Zhang Ailing comments on sixty years

Author: Zi Tong
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2001-08-01
Features: Eileen Chang is a person who reflects the world of the Republic of China like flowers by water and shadows in a pool. Reading her works, one feels as if she knows everything, yet in reality, she has experienced very little of the world. However, everything of this era naturally connects with her, as if "flowers come into her robes, shadows fall into the pool." The achievements and shortcomings of Eileen Chang in literature are objectively real; whether one recognizes or acknowledges them is a matter of time. Patience is not the character of modern people, but if we have confidence, we should have perseverance. Looking deeply and far, history is fair. The achievements and shortcomings of Eileen Chang in literature are objectively real; whether one recognizes or acknowledges them is a matter of time. Patience is not the character of modern people, but if we have confidence, we should have perseverance.
I haven’t seen Eileen Chang for thirty years. "On a moonlit night in Shanghai thirty years ago, we might have missed seeing the moon of that time. Young people think the moon from thirty years ago was like a copper coin-sized, red and yellow, damp halo, like a tear dropped on a letter from Yunxiang Studio, old-fashioned and hazy. Older people recall the moon from thirty years ago as joyful, bigger, rounder, and whiter than the moon in front of them. However, looking back after thirty years of hardship, even the best moon cannot escape a touch of sorrow." This is the opening passage from The Golden Lock and Chain. Now, I am with a head full of white hair, looking back at the passing years, the flying dust, and the hidden clouds and moon.
In the late 1970s, I woke up from a terrible nightmare, and my works could once again enjoy the luxury of being published and distributed. Whenever a new book was published, I would eagerly sign and wrap it myself, run to the post office, and send it to friends as a token of friendship and respect. In the spring of 1980, thanks to Hong Kong’s Zhaoming Bookstore, I had a beautifully bound Selected Works printed, with excellent design, printing, and paper. My old friend Liu Yichang wrote a long preface, praising her highly. I specially chose a hardcover edition and solemnly wrote "For Eileen Chang’s Corrections" on the flyleaf, preparing to send it to the United States. However, I soon heard that Eileen Chang had recently shut herself off from the world, almost refusing to associate with anyone. I then realized with a start that not only were we separated by a vast gap of time and space, but there was also a long, vague river of psychology between us. Although we bathed under the same moonlight, we were worlds apart. I decided to keep this book carefully hidden as a of my innocent heart in my old age.
After the implementation of the open-door policy in mainland China, the couplet "Friends are scattered across the seas, yet feel as if they are neighbors" from the Tang Dynasty suddenly became popular. However, the overuse of this couplet in diplomatic banquets resulted in even the best poetry becoming, as Irenaeus said, "a polished two-kopek coin." I couldn’t help but feel sympathetic for Wang Bo. Calling myself "a close friend of Eileen Chang" and sending her a letter from afar was bound to be criticized as falsely claiming friendship. But we had begun our correspondence through writing forty years ago, and even now, she had never erased me from the list of "close friends" in my heart. I have carefully preserved her works published in mainland China in the 1940s, such as Legend and Whispers, and I have mostly collected her works published in Taiwan and Hong Kong in the past three decades, though the three recently acquired volumes are yet to be read. I have Tang Wentao’s Studies on Eileen Chang and The Complete Collection of Eileen Chang Materials, as well as Hu Lanqing’s This Life of Mine and Years with the River, all of which I have read. As a writer myself, if I can have even one reader—even just one—treat my works with such care, I would be more than satisfied.
