1 For details, see my report of my interview with him, “A talk with Hu Shih,” The China Quarterly, No. 10.Google Scholar

2 During the early twenties there was another school of critical thought represented by the Creative Society, competing for acceptance in China with the utilitarian “art for life's sake” philosophy of the Literary Study Society, to which Mao Tun belonged. This Society, which made its debut in May 1922 by publishing its Creation Quarterly, was advocating “art for art's sake” literature in opposition to that of the Literary Study Society. In the words of Ch'eng Fang-wu, one of its founders: “They (referring to the members of the ‘art for art's sake’ school) believe that literature has its own inner meaning, which is not to be included in the utilitarian calculation. … At least, I feel that it is worth our while to devote ourselves to the search of what is perfect and beautiful in literature, forgetting all the utilitarian calculation. Furthermore, a piece of beautiful literary work, even if it has nothing to teach us, does give us a sense of happiness and satisfaction which is exquisitely beautiful. … Literature is our spiritual food; because of it we experience exhilaration in life, because of it we feel the pulsation of life. Our aim is to search for the perfect in literature, to realise what is beautiful in literature.” “Hsin-wen-hsueh ti Shih-ming” (“The Mission of New Literature”).Google Scholar

But not long after this, Ch'eng Fang-wu and the whole group of Creation Society writers switched to the proletarian standpoint, by-passing the position of the Literary Study Society group. Since 1925, apart from a few feeble attempts made by scholars like Liang Shih-ch'iu and poets like Hsu Chih-mo, the literary world in China has been flooded with utilitarianism in literary theory and propaganda in literature. Under circumstances such as this, is it any wonder that no great literature has appeared?Google Scholar

In 1930 Mao Tun asked the question: “Why cannot the great May Fourth produce literary works which represent the time?” This question is little different from the question we have asked, but his answer is interesting. He said: “As a matter of fact, it is due to the fact that at that time on our literary arena appeared a school which neglected the epochal nature of literature and art, a school which was against the social nature of literature and art but vociferously clamoured ‘art for art's sake.’” Mao Tun's indictment was clearly directed toward the Creation Society. (See his “Tu Ni Huan-chih” (“After Reading Ni Huan-chih”), a novel by Yeh Shao-chün, depicting the life of a frustrated school teacher whose attempts at reforms all came to naught because of reactionary forces.)Google Scholar

3 Short Story Magazine (Hsiao-shuo Yueh-pao), “Declaration for Reorganisation,” 01 1921.Google Scholar

4 “Students in 1918,” Students' Miscellany (Hsueh-sheng Cha-chih), 01 1918.Google Scholar

5 His original name is Shen Yeng-ping. In 1927, when he began his career as a novelist, he was on the government black list because of his political activity during the Wuhan episode. To escape the attention of the government he and his publishers agreed not to use his real name. At first he chose “Mao Tun,” meaning contradiction, indicating his desire to describe the conflicts and confusion prevailing at the time. As I shall show later, the term might have come into his mind also because of his own inner conflicts and contradictions. On a second thought, however, he put a grass radical on top of “mao” to camouflage his real intention, because the original term carried with it a strong indictment against the reigning régime and would probably aggravate the precarious position he was already in. This new term “Mao Tun,” while innocuous to the eye, would convey all he wanted to convey through the ear. Strictly speaking, therefore, we should not call him “Mao Tun” before 1927. But for the sake of convenience I have used “Mao Tun” throughout this paper. He used many other pen names, for which see Tzu-ming's, YehLun Mao-tun Szu-shih-nien ti Wen-hsueh Tao-lu (Mao Tun's Literary Development during the last Forty Years) (Shanghai: 1959), p. 27.Google Scholar

6 “The Reorganisation Declaration,” Short Story Magazine, 01 1921. I have assumed that this “Declaration” was from the hand of Mao Tun since he was the editor of the magazine.Google Scholar

7 Short Story Magazine, 09 1922.Google Scholar

8 “Hsin Wen-hsueh Yen-chiu-che ti Tse-jen yü Nu-li” (“The Responsibility and Endeavour of Students of New Literature”), Short Story Magazine, 02 1921.Google ScholarAlso in Chen-to, Cheng, Wen-hsueh Lun-cheng chi (Shanghai: Liang-yu Tu-shu Kung-szu, 1936).Google Scholar

