What to read if... sings!

Not really

Just assuming best Paolo Conte growl (It's wonderful, it's wonderful), and reiterating¹ the general wonderfulness (I dream of you) of The Story of the Stone² (Cao Xuquin); that last being particularly apposite in a novel in which dreams (and their real world consequences) feature largely; to the extent that alternative titles lead with the word “dream”.

How to describe it? Where shall we start? Hmm.

Well, it's an 18thc Chinese novel in five volumes (what? what’s that stampeding sound?), with a trippy, metaphysical opening (introduced by a sentient stone, you know), about the declining fortunes of a great family - the Jias, Nings and Rongs - and the hope of their house, the hero Bao-yu, the boy born with a piece of jade in his mouth.

It's a comedy (of manners, romantic, domestic), bildungsroman, family drama (melodrama), metaphysical reflection, adventure, silver fork novel³, novel of feeling, social observation, and veiled (extremely so, in view of the political risk) social criticism: so pretty much the widest possible remit the novel can assume. Oh yes, and there's poetry.

n China, it's one of those books that have become part of the general consciousness, even for people who haven't read it; an almost universal cultural reference point. Apparently, Mao Tse Tung boasted about having read it five times - despite the focus being on a rich and powerful family - presumably squaring it with his political ideals because the family's in decline. Helpfully, that decline is directly rooted in behaviour and lifestyle, influencing the development of character - the stereotypical effete aristocracy destroying itself from within; although, the Jias, Nings and Rongs aren't true aristocracy, they certainly aren't bourgeois either. So, a win all round for the revolution. It's also hard not to see Mao as succumbing to both the inestimable pleasure of surrendering to The Stone, and a social conditioning that indicated it a sign of culture to have read it, (“the cultivated man [sic]” being an iconic figure in Chinese culture; even in popular fortune-telling handbooks like the I Ching. (There's an I Ching chapter, by the way.)

Apparently, there's also a view that dismisses it as a sentimental romance (really!); but it's interesting to see the wide reach of the 18thc novel of feeling (particularly in the narrative within the narrative about the love affair of Er-jie). Clearly, something in the air.

But, Xuequin is describing a world that existed, and which he knew intimately from within; and one of the many fascinating aspects of The Stone is that, although painting, with sometimes painful fidelity, a supremely detailed portrait of a society in which male hegemony is all, it's absolutely packed with strong female characters; not just in the sense of dynamism, assertiveness or seizing autonomy; but, more subtly, in the realism, sympathy and understanding of their depiction. Bao-chai, highly intelligent, kind, pragmatic. Dai-yu, intelligent, sensitive (and consequently defensive, often tipping over into spite), creative (and delicate: again, the - pan-cultural - 18thc depiction of physical delicacy, expressing moral sensibility. You’ll recognise it from the English novel).

Xi-feng, clever (suspect you're noticing a certain shared quality here), good-humoured, energetic (one of the few characters to recognise the family's financial problems and try to do anything about it), whose entrepreneurial innovation gradually metamorphoses into corruption. It's astonishing for the reader when we're reminded that Xi-feng - in keeping with her background, although not the family she's married into, (many of the women here are exceptionally cultivated; they start a poetry club that takes up most of Volume Two) - is illiterate.

Xuequin focuses on this aspect quite deliberately: discussing the origins of the novel, he describes looking back in unsuccessful middle-age and realising that the young women he’d grown up with “those slips of girls - which is all they were then - were in every every way both morally and intellectually superior”⁴ - not just to his youthful self, but to his middle-aged self now. His ability to recognise - and acknowledge - this is exceptional; as a man of his time, background and upbringing, extraordinary; and his development of this theme becomes part of the novel's moral argument. Significantly, Bao-yu, from a very young age, prefers female company (given a special dispensation by Grandmother Jia to spend more time with his girl cousins), another factor (as well as his jade and the sensibility associated with it) that marks him out as different. Xuequin makes it clear that he's not a typical hero - nor, as a writer, does he have any particular interest in one - there are various more conventional versions of masculinity, swaggering their way through the novel, some played for comedy, some tragedy (occasionally straddling both): there are no heroes.

Presiding over them all - men and women - is the magnificent figure of Grandmother Jia, a tough, tough-minded matriarch and mistress of realpolitik, who rules the multiple households with a benevolently wielded rod of iron: favourite joking exclamation “I’ll tear your mouth!” (referring to unsavoury mediaeval-sounding - to modern ears - form of punishment. In case we needed reminding, this is a different world, with different values).

It's a world in which clan and family are paramount; the family and its branches, to an extent, a complete world in themselves: they live in a compound which is like a small city within the greater city (almost certainly Peking, although never directly referred to as such) they rarely visit. Almost completely self-sufficient, like any great estate (there's a nice, easy analogy with the English aristocracy in the 18thc and the wider application of the meaning of “family” still understood at this time), they have their own internal administrative hierarchy to run things; a clan school to educate the boys for the public careers which are their duty to the success of the family; only engaging with the outside world in pursuit of advantageous connection and advancement.