My first encounter with Eileen Chang’s works and her person was in a very severe era. In 1943, more than a year had passed since the Pearl Harbor Incident, and there were still two years to go before the end of World War II and the victory of China’s resistance. Shanghai was then under Japanese military occupation. That summer, I was hired to take over the editing of the commercial magazine Myriad, and I was looking for writers’ support. While flipping through the magazine Violet, I miraculously discovered Incense Burner Fragrance—The Fragrance of Sandalwood. Who was Eileen Chang? How could I find her and ask her to write for me? I knew Zhou Shoujuan, the owner of Violet, but I hesitated for a long time, feeling it would be inappropriate to ask him to be a messenger of peace. Just as I was at my wit’s end, Eileen Chang unexpectedly appeared. The Central Bookstore, which published Myriad, was located in a small alley near Huojin Road in Shanghai, in a double-story stone gatehouse. The downstairs was the shop, and the Myriad editorial office was on the upper veranda room, separated by a door from the bedroom of the owner, Ping Jinya and his wife. Fortunately, in the editorial office, there was only me and my assistant, Yang Yousheng (also known as Honghuang), so there would be no disturbance to the owners. A significant part of old Shanghai’s culture was born under such rooftops. And it was in this family-style veranda room that I honorably welcomed this emerging female writer.
It must have been a day in July. Eileen Chang was dressed in a silk floral qipao with a delicate color, a typical outfit for Shanghai ladies of that time. She carried a newspaper package under her arm, saying she had a manuscript for me to review—it was the short story The Heart Sutra that was later published in Myriad, accompanied by an illustration she had drawn herself. The meeting and conversation were brief but pleasant. What we talked about is hard to recall, but my feelings at the time are as clear as ever—I was overjoyed. Although it was our first meeting, I was not unfamiliar with her, and I sincerely hoped she would write for Myriad often. Eileen Chang quickly climbed to the pinnacle of literary success and became famous in Shanghai overnight. This made me both happy and worried. Due to the special circumstances, it was not worthwhile to dance in the zoo—there were some newspapers and magazines that enthusiastically cheered for her, but their interests lay not in literature but in promoting themselves. After Shanghai fell under occupation, a few respectable elders of the literary world remained hidden away. They were all delighted to discover Eileen Chang, though she was unaware of this. Zheng Zhenduo lived incognito, economizing on clothing and food, and was vigorously purchasing the classics of his homeland with his limited personal resources, trying to save them from being lost to history. He asked me to persuade Eileen Chang not to publish her works everywhere and suggested that she could hand them over to Kaiming Publishing House for preservation, with the promise of payment, to be published later when the time was right. At that time, Ye Shengtao, the person in charge of the editorial department at Kaiming, had moved his family to Chongqing, while Xia Mazi and Zhang Xichen, the owner of Kaiming, stayed in Shanghai. They had recruited a group of distinguished scholars from the cultural world, who were ostensibly editors but in reality were hiding and waiting out the storm. Wang Tongzhao, Wang Boshang, Zhou Yutong, Zhou Zhenfu, Xu Diufu, and Gu Junzheng were among them. However, I did not dare to be too familiar with Eileen Chang, given our shallow acquaintance. Coincidentally, I soon received a letter from her, saying that Ping Jinya was willing to publish a collection of her novels, and trusting her, she asked for my opinion. In the past, Shanghai’s publishing industry had a type of "one-fold-eight-off" book, which specialized in reprinting ancient classics and popular fiction of low quality, relying on low prices to win customers. Central Bookstore had started with this business. I took advantage of the situation and sent her a catalog from the store for reference, explaining that if it were me, I would rather decline her kindness. I earnestly advised her that with her talent, she had nothing to worry about in being recognized, and hoped she would wait for the right time and not rush things. Her reply was straightforward, saying her principle was "strike while the iron is hot." Her first major work was Legend, published by the "Magazine" Press. I secretly regretted that if I had known earlier, I would have rather helped Central Bookstore.
