qing period, when Japanese texts served as a major conduit by which the Chinese learned about Western culture and literature. Since it involves at least three languages, relay translation presents special challenges and opportunities for confusion. In this case, the medium – the Japanese language – was undergoing its own language reform in the late Qing, making relay translation a more unpredictable process. At the same time, that language reform also offered Chinese translators more room to navigate syntactic and stylistic gaps between the original and their own final translation. As a result, Chinese language modernization itself was neither a ‘natural’ process of rejuvenation nor a mechanical imitation of the West. A great deal of ideological weight may be found behind vocabulary and stylistic choices. The movement for ‘unification of speech and writing’ should not be taken at face value either. As Patricia Sieber argues in the present volume, rather than being an approximation of everyday conversation, earlier dynastic literature composed in so-called ‘plain Chinese writing’ actually weaved together semantic and syntactical elements from different forms of existing written and spoken Chinese. Similar arguments could be applied to the Japanese genbun itchi movement as well. As this chapter will reveal, the seemingly random adoption of vernacular may actually be a meticulous adaptation from the diverse repertoire of extant language arts and literature in East Asian culture. Admittedly, relay translation presented Chinese translators with tremendous challenges. These difficulties are manifest in the mistranslations and misinterpretations abundant in their final products. In their seminal 1990 work Translation, History, and Culture, Susan Bassnett and André Lefevere first promoted a cultural turn in translation studies away from lamenting what is supposedly lost in translation.5 During the intervening decades, translation scholars have replaced the traditional exercise of identifying ‘mistranslation’ or ‘misunderstanding’ with an examination 4 5

Martin Ringmar, ‘Relay Translation’, in Handbook of Translation Studies, p. 141. Bassnett and Lefevere, Translation, History, and Culture.

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of the epistemological grounds on which meaning is established, and an exploration of textual manipulation as an epitome of cultural transformation. In considering the cases in this chapter, though, I contend that mistranslation and misunderstanding do exist and that they still deserve our attention. Mistranslation and misunderstanding are especially telling when we treat them as evidence of two cultures undergoing drastic language reform. I therefore pinpoint inaccuracies in the encoding and transcoding process to reveal how Japanese and Chinese language reform took place through the restless attempts – and numerous setbacks – that characterized the work of innovative and fearless translators in both countries.

The genbun itchi movement and Russian literary translation in Japan Japanese translation of Russian literature reflects an inflection point in the development of Japanese literary techniques. The earliest translations of Russian literature still adopted kanbun chokuyakutai 漢文直訳体, a form commonly used in early Meiji translations and scholarly work.6 It was Futabatei Shimei, a Russian specialist and one of the most significant pioneers of the genbun itchi movement, who brought a new style to Japanese readers in the late nineteenth century through his translation of Russian literature.7 Thanks to Futabatei Shimei and many other language reformers, the genbun itchi movement that lasted for half a century from the early nineteenth century to 1946 transformed the standard Japanese writing style and made it approximate the spoken language much more closely.8 6 The commonly used styles include: kanbun tai 漢文体, the oldest and dominant form of writing especially in official documents until the Meiji period, and based on an accepted Chinese model; kanbun chokuyaku tai 漢文直訳体 or kanbun kuzushi漢文くずし, a form commonly used in the works of Tokutomi Sohō 徳富蘇峰 (1863-1957) and other members of Minyu sha 民友社; wabun tai 和文体, a flowery Japanese writing style traditionally identified as women’s writing in the Heian period and rendered largely in hiragana; sōrōbun tai 候文体, a hybrid style of writing most widely used in letters and announcements, characterized by the use of verb sōrō 候 an all-purpose verb at the end of clauses as well as sentences; ōbunchokuyaku tai 欧文直訳体, a style only used in word-for-word translation of Western texts, and which follows Western syntax (Genbun itchi undō, pp. 4-12.). 7 According to Yamamoto Masahide 山本正秀, spoken Japanese was used in writing before the Meiji period, but there was no doubt about Futabatei Shimei’s contribution to the genbun itchi movement (Yamamoto, Genbun itchi no rekishi ronkō). Whereas the spoken style had mostly appeared in Japanese popular f iction as a faithful representation of everyday conversation, Futabatei expanded its usage to literary narration. 8 Twine, ‘The Genbunitchi Movement. Its Origin, Development, and Conclusion’.

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Futabatei had been spurred on by the work of Tsubouchi Shōyō坪内

逍遥 (1859-1935), whose The Essence of the Novel 小説神髄 first published

in 1885-1886 envisioned the possibility of creating a modern Japanese literature. Inspired by Tsubouchi’s vision, Futabatei dedicated his life to the modernization of Japanese literature. He saw the modernization of the Japanese language as one of the first crucial steps and took Russian literature as the fundamental inspiration for his early genbun itchi attempts.9 In particular, Futabatei rose to fame in the Japanese literary world by translating Turgenev’s work. Throughout his life, he translated nine works by Turgenev, mainly concentrated in the first half of his literary career, alongside three stories by Gogol and five by Gorky, largely in the second half of his literary career (1899-1908).10 His two early translations of Turgenev (Aibiki あいびき and Meguriahiめぐりあひ) in particular were received with extraordinary enthusiasm by young writers of the naturalist school such as Kunikida Doppo 国木田獨步 (1871-1908) and Tayama Katai 田山花袋 (1872-1930). Futabatei Shimei recognized the divergences between Russian literature and classical Japanese literature. There existed a significant gap between written and spoken Japanese during his time, especially in fiction narration. This gap hindered Futabatei’s attempt to replicate the Russian prose style, where the written language was no longer noticeably distinct from spoken conversation. In order to convey the essence of Russian literature effectively, Futabatei decided to render Russian works in colloquial Japanese, yet he could not find an appropriate existing style to fit his needs. Encouraged by Tsubouchi Shōyō, he decided to develop a new written form, which he applied to his translation of Russian literature. His contributions to the genbun itchi movement were pivotal. Kimura Shōichi 木村彰一 summarizes Futabatei’s innovations as follows:11 First, he was the first literary translator to employ -ta as a past-tense marker in Japanese literary narration, corresponding to the usage of the past tense in the Russian original.12 Second, he was instrumental in popularizing the use of Western punctuation marks in 9 Hiroko Cockerill analyzes in detail the different styles used by Futabatei Shimei when translating Russian literature in Cockerill, Style and Narrative in Translations. 10 This list includes only the translations that Futabatei Shimei published. It is very likely that he produced other translations which he never managed to publish. 11 Kimura, ‘Futabatei no Tsurugēnefu mono no hon’yaku ni tsuite’, p. 44. 12 The employment of -ta as a past-tense marker already existed in spoken Japanese, but it was Futabatei who introduced it into written Japanese. Hiroko Cockerill has traced how Futabatei used the -ta ending differently throughout his career. (Cockerill, ‘The -ta Form as die reine Sprache (Pure Language) in Futabatei’s Translations’.) Fukuyasu Yoshiko has detailed Futabatei Shimei’s attempts with different sentence endings: Fukuyasu, ‘The History of Russian-to-Japanese Translators from the Edo Period Onwards’, pp. 64-6.)

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Japanese literature. The number of periods in Futabatei’s translation is almost the same as in the Russian original. Third, he attempted to adhere to the word order of the original as far as Japanese syntax permits.13 Overall, the colloquial style of Futabatei’s narrative was unprecedented in Japanese literary history, and Futabatei was considered by other writers to be one of the first true practitioners of the genbun itchi style. Futabatei’s intention was to produce a kind of writing that, even if it were read silently to oneself, would irrepressibly convey its rhythm to the reader. He created very literal translations, rendering texts word-for-word, and even sometimes tone-for-tone.14 Unlike his novel Ukigumo 浮雲, in which Fukubatei struggled to maintain some consistency with traditional Japanese literature, his translations gave him more freedom to render the story in a new style.15 In fact, when working on Ukigumo’s second chapter, he first wrote it in Russian and translated it into Japanese in order not to be restrained by the classical Japanese literary conventions.16 Apart from Futabatei Shimei, other contemporaneous genbun itchi advocates such as Saganoya Omuro 嵯 峨の屋お室 (1863-1947) and Ozaki Kōyō 尾崎紅葉 (1868-1903) also translated Russian literature in the genbun itchi style.17 The promotion of the genbun itchi style in the translation of Russian texts, together with its application in many other Japanese writings, brought European literary techniques to Japanese literature, a shift that is widely recognized as an important feature of modernization.

Japanese inspiration and Chinese language reform It is generally agreed that the Japanese genbun itchi movement provided a major impetus for the modern transformation of the Chinese language in the early twentieth century. As in Japan, the divergence between spoken and written language became apparent in late Qing China, as many people came to find literary Chinese an inadequate and inefficient medium of communication. The high demand for Western knowledge made this dilemma especially pointed. Translators, responsible for the first phase of knowledge 13 Futabatei mentions this fact in his article. See Futabatei, ‘Yo ga hon’yaku no hyōjun’. 14 Kiyoshi, ‘Futabatei no hon’yaku taido’, p. 185. 15 Whereas Futabatei Shimei adopted the genbun itchi style almost immediately in his translation, his written style in Ukigumo underwent a gradual transformation. The novel moves towards a vernacular style, with Parts 2 and 3 employing more genbun itchi features than Part 1. 16 Uchida, ‘Futabatei Shimei no isshō’. 17 It should be noted, though, that Ozaki Kōyō translated Russian literature from English.

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importation, faced tremendous pressure when confronting foreign texts incompatible with classical Chinese vocabulary and syntax. For those translating Western knowledge from Japanese, though, the Japanese medium served as a convenient cushion to reduce the pressure. The transformation of the Japanese writing style also inspired the Chinese to embark on their own language reform. Late Qing scholars including Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1873-1929) and Huang Zunxian 黄遵宪 (1848-1905) began promoting the use of colloquial rhetoric after their visits to Japan. In The Gazetteer of Japan 日本国志, Huang Zunxian described how impressed he was by Japan’s literacy rate, and explained the significant role played by the use of the kana syllabic scripts.18 He also foresaw the possibility of the unification of speech and writing by applying kana in fiction writing, so that even dialects could be included in literature: ‘In terms of fiction, there are people who write directly in dialect. In that case, the spoken and written language almost become the same. Is it not possible that some day literary style might be changed to adapt to the present world and be widely practiced by ordinary people? If we want to have language that can be used by peasants, workers, merchants, women and children in the world, we have to search for an easy method based on this [referring to the practice of kana].’19 Although Huang Zunxian himself managed to successfully use ‘classical poetry to adorn contemporary things’,20 he still considered Chinese language reform necessary for the expansion of Chinese readership. Along with Huang Zunxian, Liang Qichao was also an ardent advocate in favor of the genbun itchi movement. In his A Thorough Discussion of Reform 變法通議, he repudiated the practices of Chinese education, saying that in China ‘before [children] learn how to read, they are taught the Chinese classics. And before they learn about how to make an argument and write a full sentence, they are forced to compose essays.’21 He went on: ‘When contemporary people speak, they use current language, but when they write, they always follow the example of the classical language. That is why housewives, children and peasants all find it difficult to read.’22 Liang Qichao used the Japanese language to demonstrate how important it is to include vernacular language and kana in written texts to allow a wider audience 18 Huang, Riben guozhi. 19 Ibid., p. 726. 20 Cheng, ‘The Geographic Measure of Traditional Poetic Discourse’, p. 40. 21 Liang Qichao, ‘Lun youxue’, p. 45. 22 Ibid., p. 54.

