Sometimes satire has a way of staying relevant for far longer than was originally intended. In the spirit of China’s current anti-corruption crackdown – as the exploitation and profiteering committed by thousands of officials is brought to public attention – perhaps now is as good a time as any to look back at The Scholars, one of China’s great vernacular novels from the 18th Century and an early work of Chinese social satire.
The novel, a weighty tome consisting of 55 chapters, was composed by Wu Jingzi (吴敬梓) in the decade spanning 1740 to 1750. In those heady days the Qing Dynasty was at its height and the Confucian scholar-official class still reigned supreme over China. In order to become an official, one had to pass the rigorous imperial examination system, which tested a pupil’s proficiency at writing eight paragraph essays on the Confucian canon. Once this was achieved, the world was yours and, as with officials in today’s age, the gateway to riches was lodged open.
Though the precepts of Confucius may be noble ones with their emphasis on moderation and filial piety, when put into practice in the hardscrabble world of politics they were as susceptible to corruption as any noble ideal. It is this defilement of the sacrosanct that Wu expands upon in his work, composing portraits of numerous scholar-officials; some are upright and ethical examples to others, but many others are wholly unscrupulous, sucking the life out of society and traditional morality. It is all meant to be something of a farce, a tale told in fables. The Chinese name for the novel is Rúlínwàishǐ (儒林外史), which translates to “An Unofficial History of the Literati”, a play on the much older “Official History” composed by China’s most august ancient historian, Sima Qian.
Wu Jingzi was as well placed as any to record the failings of the Confucian scholar-officials. Born in Chuzhou, Anhui in 1701 to a well-to-do family, he was destined by the precedent of his forefathers to become an official, and underwent all the schooling expected of his class. But fate led him down a path different from his ancestors. Part of the reason was that it was a dark time for scholars. In the not-so-distant past, the Qing emperors had wrested control of China from their Ming predecessors, and among their tactics for ruling the new empire was heavy-handed coercion of the official elites.
So in this uninviting milieu, Wu declined the opportunity to sit for the imperial examinations. Steadily his family money ran dry and he found himself poverty-stricken and living in Nanjing by the age of 32. This gave him a window on Chinese society that was closed off to many of the elite. He knew from his upbringing what was expected of Confucian officials (and the corruption that inevitably follows such a high place in society), but he also knew what it was to be poor, and of how the downtrodden were exploited by their social betters.
In chapters 31 to 37, he provides something of an autobiographical portrait through the character Tu Shaoching. As “the seventeenth Mr. Tu of Tiencang,” he is a man with an impeccable aristocratic pedigree. In spite of every right to snobbery, Tu entertains no such pretenses. To him, those who seek high repute through obtaining degrees are wasting their time on “trifles”; he even feigns illness when one of his superiors offers him a promotion. With all this nonchalance towards the role of scholar-officials comes a lavish generosity with money. He is very liberal with his loans so long as the recipient will have the cunning to appeal to the memory of Tu’s father. As a cousin says of him, “anybody who claims to have known his father—even a dog—wins his respect.” If filial piety is a religion, Tu Shaoching is something of a radical, and, in the end, he squanders his fortune.
Like any great work of satire, The Scholars has its moments of humor. Among my favorites is the story of Fan Chin, who sits the examination twenty times before passing with first class honors at the age of 54. His father-in-law was a rough-hewn butcher who had always castigated him for his shortcomings (“Since I had the bad luck to marry my daughter to a scarecrow like you…”). Having grown used to this sort of treatment through his adult life, when Fan finally passes he literally goes mad with delight. In order to calm him, his father-in-law is called in, but now the butcher is afraid of him, not wanting to fall on the bad side of his social betters. Two bottles of wine relieves the butcher of his reservations: “You blasted idiot,” he shouts, “What have you passed?” and then knocks Fan out with a swift knock to the chin, his composure regained upon waking.
And like all great works of satire, the book can hit at the heart of things in a cutting moment of clarity. The book opens with a portrait of the noble scholar, Wang Mien, who excels in painting but who shies away from any sort of recognition. When Wang refuses an invitation from the magistrate, he is warned by his neighbor about showing such disrespect to his superiors. The painter patiently reminds his friend of the magistrate’s tendency to “tyrannize over the common people here, and do all kinds of bad things,” so he asks, “Why should I have anything to do with such a man?” It is a question the author is leveling at all who might misuse their authority.
In his time, Chairman Mao used the book as an example of the failures of the old ways. In our time it might be better suited as condemnation of those who serve the public only for their own enrichment.
Image taken from nibiryukov.narod.ru