A piece titled "On Eileen Chang’s Novels," written under the pseudonym "Xunyu" by, was published in Myriad. This is no longer a secret and is clear evidence of the older generation of writers’ concern for Eileen Chang. He highly praised her achievements in artistic technique and affirmed that The Golden Lock and Chain was "one of the finest achievements in our literary world." At the same time, he severely criticized The Ring of Chains. His praise and criticism, from two different perspectives, aimed at the same goal—passionate anticipation of greater achievements. "Without The Golden Lock and Chain, the author of this article would never have been so harsh in criticizing The Ring of Chains in the following text, and would not have written this article at all." Even though we were strangers, we could understand his attitude toward life and art from these words. Eileen Chang’s response was to write a, circling around the topic and using it as a springboard, essentially saying, "No!" Long ago, a joke was in the literary world: "A wife is always someone else’s, and a piece of writing is always one’s own." The title of her was "A Piece of Writing About Herself," later included in the essay collection Whispers. Now, after four decades, Eileen Chang herself has been far harsher in her criticism of The Ring of Chains than Fu Lei. In reality, Fu Lei’s comments were based on a higher perspective—seeing the strengths of Eileen Chang and the shortcomings of other new literary works, pointing out that "our writers have always held a disdainful attitude toward technique. After the May Fourth Movement, countless words were spent on ideological debates. It seemed that as soon as one had accurate consciousness, one could become a Buddha overnight, and trivial art was even less of a concern." His praise and criticism, with some parts also involving Ba Jin’s works, seemed to me not entirely fair or appropriate. Using my editorial power, I secretly deleted a paragraph from the original manuscript, which also annoyed Fu Lei and caused a small stir. I mentioned this incident in my 1978 essay "In Memory of Fu Lei" and will not repeat it here. Tang Wentao, in his book Studies on Eileen Chang, said that after Fu Lei’s article was published, The Ring of Chains was "cut in half," and Eileen Chang never appeared in Myriad again. He saw the facts but did not explain the truth. The interruption of The Ring of Chains had other factors and was not as decisive as he claimed. I was a party to the event, but unfortunately, the details have faded from memory, and I can no longer explain clearly. However, one thing is certain: my interactions with Eileen Chang were limited, but we always maintained friendly feelings, with no hard feelings between us. The facts bear witness to this. Eileen Chang adapted the novel Love in a Fallen City into a stage play and once again trusted me to give her advice, with some revisions along the way. I did not, and she did not mind my unprofessional opinions. Later, the play was performed by the Zhongda Theater Company, and I even helped mediate. The company was led by Zhou Jianyun, whom I introduced to Eileen Chang at a restaurant. At that time, Eileen Chang had already become a news figure in Shanghai, designing her own clothes and showing her audacious courage; the dress she wore that day was a neo-classical, knee-length jacket with super-wide sleeves, made of water-red silk, with a wide black satin border on the right lapel, with a scrolling cloud pattern—perhaps a symbol of good fortune. A long gown was worn over the qipao. One of the photos in Whispers shows this style. The caption reads: "One day, our civilization, whether or, will become the past. But now it is as clear as water and as bright as a mirror, and I should be happy." Zhou Jianyun was one of the three pillars of the Mingxing Film Company before the war, knowledgeable in social circles, and seemed a bit reserved that day, likely impressed by Eileen Chang’s renowned literary status and appearance. The play later premiered at the Xin Guang Grand Theater, directed by Zhu Duanjun, one of Shanghai’s four great directors, with Luo Lan playing the role of Liu Su, and Shu Shi playing Fan Liu Yuan, both famous actors of the time. Afterward, I received a gift from Eileen Chang—a piece of royal blue silk for a robe. I used it as the outer layer of a fur coat, which stood out when worn. Sang Hu saw it and remarked in Shanghai dialect, "." Sang Hu was the director of the film Unrequited Love, a close friend of Eileen Chang—but that’s a story for another time.