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to read literature, while calling for Chinese intellectuals to participate in language reform. The first wave of Chinese language reform was thus to a significant extent indebted to Japanese influence, especially to Chinese reformers’ perceptions of the genbun itchi movement and kana usage.23 Among the proponents of language reform, Wang Zhao 王照 (1859-1933), who was in exile in Japan (together with Liang Qichao), was probably the most successful, for he developed the Mandarin Syllabary 官話合聲字母 that became the most influential out of the thirty schemes proposed by different intellectuals at that time. Throughout the early twentieth century, people who travelled to Japan either as exchange students or as exiled dissidents, including Zhang Taiyan 章太炎 (1869-1936), Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881-1936) and Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1885-1967), continued to play an active role in the promotion of vernacular language. These Chinese intellectuals went to Japan in the midst of the genbun itchi movement. There, they saw how the adoption of vernacular Japanese into the written language effectively enlarged the range of its readership. As a result, they wholeheartedly came to embrace the idea of genbun itchi as an ideal model for the Chinese language modernization movement. Alongside the advocacy of Chinese intellectuals, popular newspapers also adopted vernacular Chinese. The first vernacular newspaper in China was The People’s Tribune 民報, first published in 1876 as a supplement to Shen Bao 申報. From 1901 to 1911, over 100 newspapers in the vernacular style were published.24 These newspapers addressed political, social, scientific, literary, and historical issues and attracted a broad spectrum of readers. In line with this trend, The Eastern Miscellany, one of the leading kaleidoscopic journals of humanities founded in 1904, also contributed to the popularization of vernacular language by publishing pieces written in a vernacular style – such as Wu Tao’s translation of ‘Kain and Artem’. Although the Japanese genbun itchi movement served as a significant catalyst for Chinese language reform, it should be pointed out that the push to reform the Chinese language was not an entirely new development and 23 According to Li Jinxi 黎錦熙 (1890-1978), who wrote the most influential book on the history of Chinese language reform – A Historical Outline of the National Language Movement 國語運動 史綱 in 1935 – Chinese language reform can be divided into four periods: the alphabetization campaign 切音運動 (1898-1907), the simplified script campaign 簡字運動 (1908-1917), the joint campaign to develop a phonetic alphabet and new literature 注音字母與新文學聯合運動 (1918-1927), and the campaign to promote the Romanization of the national language and phonetic symbols 國語羅馬字與注音符號推進運動 (1928-). See Li, Guoyu yundong shigang. 24 Cao, ed., Zhongguo xiandai hanyu wenxue shi, p. 17.

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that the Chinese language movement did not start solely due to Japanese influence. At various points in its history, China had been confronted with foreign language challenges. For instance, in medieval China, the translation of the Buddhist canon had a far-reaching influence on the development of a written vernacular. Moreover, the Chinese experienced pressure to undertake language reform several centuries before the effects of Japanese language reform arrived in China. In particular, the Chinese classical language and its script encountered challenges from Western alphabetic writing when missionaries came to China, who preached Christianity through their vernacular writing.25 Moreover, the incorporation of vernacular language into Chinese writing did not originate in the modern period. However, in general this kind of writing was not universally recognized as serious literature. The significance of vernacular language was greatly enhanced when China lost its hegemony in East Asia to Japan and had to cede partial sovereignty to Western powers, while being confronted with an onslaught of Western culture. Since the vernacular was a more flexible medium of writing, it gained new importance amidst the pressures of coming to terms with foreign influences and foreign knowledge. Consequently, the dramatic transformation of the Chinese language in the modern era is inseparable from drastic social changes in China. Many Chinese intellectuals considered language reform more as an important political project than an epistemological one. As they began to forsake classical Chinese and searched for a new style, Japanese language reform became a valuable example. The similarity of their respective positions vis-à-vis the West and their respective cultural crises in the modern era drove the Chinese to learn from the Japanese.

Wu Tao’s relay translation of Russian literature Similar to the Japanese language reform, Chinese language reform was a longterm process, and the dominance of classical writing was not dismantled in a day. In the early translation of Russian literature in China, one can observe a gradual process of modernization within the Chinese language, achieved by incorporating Japanese neologisms, grammatical features, and colloquial Chinese expressions. At the same time, pioneering attempts at reform were not always successful, especially when a Chinese translator needed to grapple with both the Japanese and Chinese languages at once. The 25 Yuan, ‘Chongxin shenshi Ou hua baihuawen de qiyuan’.

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quality of the translations also varied according to the translators’ Japanese language proficiency. Mistakes due to translators’ poor understanding of Japanese grammar were not uncommon during this period. When the Chinese started translating Russian literature from Japanese in the early twentieth century, the Japanese had practiced translation from Russian for over twenty years. During those preceding decades, Japanese writing styles had experienced significant changes thanks to the genbun itchi movement initiated by writers like Futabatei Shimei, whose translations of Russian literature were used extensively by Chinese translators. While the early Japanese translations retained some traditional kanbun features, which were more familiar to Chinese intellectuals, the later translations adopted vernacular Japanese speech from varying social strata, which introduced greater challenges for Chinese translators. However, this change in Japanese literary styles was not necessarily reflected in Chinese translations, for Chinese intellectuals were still inclined to translate foreign literature in a more classical style up until the first decade of the twentieth century. They adopted such a choice either out of personal taste or due to marketing concerns, and, in opting for an Asianizing or Sinicizing approach to these Russian stories, they caused additional difficulties in conveying the features of the original Russian. Among the very few early endeavors at translating Russian literature into vernacular Chinese, Wu Tao’s three translations represented a spirited attempt and were applauded by Chinese readers of his time.26 A Ying 阿英 (1900-1977), an important literary critic of modern Chinese literature at the beginning of the twentieth century, declared Wu Tao to be one of the very few Chinese translators who truly understood Russian literature.27 Whereas Chinese relay translators working on Western literary projects, such as Lin Shu 林紓 (1852-1924), frequently transformed the original characters and plots almost beyond recognition, Wu Tao followed the Japanese translation carefully, sentence by sentence, rendering the original plot far more faithfully than did many of his peers. Wu Tao was in the vanguard and can be credited with introducing vernacular language into the translation of Russian literature in China.28 One of Wu Tao’s inspirations in this project 26 In 1907, Wu Tao produced three translations: apart from his translation of Gorky’s work, he also translated TheBlack Monk (Chernyi monakh) by Anton Pvlovich Chekhov (1860-1904) based on Usuda Zan’un’s 薄田斬雲 (1877-1956) Japanese translation The Black Monk 黒衣僧; and Mikhail Iur’evich Lermontov’s (1814-1841) ‘Bela’ from A Hero of Our Time, based on Saganoya Omuro’s Japanese version, A Contemporary Russian 当世の露西亜人. 27 A Ying, ‘Fanyi shi hua’, p. 783. 28 Wu Tao was not the very first to translate Western literature into vernacular Chinese, though. Zhou Guisheng’s周桂笙 (1873-1936) translations in 1902 of New Fiction 新小說 and The All-Story

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was the character of the Japanese translations on which he based his work: all of the Japanese translations he consulted were written in a modernized form of the Japanese language. Unlike other Chinese translators of his time, who were drawn to Japanese translations written in a relatively traditional style available on the Japanese book market, Wu Tao preferred translations in the genbun itchi style.29 While being recognized as a pioneering feat, Wu Tao’s translations have also attracted the most controversy among early Chinese translations of Russian literature. Scholars of Chinese literature have acknowledged his astute selection of Russian fiction as well as his trailblazing adoption of vernacular language in his translation practice, yet they also question the reliability of his translations.30 A few scholars have come to Wu Tao’s defence. For instance, Tarumoto Teruo 樽本照雄 has written several articles, including ‘Wu Tao’s Chinese translation of Chekhov’ 呉檮の漢訳チェーホフ and ‘Wu Tao’s Chinese translation of Gorky’ 呉檮の漢訳ゴーリギー, providing detailed comparisons between the Japanese source texts and Wu Tao’s translations; he argues that Wu Tao’s translations contain certain mistranslations but are fairly faithful to the Japanese texts that Wu Tao used.31 Because of the vernacular Japanese used in the translations on which Wu Tao relied, the difficulties he faced were greater than those encountered by his predecessors.

Monthly 月月小說, for example, were also in vernacular Chinese. However, in the early twentieth century, it was far from common practice to employ vernacular Chinese in translating Western literature, and The Eastern Miscellany, where Wu Tao published his translation of Gorky’s short story, still printed many articles written in classical Chinese. 29 Wu Tao also employed vernacular Chinese in his translations of literature from other languages. For example, he does so in his translation of a short story by another proponent of the genbun itchi movement, Ozaki Kōyō; the story is The Chivalrous Negro 侠黒児 adapted from Maria Edgeworth’s The Grateful Negro. 30 Guo Yanli 郭延禮, for example, has remarked that Wu Tao’s choices compelled him to render the mistranslations that plague the Japanese versions he was using, while Chen Pingyuan 陳 平原 has objected to the deletion of certain important plot elements in Wu Tao’s translation of Lermontov (Guo, Jindai xixue yu zhongguo wenxue, pp. 1, 213. Chen, 20 shiji Zhongguo xiaoshuo shi di 1 juan 1897-1916, p. 49.) Chen Jianhua 陳建華 also criticizes the carelessness of his translation of Gorky (Chen, 20 shiji Zhong E wenxue guanxi, p. 47.). 31 Tarumoto Teruo remarked, ‘I think that Wu Tao’s translation is basically a vernacular translation faithful to the Japanese translation. There are no arbitrary revisions irrelevant to the original text [referring to the Japanese translation], in other words, no major changes to the storyline.’ Regarding Wu Tao’s translation of ‘Kain and Artem’, Tarumoto Teruo commented that ‘I witness mistranslations and relatively heavy abbreviations in the translation of Gorky. However, it does not substantially affect the storyline.’ (Tarumoto, ‘Gotō no kan’yaku Gōrikī (ge)’, pp. 7-8.). He even praises Wu Tao for a few changes that better suit the Chinese context.

