THE AMERICAN IN LITERATURE
I have been a guest at the annual dinner of the ——, one of the leading literary associations in America, and later at a "reception" at the house of ——, where I met some of the most charming men and delightful women, possessed of manners that marked the person of culture and the savoir faire that I have seen so little of among other "sets" of well-known public people. But what think you of an author of note who knew absolutely nothing of the literature of our country? There were Italians, French, and Swedes at the dinner, who were called upon to respond to toasts on the literature of their country; but was I called upon? No, indeed. I doubt if in all that entourage there was more than one or two who were familiar with the splendid literature of China and its antiquity.
But to come to the "shock." My immediate companion was a lady with just a soupçon of the masculine, who, I was told, was a distinguished novelist, which means that her book had sold to the limit of 30,000 copies. After a toast and speech in which the literature of Norway and Sweden had been extolled, this charming lady turned to me and said, "It is too bad, ——, that you have no literature in China; you miss so much that is enjoyed by other nations." This was too much, and I broke one of the American rules of chivalry—I became disputatious with a lady and slightly cynical; and when I wish to be cynical I always quote Mr. Harte, which usually "brings down the house." To hear a Chinese heathen quote the "Heathen Chinee" is supposed to be very funny.
I said, "My dear madam, I am surprised that you do not know that China has the finest and oldest literature known in the history of the world. I assure you, my ancestors were writing books when the Anglo-Saxon was living in caves."[3] She was astonished and somewhat dismayed, but was not cast down—the clever American woman never is. I told her of our classics, of our wonderful Book of Changes, written by my ancestor Wan Wang in 1150 B. C. I told her of his philosophy. I compared his idea of the creation to that in the Bible. I explained the loss of many rare Chinese books by the piratical order of destruction by Emperor Che Hwang-ti, calling attention to the fact that the burning of the famous library of Alexandria was a parallel. I asked her if it were possible that she had never heard of the Odes of Confucius, or his Book of History, which was supposed to have been destroyed, but which was found in the walls of his home one hundred and forty years before Christ, and so saved to become a part of the literature of China.
Finally she said, "I have studied literature, but that of China was not included." "Your history," I continued, "begins in 1492; our written history begins in the twenty-third century before Christ, and the years down to 720 B. C. are particularly well covered, while our legends run back for thousands of years." But my companion had never heard of the Shoo-King. It was so with the Chun Tsew[4] of Confucius and the Four Books—Ta-hĕ-ŏ,[5] Chung-yung,[6] Lun-yu,[7] Măng-tsze.[8] She had never heard of them. I told her of the invention of paper by the Marquis Tsae several centuries before Christ, and she laughingly replied that she supposed that I would claim next that the Chinese had libraries like those Mr. Carnegie is founding. I was delighted to assure her that her assumption was correct, and drew a little picture of a well-known Chinese library, founded two thousand years ago, the Han Library, with its 3,123 classics, its 2,706 works on philosophy, its 2,528 books on mathematics, its 790 works on war, its 868 books on medicine, 1,318 on poetry, not to speak of thousands of essays.
I could not but wonder as I talked, where were the Americans and their literature when our fathers were reading these books two thousand years ago! Even the English people were wild savages, living in caves and huts, when our people were printing books and encyclopedias of knowledge. I dwelt upon our poetry, the National Airs, Greater Eulogies, dating back several thousand years. I told her of the splendors of our great versifier, Le-Tai-Pih; and I might have said that many American poets, like Walt Whitman, had doubtless read the translations to their advantage. I had the pleasure at least of commanding this lady's attention, and I believe she was the first American who deigned to take a Chinaman seriously. The facts of our literature are available, but only scholars make a study of it, and so far as I could learn not a word of Chinese literature is ever taught in American schools, though in the great universities there are facilities, and the best educated people are familiar with our history.
The American authors, especially novelists, who constitute the majority of authors, are by no means all well educated. Many appear to have a faculty of "story-telling," which enables them to produce something that will sell; but that all American authors, and this will surprise you, are included among the great scholars, is far from true. Some, yes many, are deplorably ignorant in the sense of broad learning, and I believe this is a universal, national fault. If one thing Chinese more than another is ridiculed in America it is our drama. I met a famous "play-writer" at the —— dinner, who thought it a huge joke. I heard that his income was $30,000 per annum from plays alone; yet he had never heard of our "Hundred Plays of the Yuen Dynasty," which rests in one of his own city libraries not a mile distant, and he laughed good-naturedly when I remarked that the modern stage obtained its initiative in China.
A listener did me the honor to question my statement that Voltaire's "L'Orphelin de la Chine" was taken from the Orphan of Chaou of this collection, which I thought every one knew. All the authors whom I met seemed surprised to learn that I was familiar with their literature and could not compare it synthetically with that of other nations, and even more so when I said that all well-educated Chinamen endeavored to familiarize themselves with the literature of other countries.
I continually gain the impression that the Americans "size us up," as they say, and "lump" us with the "coolie." We are "heathen Chinee," and it is incomprehensible that we should know anything. I am talking now of the half-educated people as I have met them. Here and there I meet men and women of the highest culture and knowledge, and this class has no peer in the world. If I were to live in America I should wish to consort with her real scholars, culled from the best society of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, and other cities. In a word, the aristocracy of America is her educated class, the education that comes from association year after year with other cultivated people. I understand there is more of it in Boston and Philadelphia than anywhere; but you find it in all towns and cities. This I grant is the real American, who, in time—several thousand years perhaps—as in our own case, will demonstrate the wonderful possibilities of the human race in the West.
I would like to tell you something about the books of the literary men and women I have met, but you will be more interested in the things I have seen and the mannerisms of the people. I was told by a distinguished writer that America had failed to produce any really great authors—I mean to compare with other nations—and I agreed with him, although appreciating what she has done. There is no one to compare with the great minds of England—Scott, Dickens, Thackeray. There is no American poet to compare with Tennyson, Milton, and a dozen others in England, France, Italy, and Germany; indeed, America is far behind in this respect, yet in the making of books there is nothing to compare with it. Every American, apparently, aspires to become an author, and I really think it would be difficult to find a citizen of the republic who had not been a contributor to some publication at some time, or had not written a book. The output of books is extraordinary, and covers every field; but the class is not in all cases such as one might expect. The people are omnivorous readers, and "stories," "novels," are ground out by the ton; but I doubt if a book has been produced since the time of Hawthorne that will really live as a great classic.