In June 1944 and June 1945, I was arrested twice by the Japanese South Shanghai. The first time, I was spared the "civilization" of the samurai—though I endured enough of the heart-wrenching screams of victims under torture. In the opera Wuzixiu Guan, Wu Zixu’s hair turned white overnight, and I began to experience this firsthand. The, a place where people avoided mentioning its name, calling it "Bei Gongfu." The location was the former site of the American School, a white building with green lawns, pure like an angel, opposite a solemn international church with a purplish-red tiled roof, covered in ivy. Beidang Road was elegant and quiet, a good place for lovers to stroll. For some reason, the Japanese chose this environment to set up their modern hell. When I was released, I felt as if I had just escaped death, and the world seemed truly beautiful. Back home, I saw Eileen Chang’s message, knowing she had come to inquire about me during my ordeal. I immediately replied with a short note in classical Chinese, a few concise lines that I still consider one of my best works. The reason was that in my usual writing, it was rare to have such an emotional outpouring. This incident happened forty years ago, and until last year, I had the chance to read This Life of Mine, only to find a passage about it: "Eileen Chang rarely socialized with outsiders, except for one friend who was arrested by the Japanese. Eileen Chang, because of the stage adaptation of Love in a Fallen City, had once helped her, and I accompanied her to visit her family. Later, I also spoke to the Japanese, asking them to release her if possible." I then realized that there was such a matter. For a moment, I was filled with complex emotions. Before this, I had just read Yu Guangzhong’s , a critique of Hu Lanqing’s character and literary style, which deeply resonated with me. The War of Resistance was a matter of life and death for the motherland, yet Hu Lanqing’s actions reached the extreme of reversing gratitude and confusing right and wrong. Yu Guangzhong’s severe criticism of him had a profound resonance with me, as my personal experiences provided solid evidence. However, my gratitude for Eileen Chang’s kindness only doubled. "To be famous, one must do so early! If one comes too late, joy is not as intense." "The era is rushed, already in destruction, and there will be even greater destruction to come" (Preface to the Second Edition of Legend, August 1944). Eileen Chang was sensitive, and her prophecy became reality in an instant. After Japan’s unconditional surrender, the war still raged across mainland China, and indeed, there was "greater destruction," but destruction did not mean annihilation. Ancient China and her children were enduring the tests of fire and water—Eileen Chang was also enduring the test, with her spirit trapped between internal and external struggles, a tragedy in her emotions, and a sudden decline in her creative prosperity. Large gaps suddenly appeared in her work, as if a film had been cut. "The liberation of the nation" was undoubtedly a disaster in Eileen Chang’s eyes. In the early days of the war’s victory, the noisy accusations against her had already subsided, and the earth-shaking changes had captured the attention of hundreds of millions of people—nothing was greater than this. In 1950, Shanghai held the "First Literary and Art Congress," and Eileen Chang was invited to attend. The season was summer, and the venue was a cinema—I can’t remember if there was air conditioning. She sat in the back row, wearing a white knitted sweater over her qipao, reminding one of the lines from Su Dongpo’s poem, "High places cannot bear the cold." At that time, the most fashionable attire for both men and women was the blue and gray Zhongshan suit, which later earned them the nickname "blue ants" in the West. Eileen Chang’s outfit, though transitioning from brilliance to simplicity, still stood out in comparison. Any matter has complexity, not as simple as the general concept understands. The left-wing camp was not without readers of Eileen Chang, and Xia Yan, an elder of the "Left League," was one. After the war of resistance ended, Xia Yan returned to Shanghai from Chongqing and heard about a writer named Eileen Chang who had emerged during the occupation. After liberation, he happened to be a leading figure in Shanghai’s literary circles—this was the background of Eileen Chang’s appearance at the "Literary Congress." Xia Yan never hesitated to admit his talent for discovering talent, but from a "left" perspective, it was considered "right-wing" and "sentimentalism." The establishment of the Shanghai Film Script Creation Institute saw Xia Yan personally take the position of director, and I was appointed as his deputy. He told me that he wanted to invite Eileen Chang to be a scriptwriter, but some people opposed it, so he had to wait for a while. I didn’t have time to tell Eileen Chang about this, only to hear that she had gone to Hong Kong. Xia Yan expressed great regret but said nothing more. Later, when Xia Yan was transferred to the Ministry of Culture as vice minister, I still purchased Legend and Whispers from Shanghai Bookstore’s warehouse and sent them to him in Beijing.