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Indeed, he had to familiarize himself with a newly invented Japanese syntax and local dialects to fully comprehend the Japanese translation. To understand more clearly the challenges Wu Tao faced, I have undertaken a close comparative examination of Futabatei Shimei and Wu Tao’s translations of Maxim Gorky’s ‘Kain and Artem’, alongside the original. It is important to note that Futabatei Shimei’s later translations were in general less rigorous than his early translations. Instead of providing a rigid word-for-word translation, Futabatei came to place greater emphasis on the aspectual meaning of the verbs in the hopes of capturing the original voice of the Russian authors.32 He became more flexible, and his translations were more lively and vivid. Despite the change in style, though, his rendering still scrupulously conveyed Gorky’s original message, which cannot necessarily be said about Wu Tao’s translation. A thorough inspection of Gorky’s original work and the two translations reveals a significant disparity in translation quality. Even with the daring adaptations of his genbun itchi style, Futabatei Shimei manages to convey the Russian content more or less accurately; by contrast, Wu Tao’s translation contains a significant number of mistranslations largely due to his poor grasp of the innovative Japanese writing (see Appendix for the Russian original text and the Japanese and Chinese translations).33 The first example (Case 1; see below) is an excerpt from the opening of Gorky’s story, describing how Kain – the timid, frequently ridiculed Jewish tradesman – deals with humiliation and bullying by the outside world. The smile is his only weapon to protect himself; yet, as Gorky writes, everyone can sense the fear hiding behind that smile. Futabatei Shimei, in his translation, accurately delivers this message, whereas Wu Tao misses the subject of the second sentence in the Japanese passage. It is the person who smiles, not the person who sees the smile, that feels the fear. The later association with the ‘dagger in a smile’ 笑裡藏刀 and ‘smiling tiger’ 笑面老虎 furthers the misleading portrayal. In Wu Tao’s translation, Kain becomes a calculating, threatening man. This is not the only place where Wu Tao confuses the subject of a sentence or the subject of certain movements. A few paragraphs later, Wu Tao makes similar mistakes again. In the first sentence of Case 2, Wu Tao again confuses the subject. It is not Kain, but the others who were hungry or drunk. Throughout his translation, Wu Tao frequently confounds the subjects of 32 See Cockerill, ‘The -ta Form as die reine Sprache (Pure Language) in Futabatei’s Translations’. 33 Due to the length of the quotations, I have moved the original texts, their Japanese and Chinese translations, together with my English translations, to the end of the chapter.

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certain actions, especially when passive voice is involved. Although he generally gets back on track in the subsequent sentence – as he does in Case 2 – his mistranslation still distorts the content. Many Chinese translators of the time worked with Japanese texts as part of a relay translation from Russian or another language; yet Wu Tao encountered greater difficulties in struggling with Futabatei Shimei’s texts. Futabatei Shimei is known for his loyalty to the original Russian work; he even attempts to imitate the rhythm of Russian language in his translation. To vividly capture the voice of downtrodden Russian characters, he adopted the colloquial language of the Japanese lower classes. This adoption made translation particularly challenging for Wu Tao. Moreover, it was equally challenging for Wu Tao to translate it into vernacular Chinese.34 The strain is especially evident when he translates the passage describing Artem’s first appearance (see Case 3). Endowed with natural vitality and fond of idling around marketplaces, Artem is a symbol of physical strength and human power. It is not difficult to find corresponding figures in classical Chinese literature, accompanied by a suitable rhetorical paradigm. However, Wu Tao chooses to follow the Japanese translation literally. The outcome is an ambiguous and confusing description in the Chinese context. First, Gorky directly points out that Artem is the despot of this district, but Futabatei Shimei translates the Russian term despot (деспот) into oni 鬼, which roughly means demon. Regardless of the rich connotations of oni in Japanese culture, when Wu Tao faithfully adopts this term (gui 鬼 in Chinese) in his own translation, it distorts the original implications of the Russian term despot. Although numerous qualities are associated with the Chinese gui, tyranny is probably the last on the list. The passage is marked by another, similar problem. In vernacular Chinese, ‘big’ 大 is not an appropriate adjective for ‘body’ 身體; yet here again, Wu Tao is offering a ‘faithful’ rendering of the Japanese translation, which proves awkward in Chinese. Case 4 probably is where Wu Tao makes the most absurd mistake in his translation. The sentence describes how shop owners greet the bully Artem in fear and dismay when he walks along the street; Wu Tao captures that sentiment but confuses prepositions and objects, causing bewildering grammatical confusion. It is somewhat forgivable to have the shopkeepers 34 Prior to Wu Tao’s attempt, one other Chinese translation had used Futabatei Shimei’s work for reference. Tolstoy’s The Wood Felling (Rubka lesa) was translated in 1905 under the title Lying on a Gun 枕戈记 based on Futabatei Shimei’s translation Lying on a Gun つゝを枕 . But this translation adopted guwen style, as the majority of Chinese translations of Western literature at the beginning of the twentieth century did.

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‘lay their goods’ onto rather than alongside the door planks, but it is ludicrous to have the shop owners putting their door planks ‘into the smoking pot’. Perhaps one could argue that Wu Tao dramatizes the panic the shop owners are experiencing, but even then, the exaggeration surpasses common sense. In general, it was not easy for Wu Tao to produce a perfect translation while both the Japanese and Chinese languages were undergoing significant reforms. The Japanese language used by Futabatei Shimei had already created a world with new codes with which Wu Tao was not familiar; on top of this challenge, Wu Tao had to conjure up another world in vernacular Chinese at the same time. This does not mean that Wu Tao’s translation was a total failure, however. Despite the occasional mistranslations and minor plot omissions, Wu Tao had gained the opportunity to come closer to the Russian original simply by selecting Futabatei Shimei’s translation rather than using other heavily localized or Asianized Japanese translations of Russian literature available to him. Although Futabatei Shimei’s translation frequently challenged Wu Tao’s Japanese comprehension, the Chinese translation manages to preserve the majority of the original plot. Wu Tao even strove to make the number of notional words in each sentence equivalent to his Japanese source, particularly in passages that Futabatei Shimei rendered in Chinese characters. Consequently, it is not surprising that a major scholar such as A Ying would consider Wu Tao a great translator: when compared with preexisting Chinese translations of Russian literature – all more or less Asianized to cater to Chinese audiences – Wu Tao’s translation was among the very few that largely retained the original flavor. Moreover, Wu Tao offered an important contribution through his vivid translation of conversation in the story. Kain’s begging in Case 2 is a compelling example. Wu Tao’s rendering, with its wealth of modal particles such as a 啊 and lie 咧, captures the despair and helplessness Kain experiences. Wu Tao’s adoption of colloquial expressions conveys the powerless vulnerability in his request. It is also important to note here that Futabatei Shimei’s rendering is not a direct imitation of Japanese lower-class marketplace conversation but an adoption of beranmē べらんめえ, a variety of the edoben 江戸弁 (Edo dialect). Edoben was popularly used in Futabatei Shimei’s time in other art forms such as rakugo 落語 (traditional Japanese comic storytelling) and kokkeibon 滑稽本 (comic novel).35 35 Futabatei Shimei was fascinated by the musicality of spoken language, beginning with his early exposure to traditional Japanese art forms, including rakugo: Fukuyasu, ‘The History of Russian-to-Japanese Translators from the Edo Period Onwards’, p. 61.

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Thus, Futabatei Shimei’s genbun itchi style does not arbitrarily duplicate an abstract idea of everyday conversation but shows evidence of deliberate choice and meticulous planning. He aims to connect his practice with existing Japanese art forms that are not fully represented in Japanese mainstream literature. Wu Tao’s rendering may similarly remind us on occasion of the style of vernacular fiction 白話小說 prevalent in the Ming and Qing dynasties (1368-1912) that also incorporates colloquial expressions with modal particles. Although daily conversation is a valuable source for both Japanese and Chinese translators, they also draw on extant language arts and literature – an indispensable resource for language reform. Throughout his relay translation, Wu Tao exposes his uneasiness and clumsiness; at the same time, he evinces courage and innovation in the development of a new, modernized Chinese language. Wu Tao’s efforts merit praise, but they were not enough to encourage other Chinese translators to follow immediately in his footsteps. In fact, even after his translation, many translators such as Tiantui 天蛻, Bao Tianxiao 包天笑 (1876-1973), and Chen Jinghan 陳景韩 (1878-1865) still translated Russian literature in a style closer to classical Chinese. The early translations of Russian literature in the avant-garde journal New Youth 新青年 as late as 1915-1916, almost a decade after Wu Tao’s translation, were also in the traditional guwen style.36 It was not that Chinese translators were not attracted by the possibility of translating Russian literature into vernacular Chinese. Bao Tianxiao, for example, established The Suzhou Magazine in Vernacular Language 蘇州 白話報 with his cousin You Zhixuan 尤志選 in 1901; but when he translated Chekhov’s The Album and Ward Number Six (Palata № 6) in 1909 and 1910, he still employed classical Chinese. He commented on his reasoning in selecting Japanese translations: I know that the Japanese translations of Western literature are mostly in [traditional] kanbun. It is easier to translate those into Chinese. So I asked them [my friends in Japan] to search for old works of fiction that satisfy two conditions: first, they must be translated from European or American literature; second, there should be more kanbun than [more contemporary] wabun. … My English is not good enough for me to translate books, my Japanese is barely good enough, and if there is too much wabun or too many colloquial expressions, I cannot understand the text. Therefore, I

36 Ma, ‘An Interstitial Space: Cross-Cultural Negotiation and Concession in Early Fiction Translations in New Youth’.

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do not choose fiction written by the Japanese themselves, but Western books translated by them.37

Bao Tianxiao’s confession reveals the mentality of most early Chinese translators. They were eager to import Western knowledge, including Western literature, into China, but their limited language skills restricted their selection. The Japanese kanbun style, as the style most closely related to Chinese, became their favorite choice. Although the translations they used might be a decade old, they preferred not to grapple with more modernized versions. Moreover, the kanbun style also saved the translators from questioning their own literary language as they undertook the translation. It allowed them to employ the classical Chinese style without asking difficult questions about its fitness for the task, and thereby enabled the classical style to dominate mainstream translation of Western literature in China in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. By all accounts, various challenges caused Chinese language reform to undergo a long period of preparation before the drastic transition took place around the time of the radical 1919 May Fourth Movement. One significant case in point is the work of Lu Xun, who translated a considerable amount of Russian literature from German and Japanese. Whereas his early translations of Russian literature, including his 1909 translations of Leonid Andreev (1871- 1919) that were based on German versions, were rendered in classical Chinese, he switched to vernacular Chinese by the time he translated Chekhov from Japanese in 1921.38 Lu Xun was in many ways a modern literary innovator; yet in terms of translation styles, Wu Tao was far more adventurous. Chinese language reform – with all of its hesitations and concessions – served as a great testimony to Chinese cultural rejuvenation in the beginning of the twentieth century. To a certain extent, it is true that Wu Tao’s relay translation of Gorky’s short story cannot be considered a complete success; yet these flaws do not undermine its value. Wu Tao’s translation represents an early attempt to grapple with the challenges of colloquial speech in Japanese and Chinese literature, and is one step in the laborious process of modernization that these languages underwent. After all, as Jing Tsu has remarked, “the embrace of failure belies not a mentality of submission but a strategy of negotiation.”39 In this long incubation period, 37 Bao, Chuanying lou huiyilu, pp. 173-4. 38 Fujii, Roshia no kage, p. 144; Ro Jin jiten, p. 69. 39 Tsu, Failure, Nationalism, and Literature, p. 21.