A fascinating example of this is when a daughter - already very well-placed as a lady-in-waiting at the Imperial Court - is “promoted” to the role of Imperial Concubine; bringing her (and so her family) a huge increase in status and deferred power. There’s great rejoicing in the family compound - and they build a specific suite to receive her and her retinue if she should be able to visit them (she does, once; and the palace eunuchs behave appallingly, messing everybody about; and keeping even Grandmother Jia standing in the street from dawn to await Yu-chuan’s arrival) - that's how important it is: the advancement of one, is the advance of all.⁵

It's a world in which your place in it is very clearly defined, and conformity with your role is of paramount importance - or at least ostensible importance. When the entire family's security and prosperity seems to be on the verge of collapse, the senior men come and confess to Grandmother Jia (mainly because they can't hide it any longer and they don't know what to do). She receives them in matriarchal and womanly fashion, tears rolling down her cheeks; they fall to their knees, prostrate with apologies… You get the picture. Then she packs them all off, saying

We have so little time. I shall have to do something myself…Things mustn't be allowed to go on like this.

and sends her maid on a secret mission. Her immediate response to crisis is decisive action. Even as she pays lip-service to the idea that she's the family figurehead by virtue of seniority and successful reproduction, her behaviour declares the opposite.

And so, the stories weave and interweave. There’s a huge cast of characters, the shifting focus handled with panache; from the leisurely, metaphysical opening - a narrative within a narrative from that sentient stone - then the slow pan down from the heavens to the mortal world: leading to the intimate detail and close examination of its characters, their lives and their concerns.

Despite (or because) of its subtext of spiritual preoccupation, this is a very corporeal and material novel, strongly rooted in physicality, objects lovingly described, pulling us into a world of inkstones, jade hairpins, quilted silk robes, gauze bed-curtains, connoisseur’s teas (and the cups to drink it from), delectable food (ranging from grand banquets to comfort-food dumplings) - and kangs. Ah, the kang! (A kind of elegantly accoutred sofa-bed above a stove, WTRI is completely in love with the kang; indeed, could live on one at certain times of the year.)

Again, this intricate detail allied with depth of field is an important aspect of the novel's overall intention (if ever there was a spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling, recollected in tranquillity, this is it): retrospection is part of its bedrock, as Xuequin recalls and reflects on, a world that no longer exists - not just for him because of his changed circumstances; but at all. The world his characters occupy is vanishing around them; and, as is the way of such things, they don't realise it. (It's interesting to consider a similar preoccupation in Wong Kar wai’s film In the Mood for Love set in ‘60s Hong Kong - ravishing, by the way if you haven't got round to seeing it; but also Evelyn Waugh's discussion of this, in his introduction to Brideshead Revisited - he thought - in post-war retrospect - that he’d overdone it a bit.)

This dissolution around the edges, so to speak, expresses perfectly the novel’s amorphous quality, its shifting between worlds - both corporeal and otherwise - and states of consciousness - an integral element, dictated partly by the cultural framework within which its written, but also by Xuequin’s discussion and exploration of that framework. Dreams and their significance are a constant thread - the most common alternative titles for the novel are A Dream of Red Mansions/of the Red Chamber. (Handsome houses of several storeys, belonging to the rich, had red-plastered walls; so, shorthand for opulence and grandeur; and, also, by metonymic extrapolation, for the dwellings of rich men’s daughters.⁶) And, of course, as we too enter another world (even more different, perhaps, than Xuequin ever envisaged; that difference enhanced for readers outside Chinese culture), our experience of the novel adds another reflection to the refractive arcade that represents its world picture.

Enough! Why dally longer here, when you could be cracking open Volume One and surrendering to pleasure? (And just think - five volumes! No need to worry about what to read next for - well, quite a bit.

There is one minor detail (but nothing to spoil your fun): the novel’s unfinished. Except, it's sort of not, because the story’s been completed from Xuequin’s notes/writings, compiled and edited by Gao E (who for a long time was held to be a Bad Thing - the novel has had a chequered publication history - but has since been rehabilitated, WTRI is glad to say, in view of his public-spirited act). David Hawkes will give you the lowdown on this. The main thing to bear in mind is that this is still insanely readable, pulling you in and not letting go until -

1. A few of you may have read this before - quite a lot of you won't; so it seemed worth giving it another airing (with a few tweaks).

2. Like any non-Chinese speaker reading this, WTRI would like to acknowledge a debt to the magnificent David Hawkes (and to John Minford who completed the translation - Penguin. There are, of course, others). All inferences, extrapolations (mistakes), etc., WTRI’s own, unless otherwise stated.

3. Anachronistic reference to popular 19thc novel genre which gave a lot of attention to stuff; especially as a social codifier.

4. David Hawkes

5. As it is in many parts of the world still; especially where the social contract fails to cover the base necessities.

6. David Hawkes.