9 “She-hui Pei-ching yü Ch'uang-tsao” (“Social Background and Creativity”), Short Story Magazine, 07 1921. In this same essay he said he was convinced of the universality of certain human experiences, suffering in particular, which forms the content of tragedies. Here “universality” is applied to all social classes without distinctions, a far cry from the position we find him in at the present time.Google Scholar

10 “Tzu-jan Chu-i yü Chung-kuo Hsien-tai Hsiao-shuo” (“Naturalism and Modern Chinese Novels”), Short Story Magazine, 07 1922.Google Scholar

11 Cheng, op. cit., p. 150. Mao Tun obviously equated this life-reflection theory with naturalism.Google Scholar

12 Students' Miscellany, 09 1920.Google Scholar

13 Cheng, op. cit., p. 145.Google Scholar

14 Short Story Magazine, 01 1921.Google Scholar

15 “The Responsibility and Endeavour of the Students of New Literature,” op. cit.Google Scholar

16 “What is Literature?” in Cheng, op. cit., pp. 156–157.Google Scholar

17 Ibid.

18 “Naturalism and Modern Chinese Novels,” Cheng, p. 384. His effort to introduce the literature of the oppressed peoples was an expression of such sympathy. See Short Story Magazine, 10 1922.Google Scholar

19 “Cha-kan” or miscellaneous thought. Cheng, p. 167.Google Scholar

20 “Naturalism and Modern Chinese Novels,” Cheng, p. 387, where Mao Tun contrasted naturalism with the old type of literature.Google Scholar

21 “Ta Chuan-pien Shih-ch'i Ho-shih Lai Ni?” (“When Will the Great Period of Transition Arrive?”), Cheng, p. 164.Google Scholar

22 Loc. cit.Google Scholar

23 “Naturalism and Modern Chinese Novels,” Cheng, p. 387.Google Scholar

24 “Cha-kan,” Cheng, p. 167.Google Scholar

25 Briere, S. J., “Un Peintre de son temps: Mao Toen,” Le Bulletin de l'Université Aurore, III, 1943, p. 279. See also P.Henri van Boven, Histoire de la Littérature Chinoise Moderne, p. 52.Google Scholar

26 “When Will the Great Period of Transition Arrive,” Cheng, p. 165.Google Scholar

27 “Wen-hsueh yü Cheng-chih” (“Literature and Politics”), Short Story Magazine, 09 1922.Google Scholar

28 “Naturalism and Modern Chinese Novels,” Cheng, pp. 388–389.Google Scholar

29 For the moment I would like to leave out the question of whether or not Mao Tun was right in attributing to Tolstoy the position of an extremist in the school of art for life philosophy.Google Scholar

30 See Cheng, op. cit., pp. 149–153.Google Scholar

31 Taine, A. H., History of English Literature, translated by Laun, N. van, in four volumes (New York: 1895).Google Scholar

32 Short Story Magazine, 07 1921. For the original quotation, see Li-chi, “Yüeh-chi,” or “The Preface” in Mao-shih.Google Scholar

33 According to the commentary, the last part of the quotation should be translated as “The music of a state about to be destroyed is sad and mournful.” Mao Tun, while accepting the original statement, objected to the interpretation offered in the commentary. Hence my literal rendering of the last sentence.Google Scholar

34 If we may call Mao Tun a traditionalist in a new garb as I have suggested, we do so as much on the basis of this sense of responsibility as on his theory that literary quality is determined by the conditions of the time.Google Scholar

35 “Cha-kan,” Cheng, op. cit., pp. 171–172.Google Scholar

36 “Naturalism and Modern Chinese Novels,” Short Story Magazine, 07 1922, p. 4.Google Scholar

37 Ibid. pp. 6–7.

38 Tun, Mao could be referring to Chernyshevski's article on Turgenev's Asya, “The Russian at a Rendez-vous” (1858). Chernyshevski said it was a melancholy story of an abortive love, used as an allegory of Russian willingness, as a peg to hang a warning on to the bourgeoisie to heed the needs of the time.Google Scholar See Simmons, E. J., Continuity and Change in Russian and Soviet Thought (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1955), pp. 389–390.CrossRefGoogle Scholar