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the Chinese language encountered challenges from both Western and Japanese languages. The Japanese language transition occurring at the turn of the twentieth century forced more daring Chinese translators such as Wu Tao to reflect on their own language and the possibility of language reform. Although the process could be slow and painful, and translators had to wrestle with their intuitions as well-trained Chinese classical scholars, each step brought them closer to a transformed language style that reflected the spirit of their era. Case 1 Russian text Каждый, кто видел эти улыбки, сразу понимал, что основное чувство человека, который так улыбается, – боязнь пред всеми, боязнь, через секунду готовая повыситься до ужаса.40 [Anyone who has seen such smiles immediately recognizes that the fundamental feeling of a man who smiles like that is fear, above all; a fear that is ready to turn into horror at any moment.] Japanese translation

此微笑を見た者は誰も然う思ふ。 こんな笑顔をする者に限つて、何につけても先づ恟つく、 それが些 かの機にも直ぐと昂じて戰々となる。41

[Anyone who saw this kind of smile would immediately know. The person giving this kind of smile, no matter the circumstances, was scared, and just a little provocation would straight away make him jitter.] Chinese translation

大凡見他微笑的人。箇箇都要猜疑奇怪。道他在胸中不知藏著什麼變詐機鋒。那笑風所到之處。就 是刀鋒劍鋒所到之處。常言道笑裡藏刀。笑面老虎。正是這般形狀。42

[Whoever has seen his smile would be suspicious, wondering what scheme he has in mind. Wherever the smile goes, there too goes the point of a blade. As the saying runs, ‘[he] hides a dagger in a smile’, ‘[he is] a smiling tiger’. This situation is the same.]

40 Gorky, ‘Kain i Artem’. 41 Futabatei, ‘Yudayajin no ukiyo’, p. 62. 42 Wu, ‘You huan yu sheng’, p. 1.

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Case 2 Russian text Бывало, захваченный в одном из тёмных углов улицы двумя-тремя молодцами, доведёнными голодом или похмельем до готовности хоть на убийство, еврей, сбитый на землю кулаком или ужасом, сидел у ног своих грабителей и, трепещущий, судорожно роясь в карманах, умолял их: Господа-а! Добрые господа! Не берите всех … Как я буду торговать?43 [Sometimes, he was trapped in a dark corner of the street by two or three young men, so hungry or drunk that they were even ready for murder. The Jew was knocked down to the ground by their fists or his own horror. He sat at the feet of the robbers trembling, frantically rummaging through his pockets, and pleaded with them: Lord-a! Good gentlemen! Please do not take all … How am I going to trade?] Japanese translation

屢有る事だが、町の薄暗い片隅で、空腹紛れに又は爛醉の氣を負つて、随分殺人罪をも犯しかねま

じき面構した壯者二三人に捕捉り、鐡拳で撃倒されたのか、恐怖いので平臥たのか、其足下に蹲踞 ひ、齒の根も合はゞこそ、顫へる手にポーケッとを探りつゝ、祈るやうに言ふのを聴けば、

「親方さんや、後先だ、悉皆奪ることだけは堪忍してやつてお呉ンなせえ……悉皆呈ツちまツちや、 親仁明日から商賣が出來ねえからね。」44

[It was often the case that in a dark corner of the city, he was trapped by two or three strong men who were hungry or drunk and looked as if they might commit murder. He was either knocked down by their iron fists or lay down in fear. He crouched at their feet, his teeth chattered with terror, and he searched in his pockets with trembling hands, speaking prayerfully: Masters, wait a minute. I cannot bear you taking away everything …. I show you all I have. I will not be able to do my business tomorrow.] Chinese translation

有好幾次。在市街角上黑暗之處。肚中既是飢餓。却又飲得爛醉如泥。無端被三箇滿面殺人氣色的 壯夫捉拏住了。也不知被他們拳腳打倒啊。也不知先害恐懼躺臥倒地啊。蹲在三人腳脛之下。牙關 也咬緊了。抖抖顫顫的手。稱著衣袋。好似祈禱一般。喊道。 『爺爺啊。搭救我咧。我的東西都被奪取 45 了去。我須不能忍耐了。……都呈獻與你們啊。爺爺。打明兒起。須不能營生販賣了。』

[It happened many times. In a dark corner of the street, he was hungry and drunk like a fiddler. For no reason, he was caught by three strong men with a 43 Gorky, ‘Kain i Artem’, p. 403. 44 Futabatei, ‘Yudayajin no ukiyo’, p. 64. 45 Wu, ‘You huan yu sheng’, p. 5.

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murderous look. It was not clear whether he was knocked down by their fists and legs or he lay down out of fear. He crouched at their feet with clenched teeth. He stretched out his pockets and cried out as if he were praying: “Grandpa! Save me. My things are snatched away. I cannot not bear it any longer. … I will give you everything! Grandpa! Starting tomorrow, I will no longer be able to do business.”] Case 3 Russian text В каждом уголке жизни есть свой деспот. На Шихане эту роль играл красавец Артём, колоссальный детина, с головой в густой шапке кудрявых чёрных волос.46 [In every corner of life there is a despot. On Shikhan, this role was played by the handsome Artem, a huge fellow, his head covered with a thick cap of curly black hair.] Japanese translation

浮世に鬼の住まぬ隈は無い。 シハンの鬼は好男子アルテムである。身躰ばかりは拔群に大きいが、か

ら子供で、頭顱は真圓く、濃い黒髪を蓬と振亂してゐる。47

[In our fleeting life, there is no corner without a demon. Shikhan’s demon is the handsome man Artem. His body is nothing if not excessively big, his head is very round, like a child, with thick black hair waving like mugwort.] Chinese translation

世間上沒有無鬼居住的處在。這西漢街的鬼。乃是好男子夏爾登。身體呢。出類拔萃的大。頭顱呢。 的溜精圓。濃厚的黑髮。蓬蓬鬆鬆歷亂。48

[There is no place in the world without a ghost. The ghost on Shikhan street was the handsome man Artem. His body was outstandingly big. His head was very round. His thick, black hair was shaggy and unkempt.] Case 4 Russian text Красавцу торопливо очищают дорогу, отодвигая в сторону лотки с товарами, корчаги с горячим, заискивающе улыбаются ему, кланяются …49

46 47 48 49

Gorky, ‘Kain i Artem’, p. 404. Futabatei, ‘Yudayajin no ukiyo’, p. 65. Wu, ‘You huan yu sheng’, p. 7. Gorky, ‘Kain i Artem’, p. 407.

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[People hurriedly cleaned the road for this handsome man, pushing to the side trays with goods, hot pots, smiling at him ingratiatingly, bowing …] Japanese translation

皆狼狽てゝ貨物を並べた戸板を居去らせ、烟の立つ鍋を引込め、荷箱を片寄せて道を讓り、媚るが 如き笑顔で迎へて會釋する。50

[People all were forced to remove door planks alongside the goods awkwardly, they put in smoking pots and put aside containers to make way. With flattering smiles they greeted him, bowed to him.] Chinese translation

箇箇狼狼狽狽。將店前擺列貨物的門板拆去。堆入冒煙的鑊中。又將貨箱端進。讓開一條路使出脅 肩諂笑的面顏。迎上前去。招呼行禮。51

[Everyone was flustered. They removed the door planks on which they lay their goods and put the door planks into the smoking pot. They also moved in containers. They made way for him and smiled at him ingratiatingly. They went to him, greeted him, and saluted him.]

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About the author xiaolu ma is an assistant professor at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. She received her Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from Harvard University. A native speaker of Chinese and fluent in Japanese and Russian, she engages in rigorous research and teaching in the areas of transculturation and world literature.

Index A Ying 阿英 (1900-77) 302, 306 adaptation/adaptations 20, 59-60, 62, 95, 145-48, 150, 154-55, 161, 163, 167-68, 295, 304 agglutinative language 244 Akasaka, Battle of 102 alterity 28 alternative modernity 27 An Chŏngbok 安鼎福 (1712-91) 234 an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth 162, 164 Andreev, Leonid (1871-1919) 308 Annals of Pacification see Taiheiki annotation 22, 27, 45, 112, 114-15, 120-23, 128, 132, 175-76, 178, 186-87, 190, 192, 195-97, 206-07, 210, 246, 262, 272 Ashikaga Takauji 足利尊氏 96 auto-commentary 91 Avalokiteshvara Sutra 102 baguwen 八股文 (eight-legged essay) 42, 44 baihua 白話; J. hakuwa; K. paekhwa (Plain Chinese) 10, 14, 17, 19, 21, 25, 28, 33, 35-38, 40, 42, 49, 131, 137, 176, 223-25, 247-48, 295 as a more obviously “Chinese” form of writing 10, 21 encyclopedic nature of 10, 35 see also mixed-register writing baihua wen yundong 白話文運動 (Chinese Vernacular Language Movement) 294 banwen banbai 半文半白 (half literary, half plain) 235 Bao Tianxiao 包天笑 (1876-1973) 307-08 baoying 報應 (retribution) 160, 162, 164 Bassnett, Susan 295 Bhabha, Homi 25 Bianfa tongyi 變法通議 (A Thorough Discussion of Reform, 1896) 299 bilingual fallacy 138 bimo fengliu 筆墨風流 (gallant brush) 42, 52 body borrowed, soul returned 163 bōkun 傍訓 (side annotation) 120-23 left-side annotation (sakun 左訓) 120 right-side annotation 120, 122, 128 borrowing of bodies to return the soul 154 Bourdieu, Pierre 19 Buddhist ceremonies/rituals 145, 159, 161, 164, 166-67 Buddhist Chinese 178 Buddhist sources 佛語 269 Buddhist sutras/scriptures 13-14, 155, 157-60, 162, 196, 237, 261 bun 文 (pattern, writing, composition) 110 Bunzan 文山 60, 63-68, 70, 74, 79-82, 84-85 caizi 才子 (community of talented men and women) 45 caizi jiaren 才子佳人 (scholar-beauty love stories) 39

caizi shu 才子書 (books of genius) 39 canon 9-12, 24, 27, 38, 40, 157, 159, 224, 228, 230, 247, 257, 260-61, 264-66, 288, 301 Cantonese topolect 40 Cao Cao 曹操 67, 73-75, 278 Categorized Speeches 語類 264-65, 269-71 Catholicism 228 Changqing seng 長清僧 (Changqing Monk) ​163 Chaoju 潮劇 (Chaozhou opera) 146 chatuben 插圖本 (book with illustrations) 156 Cheil kiŏn Kyŏnghwa sinbŏn 第一奇諺鏡花新翻 (Number-One Marvel among Vernacular Novels: A New Rendition of ‘Flowers in the Mirror’) 249 Chen Jinghan 陳景韩 (1878-1965) 307 Chen Shou 陳壽 (233-97) 65, 68, 80, 82, 85, 266, 269-70 Cheng Yi 程頤 (1033-1107) 236 Chèo (satirical musical theater) 147 Chi Kyusik 池圭植 (1851-?) 201, 239 Chinese Buddhist canon 10 Chinese Buddhist miracle tales 157, 160, 162, 167 Chinese Explication of ‘The Annals of Pacification’ see Taiheiki engi Chinese interpreter (Nagasaki interpreter) ​ 89, 92, 96, 106, 118-19, 124, 129-30, 197-98 apprentice interpreter (keiko tsūji 稽古通 事) ​1 18 junior interpreter (kotsūji 小通事) 118 Chinese language as Chūka gengo 110-11, 113, 124, 127, 131, 133, 136-39 chipchu 集註 (collected annotation) 24, 262-86 Chŏndŭng sinhwa kuhae 剪燈新話句解 (Commentary on Tales to Trim the Lamp By) 196 chŏn’gi 傳奇 (tales) 239 Chŏn’gi chega 傳奇諸家 (Assortment of Tales) 237 Chŏng Yagyong 丁若鏞 (1762-1836) 200, 228-29 Chŏng Yang 鄭漾 (1600-88) 236-37, 239 Chŏngjo, King 正祖 (r. 1777-1800) 227-31, 234-35, 258-59 Chữ Nôm 𡨸喃 16, 18, 138, 146-49, 151-52, 160, 163-65, 167 Chuhae ŏrok ch’ongnam 註解語錄總覽 (Compendium of Annotated Glossaries [of Chinese Colloquialisms]) 192, 238 chung’in 中人 (Middle People) 263 Ch’unhyang chŏn 春香傳 (Tale of Ch’unhyang) 180, 248 ci song lyrics 詞 14, 264, 273, 273n63 classical Chinese see Sinitic Clements, Rebekah 111, 124-25 cliffhanger endings 72-74 colloquial registers 16, 21, 134-35, 190