Life is a mystery; even in matters that concern me personally, there are still many secrets and unknowns, let alone the warmth and cold behind others, the broken phoenix and the lost spiritual connection, and the long-term isolation of mainland China from the outside world, seen as an "iron curtain" by overseas—there is no wonder that there is a lack of understanding. People do not have the instinct to predict the future, even a little bit of experience often requires the price of pain, which is the cause of tragedy and comedy. Time gnaws at life, and for the elderly, it has already reached the point of wine and lanterns. But thank God, we are also able to see broader and understand more—though it may not be true understanding, there are many who are lost in old age. Tang Wentao, a professor specializing in the study of Eileen Chang, said, "Eileen Chang wrote in an unfortunate era; she could not be recognized by her contemporaries in China—it could be said that it was a twist of fate, perhaps also decided by herself." This statement is well-made, but it can also be debated, as it is not entirely close to reality, the reason being the barrier of understanding. I was reminded of a passage from Love in a Fallen City: "The fall of Hong Kong fulfilled her. But in this unreasonable world, who knows what is cause and what is effect? Who knows? Perhaps it was because she was to be fulfilled that a great metropolis fell. Tens of thousands of people died, tens of thousands suffered, and then came the earth-shaking reforms. Liu Su did not feel that her position in history was subtle." If it doesn’t bother you, as long as you change "Hong Kong" to "Shanghai" and "Liu Su" to "Eileen Chang," I think it is almost tailor-made. The New Literature Movement in China has always been in step with political waves, and cause and effect are inseparable. The literary revolution of the May Fourth era—anti-imperialism and anti-feudalism, the revolutionary literature of the 1930s—class struggle, the War of Resistance—was naturally the mainstream. Everything else was considered out of the ordinary, marginal paths, and was not accepted by the orthodox, nor did it attract the attention of readers. This is an imperfect but good tradition—its advantage is that it is closely related to the fate of the nation, following the times step by step, like a shadow following a shadow; its shortcoming is that it has greatly reduced the territory of literature. For example, architecture only has grand halls, towers, and pavilions, without corridors, courtyards, pools, and winding paths. I counted on my fingers, and in such a vast literary world, no stage could accommodate a Eileen Chang. It was only after Shanghai fell under occupation that she was given the opportunity. The Japanese invaders and the Wang Jingwei regime cut off the New Literature tradition with one stroke—anyone who did not oppose them and could provide some literary and artistic decoration to pacify the times was welcome. Far from the watchful eyes of the emperor, this gave Eileen Chang a stage to shine. After the war of resistance, the world was in chaos, swords were drawn, and literature itself had become dispensable, making no room for figures like Cao Qiqiao or Liu Su. Eileen Chang’s literary career, her glorious and prosperous period, lasted only two years (1943–1945)—it was destined, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, "passed this village, there is no such shop." Whether it was lucky or unlucky is hard to say. Eileen Chang’s absence from the current history of modern Chinese literature is no surprise—writers and literary historians who have overlooked the outstanding achievements of "domestic" writers are everywhere. This does not mean "cannot be recognized by contemporaries in China," as there is already enough evidence to prove it. Looking deeply and far, history is fair. The achievements and shortcomings of Eileen Chang in literature are objectively real; whether one recognizes or acknowledges them is a matter of time. Patience is not the character of modern people, but if we have confidence, we should have perseverance. Thirty years have flown by like lightning. As a loyal reader of Eileen Chang, I eagerly look forward to seeing her new The Golden Lock and Chain, her new Love in a Fallen City—"The moon of thirty years ago has long," I hope, "the story of thirty years has not yet ended." I am in the northern blue, far beyond the Great Wall, sending my thoughts with the wind to Eileen Chang, with good wishes and warm greetings.