318 

Ecologies of Tr anslation in East and South East Asia, 1600 -1900

colloquialisms 21, 63, 71, 93, 118, 128, 131, 134-35, 164, 178-79, 195, 198-99, 224, 273, 275, 278, 282, 298, 301, 305-08 commentary 15, 20-21, 27, 35, 39, 42-46, 50-52, 69, 91, 94, 101-02, 175-76, 178, 187-88, 190-91, 194-95, 197, 208, 210, 229-32, 234-35, 258-60, 267-68, 272, 279, 282 diegetic commentary 20, 36 extradiegetic commentary 20, 36 pingdian 評點 35, 42 pingpiben 評批本 229 see also Jin Shengtan editions community 24, 33, 45, 52-53, 157-58, 259, 267-68, 279-81 imagined readerly community 53, 280-81 interpretive community 267-68 literati community 259 Công dư tiệp ký 公餘捷記 (Quick Records in Times of Leisure) 151-54 Crimson 紅娘 276-80 Cronin, Michael 28

fengliu 風流 (urbane stylishness) 47-48 Fifth Book of Genius see Shuihu zhuan folktales 145-48, 150-52, 154, 163 foreignizing translation 18-20, 70, 211 four tones 四聲 (J. shisei, Ch. sisheng) 128 Futabatei Shimei 二葉亭四迷 (1864-1909) 25, 293-98, 302, 304-07

Gakusoku 學則 (School rules) 116, 132 Gatan keiroku 畫譚鶏肋 (Some Trivial Discussions of Art, 1775) 80 gazoku 雅俗 (refined and colloquial, or refined and vulgar) 106, 134 geben 歌本 (songbook) 24, 36, 40, 45-48, 50-51 genbun itchi 言文一致 (unification of speech and writing) 294-98 gengo 言語 111, 139 gen 言 (word, speech) 110, 117, 126 go 語 (word, language) 110, 117 genre boundaries, blurring of 42 Getsudō 月堂 65-67 Giao Châu 交州 157-58 Dante Alighieri (d. 1321) 247, 249 Gitetsu 義轍 65-68 Dazai Shundai 太宰春台 (1680-1747) 129, 131 glosses and glossing 14, 16, 21-22, 24, 26-28, Dazangjing 大藏經 (Tripitaka) 157-59 66, 70, 79, 82, 93, 99, 101, 109-12, 114-16, 118De vulgari eloquentia (Concerning Vernacular 22, 129, 175-76, 178, 186-97, 202-08, 210-12, Eloquence, 1307) 247 224-25, 231-49, 262-72, 274-83, 285-86 Di wu caizi shu Shi Nai’an Shuihuzhuan 第五才 glossing conventions 14 子書 施耐庵水滸傳 (Fifth Book of Genius: Shi Go-Daigo, Emperor 後醍醐 90, 96-97, 100, Nai’an’s ‘Water Margin’) 230 103-04 Diba caizi 第八才子 (Eighth Book of Genius) 39, Go-Toba, Emperor 後鳥羽 100 41, 44 Gorky, Maxim 25, 293-94, 297, 302-05, 308 diglossia 34, 138 graphocentrism 27 Dirlik, Arlif 27 Guan Yu 關羽 72-73, 80 domesticating approaches 19-20, 70, 211 guanhua 官話 (official speech) 36, 129, 178, 218 Dong Zhuo 董卓 68, 72-73, 77-79 Guanhuatang diliu caizi shu Xixiang ji 貫華 Dongfang zazhi 東方雜誌 (Eastern ­Miscellany) ​ 堂第六才子書西廂記 (Sixth Book of Genius: 295, 300, 303 Guanhuatang’s Romance of the Western dreams (as narrative motif) 98-99, 263, 273 Wing) 230, 258n3 Du Fu 杜甫 (712-70) 44, 230, 273n65 guben 孤本 (orphan edition) 39 dufa 讀法 (how-to-read treatise, ways to read) ​ gunsho 軍書 (military works) 62 229n23, 264-65, 269, 271-72, 280n89, guoyu yundong 國語運動 (Chinese National 285-86 Language Movement) 294, 300 Đại thừa Kim Cương luận 大乘金剛經論 (Treatise guwen 古文 178, 190, 198, 305, 307 on the Mahayana Diamond Sutra) 160 Đế Thích điện ký 帝釋殿記 (Record of Indra Hajae ilgi 荷齋日記 (Diary of Hajae) 201, 239 Temple, 1605) 153-54 Han Xiangzi 韓湘子 99 Han Yu 韓愈 (768-824) 99 Edoben 江戸弁 (Edo dialect) 306 Hanŏ chimnam chahae 漢語集覽字解 (Collection Ehon tsūzoku sangokushi 繪本通俗三國志 of Annotated Expressions Found in Chinese (A Popularized History of the Three KingLanguage Textbooks) 237 doms: An Illustrated Book) 60, 63, 69, Hansen, Miriam 22 81-82, 84 Hara Nensai 原念斎 (1774-1820) 106 engi 演義 (Ch. yanyi; explication) 26, 62, 65, Hát bội see Tuồng 90, 93, 95, 103, 105-06 Hattori Nankaku 服部南郭 (1683-1759) 96 Eppō Dōshō 悅峰道章 (Ch. Yuefeng Daozhang) ​ Hayashi Gitan 林義端 (d. 1711) 92 124-25 Hayashi Hōkō 林鳳岡 96 Eryou zhai 二酉齋 41 Hayashi Razan 林羅山 (1583-1657) 59 European Latinitas 247 He Jin 何進 73-74, 78-79

Index

319

kakikudashibun 書き下し文 70-71 kana 16, 18, 83, 105, 299-300 hiragana 21 katakana 21, 82-84, 296 kan’on 漢音 (“Chinese sound”; traditional Chinese pronunciation in early modern Japan) 118n26, 122n36 kan’on 官音 (Ch. guanyin, official sound) ​ 128-29 kanbun chokuyakutai 漢文直訳体 296 kanwa 官話 (Ch. guanhua, official speech or officials’ speech) 129-31 kaon 華音 (contemporary Chinese pronunciation in early modern Japan) 118, 123-24 Katsushika Hokusai 葛飾北斎 60 Katsushika Taito II 葛飾戴斗 60 Ken’en academy 125, 129 Kho tàng truyện cổ tích Việt Nam (Archive of Vietnamese Tales, 1993) 150 Kian see Getsudō Kim Chongjik 金宗直 (1431-93) 280 Kim Cương giải ách chân kinh 金剛解厄真 經 (True Scripture of Relieving Distress Diamond Sutra, 1924) 157, 161 Kim Cương kinh nhân quả tượng chú 金剛經因果 象註 (Illustrated Annotation to the Diamond idae kisŏ 二大奇書 (two masterworks) 234 Sutra’s Cause and Effect, 1818) 157, 160 idumun 吏讀文 (idu writing) 200, 203, 238 Kim Cương kinh quốc âm 金剛經國音 (Nôm Ikeda Tōri 池田東籬 (1788-1857) 82 Translation of the Diamond Sutra, illustration 60, 83, 156-57, 161, 185-86, 195, 283 1861) 148, 160 Imagawa Ryōshun 今川了俊 (1326-1420?) 94 Kim T’aejun 金台郡 (1905-50) 232 imported Chinese books 19-20, 59, 92, 101, 158, kimun 奇文 (outstanding writing) 224 227-30, 259, 262 Kimura Shōichi 木村彰一 (1915-86) 297 imun 吏文 see idumun King, Ross 25, 27, 34, 138 Imun ŏrok 吏文語錄 (Compendium of Glossaries Kiri ch’onghwa 綺里叢話 (Compendium of Stories for Documentary Writing) 238 by Kiri) 248 inadequacy of nationalistic binaries (script vs. kobunjigaku 古文辭學 (ancient phraseology orality; foreign vs. domestic) 9 study) 112, 131-33, 136 Indra 152-54 Kōda Rohan 幸田露伴 (1867-1947) 67, 69 Kogŭm sŏngnim 古今釋林 (Forest of Interpretainsults and abusive words 245-46 tions, Old and New) 239 inter-Asian translation 11 Kokinshū 古今集 (waka anthology) 105 Italian 247, 249 kokkeibon 滑稽本 (comic novel) 306 Korean glosses 21-22, 27-28, 187, 189, 207, 232, Jakobson, Roman 9, 13, 33-34, 211 235-36, 240-47 Jesuits 228 Kornicki, Peter 10, 18, 246 jiangshi 講史 (historical recounting) 62 Jin Ping Mei 金瓶梅 84, 234 kugyŏl 口訣 (lit. ‘oral formula’) 111, 178, 186, Jin Shengtan 金聖嘆 (1608-61) 43, 101, 105, 207, 190, 195-97, 231-32, 237, 241 229-32, 234, 247, 262, 267, 276, 280, 286-88 Kun’yaku jimō 訓譯示蒙 (Gloss and Translation Jin Yunqiao zhuan 金雲翹傳 (Story of Jin Yunqiao) ​ for Beginners, 1738) 115-17, 120-21 20 kundoku 訓読 (reading by gloss) 18, 21, 61, 66, 68, Jin’gangjing 金剛經, V. Kim Cương kinh 70-71, 99, 107, 109, 111-12, 114-24, 126, 129, 132 (Diamond Sutra) 145-46, 148, 155-62, 164, kundokubun 訓読文 70 166-67 kundokutai 漢文訓読体 70 Jin’gangjing ganying zhuan 金剛經感應傳 Kunikida Doppo 国木田獨步 (1871-1908) 297 (Chronicles of the Sympathetic Response of kunten 訓點 68, 71, 77, 82, 93, 99, 114, 116, 120, the Diamond Sutra) 155-57, 159-60, 167 129, 186 Jinghuayuan 鏡花緣 (Flowers in the Mirror) ​ kun’yomi 訓読み (gloss pronunciation) 116, 249 120-22

Hedberg, William C. 11, 17, 24, 26, 113, 226 Hermans, Theo 33 hitsudan 筆談 (brush conversation) 114, 124 Hŏ Chun 許浚 (1546-1615) 17 Hōjō 北条 (family of regents) 100 hon’an 翻案 see adaptation Hồn Trương Ba, da hàng thịt (Trương Ba’s Soul, the Butcher’s Skin) 150-52, 154, 167-68 Hong Hŭibok 洪義福 (1794-1859) 249 Hongmun’gwan 弘文館 (Bureau for the Advancement of Literature) 237 Hou Shuihuzhuan 後水滸傳 (Sequel to ‘The Water Margin’) 231 Huajian ji 花箋記 (Romance of the Flowery Notepaper, 1713) 15, 24, 33-57 Huang Ming yinglie zhuan 皇明英烈傳 (Tales of Valor from the Founding of the Ming) 92 Huang Zunxian 黃遵憲 (1848-1905) 299 Hung, Eva Tsoi 11 Hut’an sŏnsaeng chŏngjŏng chuhae Sŏsanggi 後嘆先生訂正註解西廂記 (Master Hut’an’s Collated and Annotated Edition of  The Western Wing) 262, 264, 288 Hwaŏryu ch’o 華語類抄 203-05 Hyŏnjong, King 顯宗 (r. 1659-74) 199, 237

320 

Ecologies of Tr anslation in East and South East Asia, 1600 -1900

Kusunoki Masashige 楠木正成 97, 102 Kwanghae, Prince 光海君 (r. 1608-23) 227 Kwanghallugi 廣寒樓記 (Record of Kwanghan Tower) 248 kyesŏn 界線 (lines of demarcation on the pages of printed books) 237 Kyokutei Bakin 曲亭馬琴 (1767-1848) 20 kyŏngse 經世 (governance) 228 kyŏngsŏ 經書 (Confucian Classics) 227 kyŏngyŏn 經筵 (royal lectures) 237

Lan Trì kiến văn lục 蘭池見聞錄 (Records of What Lan Trì Saw and Heard) 150, 151n17, 174 Landes, Charles Célestin Antony (1850-93) ​ 148 language reform as a political project 301 large-scale theatrical performance see also Tuồng, Hát bội 145-46, 167 Latin 11-12, 17, 37, 247-49 Lê Quý Đôn 黎貴惇 (1726-84) 153n24, 165, 170 Lefevere, André 34n3, 48, 55, 295, 312 Li Bai 李白 (701-62) 44 Li Diaoyuan 李調元 (1734-1803) 49, 55 Li Ru 李儒 77-79 Li Zhuowu [Li Zhi] 李卓吾 [李贄] (1527-1602) ​ 69, 71-72, 85, 187 Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1873-1929) 299, 299n21, 300, 314 Liaozhai zhiyi 聊齋誌異 (Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio) 163 lingua franca 17, 130-31 the absence of any form of spoken Chinese as 17 Lin Shu 林紓 (1852-1924) 30 linguistic ideology 227, 255 linguistic modernization 34, 54, 293, 295, 297, 301 linguistic nationalism 12, 35n10, 294, 313 Lĩnh Nam chích quái 嶺南摭怪 (Selection of Strange Tales in Lĩnh Nam) 147 Lisao 離騷 (Parting’s Sorrow, Encountering Sorrows) ​230, 264, 264n31, 266 literary Chinese see literary Sinitic literary experimentation 16, 210 literary masculinity 45 literary Sinitic 10-16, 20-21, 27-29, 33-37, 42-43, 48, 51, 53, 61, 66, 68-69, 82-83, 85, 109, 111-13, 112n9, 113n11, 120n34, 128n52, 129n54, 130-31, 133-35, 137-39, 147-48, 155, 167, 176, 178, 186, 190, 192n30, 195-203, 209-10, 212, 215, 219, 223-26, 231, 235-36, 240-42, 244, 246-49, 257, 260-67, 275-78, 288 as a cosmopolitan writing system 12, 25, 27, 111, 137-38, 177-78, 198n39, 247 literary Sinitic novel 145, 147 literary vernacular 25, 91, 175-223 Liu Bei 劉備 64, 69 Liuzu koujue 六祖口訣 (Secret Oral Teachings of the Sixth Patriarch) 156

local adaption 145-74 local speech 方言 274n69 localization 148, 165 longzhou 龍舟 (dragon boat songs) 38 Lü Gong 呂公 75 Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881-1936) 300, 308 Luo Guanzhong 羅貫中 59, 65, 86-87, 95-96, 254 Lurie, David 109n1, 114n14, 115, 115n18, 138, 138n77, 140 Mahayana Buddhism 155, 160 Mandarin 35n10, 36n15, 54, 57, 112n9, 178, 201, 203, 205, 209, 300 manuscripts 19, 148-50, 151n17, 152n22, 159, 180, 182, 186-87, 190, 192-96, 203, 208, 211-13, 231, 236 Mao Zonggang 毛宗崗 (1632-1709) 101, 290 Maoshi 毛詩 (The Mao Commentary on The Book of Songs) 229 materiality and translation studies 12 Maxim Gorky (1868-1936) 25, 293-94, 304 May Fourth conceptions of language 9, 37, 214, 218, 226, 235n44, 308 May Fourth Movement 176, 308 Ming-Qing novel 147, 163-64 Ming-Qing transition (1644) 209, 237 miracle tale (story) 20, 145, 148, 157, 160, 162, 164, 167 mistranslation 295-96, 303-06 Mito domain 80n40, 95 mixed-register writing 10, 14-16, 23-24, 28, 31, 33, 35-36, 40, 42, 44, 47-48, 51-53 and aesthetic criteria 16, 41, 47-48 and its encyclopedic capacity 10, 35 and stylistic hybridity 10, 12, 14, 16, 20, 26, 54, 236, 248 between Sinitic and modern standard vernaculars 28-29 Monnō 文雄 (1700-63) 129-31, 140 Mōri Yoshinari 毛利吉就 (1668-94) 92 Morinaga, Prince 盛長親王 (son of Go-Daigo) ​ 100 Moriyama Sukehiro 守山祐弘 95 Motoori Norinaga 本居宣長 (1730-1801) 112n10, 123n36, 140 Mubaiken 夢梅軒 see Gitetsu mulmyŏng (ko) 物名(考) (‘glossaries of names of things’) 210, 239n56 Mun Hanmyŏng 文漢命 (1839-94) 24, 27, 207, 208n60, 257, 262-63, 265, 267-69, 272-75, 277, 279-82, 284, 286, 288, 290 munch’e panjŏng 文體反正 (literary ­rectification) ​ 227, 258 munjip 文集 (collected works) 200, 227 Mustard Seed Publishing House (Jieziyuan 芥 子園) 41 muyu shu 木魚書 (wooden fish books) 38 myomun 妙文 (outstanding writing) 224

Index

Nagao Naoshige 長尾直茂 60n5, 63, 67, 69n23, 79-80, 85n45, 86 Nagasaki 89, 92-95, 127, 129-30 Nagasaki method (Kiyō no gaku) 116-20, 122, 124-25 Nakae Tōju 中江藤樹 (1608-48) 60n1 Nakamura Masanao 中村正直 106 Nakayama Kōyō 鍾山高陽 (1717-80) 80 Nan Taiheiki 難太平記 (Challenge to the ‘Taiheiki’) 94 nanyin 南音 (southern songs) 38 Nappi, Carla 12, 30 nation-building 35 nation-state paradigms of linguistic change ​ 27 challenges to 12, 27 Neo-Confucian, Neo-Confucianism 15, 43, 121, 132, 137, 198, 207, 209, 236, 270-71, 284n104, 285, 288 Nguyễn Đổng Chi (1915-84) 150-51, 171 Nihon kokushi 日本国志 (Gazetteer of Japan) ​ 299 Nihon risshihen 日本立志編 (Tales of Ambitious Men in Japan) 106-07 No Myŏnghŭm 盧命欽 (1713-75) 12, 248 No-Pak Chimnam 老朴集覽 (Compendium of Notes on the ‘No’ and ‘Pak’) 207n59, 237; see also Nogŏltae, Pak T’ongsa Nogŏltae 老乞大 (Old Cathayan) 237n47 Noh 能 (Noh theater) 146 Nordemann, Edmond (1869-1945?) 151, 172 Ōbaku 黄檗 (Ch. Huangbo) 80, 124 Ogura Collection, the University of Tokyo 7, 178n14, 192-94, 250 Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠 (1666-1728) 17, 21, 26, 61, 109-22, 124-29, 131-33, 135-38 Okajima Kanzan 岡島冠山 (1674-1728) 122-23, 127, 130, 133-34 on 音 (sound) 21, 117, 118n26, 123-26, 128, 130, 135-39 ŏnhae 諺解 (vernacular exegesis) 201, 239n56, 261, 262n23, 262n24 ŏnmun sosŏl 諺文小說 (vernacular novels) 248 onomatopoeia (sound and motion expressions) 243, 245, 247 oral residue 16, 37-38 oral-centered language ideology of Buddhism 14 orality 9, 27, 113 imagined orality 257-92 spoken-language orality 263 Oriole 鶯鶯 180, 183, 185, 190, 195, 268, 270-71, 273, 278, 283 ŏrok 語錄 (lit. “recorded sayings”; “colloquialisms”) 7, 178, 192-93, 195, 198-207, 223-25, 236-239, 242-44, 251, 253-54, 264 ŏrokch’e 語錄體 (recorded sayings style) 198, 206

321 ŏrokhae 語錄解 glossaries 178, 192-93, 195, 198-99, 202-03, 213-18, 223-25, 236-39, 251, 253-54 Ŏrokhae 語錄解 (Glossary of the Chinese Colloquialisms [of Zhuzi yulei]) 223 orthodox 正 (or refined 雅) and vulgar 俗 227, 285 ŏsa 語辭 (grammatical particles) 207, 240 Oxherd and the Weaving Maid 268 Ozaki Kōyō 日本国志 (1868-1903) 298, 303n29

Pak Chega 朴齊家 (1750-1805) 258, 259n7 Pak Chiwŏn 朴趾源 (1773-1805) 219, 230, 259, 290 Pak T’ongsa 朴通事 (Interpreter Pak) 237n47 parallel narratives 24, 281 paratext 24, 27, 35, 37, 39, 41, 43, 62, 101, 176, 186, 211, 214 pedagogy 45 performance 10, 13-16, 23, 37-39, 50, 74, 146, 149, 162, 167-68, 197, 230n35, 257, 259, 260n11, 262, 277, 277n78, 286, 288, 292 performance culture 10, 14, 23, 197 intersemiotic impact of 10 performance literature 16, 39, 146, 149, 162, 167, 197, 260n11, 262 Phủ biên tạp lục 撫邊雜錄 (Miscellaneous Chronicles of the Pacified Frontier, 1776) 165n59, 170 pingdian 評點 (embedded or appreciative commentary) 15, 35-36, 43, 230 Pipa ji 琵琶記 (The Lute) 43, 57 poetics of sentiment 24, 52-53 poetry 10, 13, 20, 40, 45n44, 51, 71, 80, 84-85, 103-05, 113n12, 127-29, 179, 216, 230, 241, 260, 264-65, 272, 273n63, 274n65, 275n70, 281-82, 284, 286, 288, 290, 299 Pollock, Sheldon 17, 31, 177, 214-16, 218 polycentric aesthetics 24, 31 polyscriptic nature of translation practices ​ 12 print 10n3, 15-17, 19, 30-31, 35n11, 37-38, 45, 56, 60, 66, 69n22, 80, 83, 85-86, 90, 95, 149, 156-60, 161n44, 176-78, 180, 182-83, 186, 192, 195-96, 203, 208, 210, 217, 230n29, 231-32, 236, 254, 257, 258n1, 258n3, 259n8, 260, 290-92, 303n28 Pu Songling 蒲松齡 (1640-1715) 163 p’yŏngŏ 評語 (reader commentary) 7, 27, 178, 190-91, 194-95, 208, 210 Qu Dajun 屈大均 (1630-96) 49, 56 Quan Han zhizhuan 全漢志傳 (A Record of the Former and Latter Han) 66 Quảng tập viêm văn 廣集炎文 (Chrestomathie Annamite, 1898) 151-52 Quốc ngữ (romanized Vietnamese script) (see script) 147

322 

Ecologies of Tr anslation in East and South East Asia, 1600 -1900

Rai San’yō 賴山陽 (1781-1832) 84-85 rakugo 落語 (traditional Japanese comic storytelling) 306, 306n35 readable space 277 reader response 223-25, 232-34 reading as a regulatory means of selfcultivation 24, 283 recitation (dushu 讀書) 37 Records of the Grand Historian see Shiji 史記 records of words 語錄 (Ch. yulu; J. goroku; K. ŏrok) 137, 206 Rectification Campaign 文體反正 see munch’e panjŏng 文體反正 (literary rectification) regionalism 38, 51-52 register 10, 14-16, 21, 23-25, 28-29, 33, 35-36, 40, 42, 44, 47-48, 51-54, 62, 68-69, 71, 77, 79, 85, 90, 113n11, 128n52, 131, 134-35, 176, 178, 187-90, 196, 203, 206, 210, 212, 225, 243-44, 259-60, 260n11, 260n12, 262, 275, 277-78, 282-83, 285; see also mixed-register writing relationship between written and spoken forms 138 relay translation 17, 25, 293, 295, 301-02, 305, 307-08, 314 religious ritual 146, 161, 166 Remnant Record of the Han and Tang Periods 漢 唐遺事 260 residue 16, 37-38, 52; see also oral residue resurrecting the dead 154 rewriting 34, 55, 94-95, 97, 107, 147, 217 Reynolds, Matthew 19, 31, 35, 56 rhyming 264-66, 288 Romance of the Three Kingdoms see Sanguo zhi yanyi Russian translation as a modernizing medium ​ 293-94, 296 Ryō Kan kiji 兩漢紀事 (A Record of the Former and Latter Han) 66 sacred texts 160, 162, 164 sadae kisŏ 四大奇書 (four masterworks of Chinese fiction) 234 Sado, Prince 思悼世子 (1735-62) 228n20 Saganoya Omuro 嵯峨の屋お室 (1863-1947) ​ 298, 302n26 sagok 詞曲 [Ch. ciqu] (songs and arias) 264-65, 285, 288 Salmon, Claudine 11, 147n6, 172 San’on seika 三音正譌 (Three Sounds, Correcting the Inaccurate, 1752) 129-30, 140 Sangjŏl T’aep’yŏng kwanggi 詳解太平廣記 (Comprehensive Abridgement of the Extensive Records of the Taiping Era) 228n18 Sanguozhi 三國志 (The History of the Three Kingdoms) 68, 80, 266, 269-70 Sanguozhi yanyi 三國志演義 (The Romance of the Three Kingdoms) 59 adaptations of 60

as a basis for glossaries 192n29, 223, 233-35, 238, 270n54, 278, 278n80, 318 as a less colloquial vernacular novel 63, 235n44 as an object of literary criticism 234 translations into other languages 59 sanqu songs 散曲 14, 272 Sanskrit 11-12 sarim 士林 (scholar-official community) 280 Schlegel, August 23 Schleiermacher, Friedrich (1768-1834) 48, 70n26 script 9, 13, 12n11, 19, 81-83, 110, 122-23, 277 Asian script traditions 11 calligraphic styles 83 Chinese script (Sinographs) (字) 21, 37, 82, 110, 114, 122-23, 138, 301 Japanese script (kana) 16, 18, 83-84, 105, 299-300 Korean script (han’gul) 16, 18, 186, 192n30, 205, 208-09, 213, 240, 248, 260, 260n11, 261-62, 263n28, 265, 274n67, 276, 285 Romanized Vietnamese script (Quốc ngữ) 146-48, 150-52, 167 simplified script campaign 簡字運動 (1908-1917) 300n23 non-standard Chinese character variations 36 Vietnamese script (Nom) 16, 18, 138, 146-149, 151-52, 160, 163-65, 167 Secret Oral Teaching of the Sixth Patriarch: see Liuzu koujue 六祖口訣 156 secular story 162 Sejong, King 世宗 (r. 1418-50) 260 Sentetsu sōdan 先哲叢談 (Collected Tales of Former Worthies) 106 Seoul 183, 202, 229, 259, 263 Shang Wei 34, 137 Shankar, S. 23 Shao, Emperor 少帝 71n28, 77-79 sheshen chudi 設身處地 (imaginative projection) ​ 43 impact of 79-80, 84-85 Shiji 史記 (Records of the Grand Historian, The Grand Scribe’s Records) 94, 229-30, 261, 270, 281, 281n92 Shijing 詩經 (Book of Poetry) 264-65, 272, 282 shiwen 時文 (modern prose) 41n37, 42, 51; see also examination essays; tongue-in-cheek examination essays Shohat, Ella 24 Shōhō 章峰 see Gitetsu Shōkōken 称好 see Getsudō Shōsetsu shinzui 小説神髄 (Essence of the Novel) 297 Shuihu zhuan 水滸傳 (The Water Margin) 11, 15, 44, 61, 63, 84, 90, 92, 92n6, 95-96, 100, 175-76, 178-79, 186, 192-93, 202, 204, 207, 223, 226, 229-35, 238-39, 242, 244-47, 250, 259-60, 284

Index

Sieber, Patricia 10n2, 24, 230, 295 Sigyŏng ŏnhae mulmyŏng [ko] 詩經諺解物名 (Glossary of the Vernacularized ‘Book of Songs’) 239n56 simplified administrative prose in China 10 in Korea (imun, idu, idumen 吏讀文) 192, 192n30, 200, 203, 238, 238n51 Sinitic, or literary Sinitic, = literary Chinese (C. wenyan 文言; J. kanbun 漢文; K. hanmun 漢文; V. Hán văn) as a writing technology 10-11, 15 writing 111-14, 117, 126, 131, 135, 137-39 Sino-Korean diplomacy 224, 238n51, 239n55; see also yŏnhaeng, yŏkkwan, book commerce Sinographic Cosmopolis 176, 196n34, 247 Sinographic sphere 9-11, 12n11, 13, 16, 19, 21, 28-29, 34, 36, 38, 53-54 Sinoxenic pronunciation (on’yomi 音読み) 116, 118, 120, 120n34, 122-124, 122n36, 126, 129 Sishu 四書 (Four Books) 43, 119 Six Books of Genius 230 Sixth Book of Genius see Xixiang ji six-eight verse narrative (lục-bát) 147 Skopos (theories of purpose in translation studies) 19 Smiles, Samuel 106 sogŏ 俗語 (colloquialisms) 236 Sojunghwa 小中華 ideology 209 sokhak 俗學 (vulgar learning) 227 Song Chun’gil 宋浚吉 (1606-72) 237 Sŏng Kan 成侃 (1427-56) 228n18 Sŏsang chinam 西廂指南 (Handbook of the ‘Western Wing’) 231 Sŏsanggi soju pyŏlchŏn 西廂記小註別傳 (Special Transmission of ‘The Western Wing’ with Small-Character Annotation) 231 sosŏl ŏrokhae 小說語錄解 (glossaries of colloquialisms for [Chinese] vernacular fiction) 192, 223, 238 sound and motion expressions 243-44 sound glosses 21, 187 soksŏl 俗說 (vulgar sayings) 200, 273-74, 274n69, 275-78, 285 spoken Chinese 10, 35, 61, 63n10, 79, 92, 111, 112n9, 113-14, 117-19, 120n34, 123-28, 130-36, 138, 179, 196n36, 200, 203, 205, 209, 224, 226, 239n55, 263, 277, 285, 288, 295 hanŏ 漢語 224, 237 spoken Sinitic/speak Sinitic 136, 139 Stam, Robert 24 Story of the Kwanghan Tower 廣寒樓記 248, 260 Story of the Western Wing 西廂記 see Xixiang ji and Xixiang ji Glossarial Complex Student Zhang 張生 39n27, 273, 275n75, 277n78, 283 stylistic hybridity 51

323 Sử Nam chí dị 史南誌異 (Strange Stories in Vietnamese History, 1877) 151-52 Sun Jian 孫堅 (155-91) 75 sunjŏng komun 醇正古文 (untainted use of old phraseology) 227 t’ongyu 通儒 (scholar of comprehensive learning) 228 Taiheiki 太平記 (Chronicle of Great Peace/The Annals of Pacification) 17, 84, 90, 94-96, 99-100, 102-05 Taiheiki engi 太平記演義 (A Chinese Explication of  The Annals of Pacification, 1719) 26, 74n35, 90-92, 94, 96, 105 standard of historiography 103, 106 structure of translation 96 the use of stock phrases and narrative conventions from Chinese f iction 100-01 Takahashi Tōru 高橋亨 (1878-1967) 180n318, 258 Tale of Kieu (Kim Vân Kiều) 20 Tameakira 為明 (poet) 104-05 Tamjing ch’o 談徵抄 (Excerpts from the Tanzheng, 1815) 205 Tanaka Taikan 田中大觀 (1710-35) 65, 67 Tarumoto Teruo 樽本照雄 303 Tayama Katai 田山花袋 (1872-1930) 297 text-centered language ideology of Confucian classics 14 theater and adaptation 146 and anonymous authorship 149 and Chinese culture 15n14 make-up and costume 161 performance 146, 167, 230n25, 277 theatrical script 145 theatrical text 230 Thiên Đế bảo lục 天帝寶籙 (Precious Records of Indra) 154, 172 Thiền uyển tập anh 禪苑集英(Collection of Outstanding Figures of the Thiền [Zen] Community, 1715) 158 three surpluses 三餘 (poetry, painting, singing) 264-65, 286 Three Treasures of Buddhism 三寶 161 Tiantui 天蛻 307 t’o 토 (Korean grammatical markers) 195, 199, 265, 265n34 Tōon gazoku gorui 唐音雅俗語類 (Elevated and Common Terms with Chinese Pronunciation, 1726) 106, 134 -35 Tōjō Kindai 東條琴臺 (1795-1820) 106 Tokuda Takeshi 徳田武 63, 66, 69 Tokugawa Tsunayoshi 徳川綱吉 (1646-1709) ​ 125, 132 tone marks 129 Tongp’ae naksong 東稗洛誦 (Repeatedly Recited Stories of the East) 12, 248

324 

Ecologies of Tr anslation in East and South East Asia, 1600 -1900

Tongsanggi 東廂記 (The Romance of the Eastern Chamber) 197n37, 248 Tongŭi bogam 東醫寶鍳 17 tōon 唐音 (contemporary Chinese sounds) ​ 123-25, 134 topolect 24, 33, 36-37, 40-42, 48-52, 112n9, 129-31 tōwa 唐話 (contemporary spoken Chinese) 113, 120, 123-25, 127-39 Tōwa san’yō 唐話纂要 (Essence of Chinese Speech) ​106, 123, 127, 133 Tōwagaku 唐話學 (study of spoken Chinese) ​ 61, 179 Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豐臣秀吉 (1537-98) 94 trai hội 齋會 (vegetarian feast) 161 Trần Gia Du 陳嘉猷 151 transcreation 163 translation and autonomy 23 and Buddhism 10, 14, 20, 146-47, 158, 161-62, 178, 207n318, 301 and challenge to assimilationist ethics 26 and discursive heterogeneity 26, 28 and domestication vs. foreignization 1820, 70n26, 211 and empathy 23 and literary innovation 10, 20, 42 and redressing of unequal cultural exchange 26 and “structures of feeling” 23 and vernacularization 29, 166, 177 as enrichment of target language 48 as validation of vernacular scripts 18-19 bound translation 18, 237 channel translation 19 into Manchu 11-12, 59 into Mongolian 11-12 mixed translation strategies 21 polydirectional translation 25 polyscriptic translation 12, 16-19 prismatic translation 19-22, 36, 36n17 sense-for-sense translation 245 word-for-word translation 21-22, 240, 246, 276, 296n6, 298, 304 translation norms 10-11, 13, 16, 28, 33 translation shifts 19, 34, 34n6 translation style 69-71, 74-76, 82-83 translational afterlives 11 agency 34 approach 70 borrowing 47 framework 53 interactions 9 medium 48 modes 34 multilingualism 6 nature 109 practices 54

space 121 stance 48 transnationalism 27-28 Tripitaka (Sanzang 三藏) 269 Trương đồ nhục 張屠肉 (Trương the Butcher) ​ 145-48, 167 and Buddhist Singing ritual 161-62 and humor 166 and localization 165-66 and miracle tales 162-63 and modern adaptations 168 as unrelated to Vietnamese folklore ​153-54 local origin 148-52 the language style 164-65 Trương the Monk 149-50 Truyện công dư tiệp ký 傳公餘捷記 (Stories from Quick Records in Times of Leisure) 151-54 Tsubouchi Shōyō 坪内逍遥 (1859-1935) 297 Tsushima Strait 16 and impact of trade on language competencies 16 tsūzoku 通俗 (Ch. tongsu; popularization) 25, 59, 63, 74, 85, 90, 300 tsūzoku gundan 通俗軍談 (popularized military tales) 62 Tsūzoku Kan So gundan 通俗漢楚軍談 66, 66n15, 67 Tsūzoku sangokushi 通俗三國志 (A Popularized History of the Three Kingdoms, 1689-91) 26, 59-63, 65, 66n15, 69n22, 69n23, 72, 81 impact 79-80, 84-85 kunten passages 68 structure 71-74 translation style 66, 69-71, 74-79, 82-83 translator of 60n5, 63-68 Tuồng play 110-11, 121, 131-32, 137-38 Turgenev, Ivan (1818-83) 297 Kain i Artem (Kain and Artem) 293-94, 300, 304 You huan yu sheng 憂患餘生 (The Hardship of One’s Remaining Years, 1907) 309 Yudayajin no Ukiyo 猶太人の浮世 (The Fleeting Life of the Jews, 1905) 294, 310-12 Ueda Akinari 上田秋成 (1734-1809) 20 Ukigumo 浮雲 (The Drifting Cloud, 1887-89) ​ 298, 298n15, 299-300, 302, 303n29, 304, 307 Venuti, Lawrence 26-27, 70n26 vernacular Chinese see baihua vernacular reading 18, 111n8, 112n8, 196n34, 225, 225n4, 236-37, 237n49, 240-42, 246 vernacularization 11, 17-18, 20, 22, 25, 27, 38, 131, 137-38, 175, 177-78, 208-10, 213 and sutra chanting 13, 18 and the pluralization of strategies through translation 29 as a mechanism of social distinction 23 as a processor 22

Index

as an affective experience 22-23 as cultural translation 23 as dissemination of canonical texts 22 macro- and micro-vernacularization 177 vernaculars 11, 16, 19, 34, 53, 135, 138 Vietnamese traditional theater 166-67 Vocalization 13, 37-38, 42, 111, 112n9, 113, 123, 135, 139, 196, 226n13, 266 Vũ Phương Đề 武芳㮛 (1697-?) 152 Vũ Trinh 武楨 (1759-1828) 151 waka poetry 103-05 translation of 103-05 Wakabayashi, Judy 11, 114 Wang Shifu 王實甫 (13th century) 187, 257 Wang Zhao 王照 (1859-1933) 300 washū 和臭 (“reeking of Japaneseness”) 99 Water Margin see Shuihu zhuan wenyan 文言 (literary language) 9, 13, 35, 37, 176, 225-26 Western Wing see Xixiang ji Williams, Raymond 23 women 45-46, 229, 272n59, 283, 318 as affective and literary companions 45 as readers 229 woodblock 65, 90n1, 159-60, 236 world literature 12, 19 Wu Tao 吳檮 (1880?-1925?) 295, 302-09

Xi Han tongsu yanyi 西漢通俗演義 (Popular Romance of the Western Han) 66 xiaoshuo 小說 see Chinese fiction xiezi 楔子 (prologue; lit. “wedge”) 230 Xixiang ji 西廂記 (The Story of the Western Wing) 15, 39, 175-76, 177n318, 178-80, 183, 186-87, 190, 192-98, 202-08, 210-11, 223, 229-35, 238, 239n56, 242, 246-47, 250, 257-65, 288 Xixiang ji Glossarial Complex 27, 178, 186, 203, 208-12, 232, 239, 267n42, 283, 288 Xiyouji 西遊記 (The Journey to the West) 61, 84, 192-93, 223, 233-35, 238, 242-44, 247, 250, 270n51 Xuzangjing 續藏經 (Supplement to the Canon) 156-57 xuzi 虛字 (empty function word) 206

yadam 野談 (unofficially circulating stories) 12, 260n12 Yakubun sentei 譯文筌蹄 (A Tool for Translation) 109-10, 115, 117-19, 125, 131, 136 yakugaku 譯學 (translation study) 116-17, 131-33 Yakusha 譯社 (Translation Society) 122, 124-28, 132 Yamanoi Konron 山井崑崙 (d. 1728) 17 Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu 柳澤吉保 (1658-1714) 124-25 yangban 兩班 (aristocratic elite) 224, 263, 263n27

325 Yi Chehyŏn 李齊賢 (1287-1367) 228n18 Yi Hwang 李滉 (1502-71), sobriquet T’oegye 退 溪 227, 236, 241 Yi Hyŏn’gi 李玄綺 (1796-1846) 248 Yi Imyŏng 李頤命 (1658-1772) 234 Yi Mansu 李晚秀 (1752-1820) 258 Yi Ok 李鈺 (1750-1815) 230n28, 248 Yi Sanghwang 李相璜 (1763-1849) 258, 261 Yi Tŏngmu 李德懋 (1741?-93) 258, 259n6 Yi Ŭibong 李義鳳 (1733-1801) 239 Yijing 易經 (Book of Changes) 281, 284 Yŏgong p’aesŏl/Nagong pisŏl 櫟翁稗官 (Insignificant Chats by Old Man Oak) 228n18 yŏkkwan 譯官 (official interpreters) 197, 224 Yŏmmong mansŏk 艶夢慢釋 (Desultory Explication of the First Sixteen Acts of ‘The Western Wing’) 178, 192, 194-95, 195n33, 203, 232 Yŏmsa kuhae 艷詞具解 (Phrase-by-Phrase Unraveling of the First Sixteenth Acts of ‘Western Wing’) 184-85, 211-12, 232, 318 Yŏngjo, King 英祖 (r. 1724-77) 228n20 yŏnhaeng 燕行 (embassies to Beijing) 229, 230n25 Yŏnsan’gun, Prince 燕山君 (r. 1494-1506) ​227, 280 Yŏnsan’gun ilgi 燕山君日記 (1505) 210, 258n2 You Zhixuan 尤志選 307 youxi baguwen 遊戲八股文 tongue-in-cheek examination essays 37, 43 Yu Hŭich’un 柳希春 (1513-77) (sobriquet Miam 眉 巖) 236, 241 Yu Manju 俞晚柱 (1755-88) 231, 234 Yuan Shao 袁紹 (d. 202) 68, 75 Yuan, Ye 99n16 Yue’ou 粵謳 (Cantonese love songs) 38 Yueju 粵劇 (Cantonese opera) 146 Yulei Glossary 225, 236-38, 239n55, 240-42, 318 zenki tsūzokumono 前期通俗物 (early popularizations) 63 Zhang Fei 張飛 69, 72-73 Zhang Jue 張角 (d. 184) 72 Zhang Taiyan 章太炎 (1869-1936) 300 Zhang Xiu 張繡 (d. 207) 75 Zhang Yin 張隱 145-46, 148, 155-57, 159, 161-62, 164-67 Zhang Zhen 22 Zhang Zhupo 張竹坡 (1670-98) 101, 105 Zhen Wei 甄偉 66 zhengshi 正史 (standard dynastic histories) 93 zhiyi 制藝 (examination essays) 10, 16, 24, 33, 37, 41, 44-46 zhizhuan 志傳 (chronicles) 93 Zhong Daicang 鍾戴蒼 (fl. 1713) 39, 39n28, 43, 48, 50 Zhou Shaoliang 周紹良 (1917-2005) 155-56 Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1885-1967) 300 Zhu Guangzeng 朱廣曾 (fl. 1713) 43, 47-48

326 

Ecologies of Tr anslation in East and South East Asia, 1600 -1900

Zhu Shunshui 朱舜水 (1600-82) 80n40 Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130-1200) 121, 132, 207, 236, 264, 271 Zhuangzi 莊子 230 Zhuge Liang 諸葛亮 (181-234) 84

Zhuzi yulei 朱子語類 (Classified Conversations of Master Zhu, 1270) 192, 203, 205, 218, 225, 236, 264 Zou Shengmo~Zou Shengmai 鄒聖脈 (1692-1762) 187-88