Translator’s Preface to Dee Goong An
For many years, Western writers of detective novels have time and again introduced the “Chinese element” in their books. The mysteries of China itself or of the Chinatowns in some foreign cities, were often chosen as a means of lending a weird and exotic atmosphere to the plot. Super-criminals like Sax Rohmer’s Dr. Fu Manchu, or super-detectives like Earl D. Biggers’ Charlie Chan, have become nearly as familiar to our readers as the great Lord Lister, or the immortal Sherlock Holmes himself.
As the Chinese have been so often represented - and too often misrepresented! - in our popular crime literature, it seems only just that they themselves be allowed to have their own say for once in this field. All the more so because this branch of literature was fully developed in China several centuries before Edgar Allan Poe or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle were born.
Short stories about mysterious crimes and their solution have existed in China for over a thousand years, and master-detectives have been celebrated in the tales of the public story teller and in theatrical plays for many centuries. The longer Chinese detective novel started later, about 1600, and reached its greatest development in the 18th and 19th centuries. The longer crime and mystery stories were and still are very popular in China. Even today the names of the great detectives of olden times are household words all over the country, familiar to old and young alike.
As far as I know, none of these Chinese detective stories has ever been published in a complete English translation. Occasionally extracts or translations of fragments have appeared in sinological journals, and a few years ago Vincent Starrett published a brief but well-written survey of a few of the better-known of these novels (in his “Bookman’s Holiday”, New York 1942). It cannot be denied, therefore, that Western students have treated the Chinese detective novel in a very stepmotherly way; all the less since most of the famous Chinese historical novels and “romans de moeurs” are available in excellent complete translations.
The reason for this state of affairs must be that most of these Chinese crime novels, although as a rule well written and quite interesting to the student of “things Chinese”, are not very palatable to the Western public in general. During its long history the Chinese detective novel has developed a character of its own. These novels are, of course, completely satisfactory to the Chinese. But the Chinese conception of the requirements of a crime story should answer differs so much from our own, that such novels cannot be of interest to those of us who read detective novels for their relaxation values.
Chinese detective stories have five main characteristics that are foreign to us.
In the first place, the criminal is, as a rule, introduced formally to the reader at the very beginning of a book, with his full name, an account of his past history, and the motive that led him to commit the crime. The Chinese want to derive from the reading of a detective novel the same purely intellectual enjoyment as from watching a game of chess; with all the factors known, the excitement lies in following every move of the detective and the counter measures taken by the criminal, until the game ends in the unavoidable check-mate of the latter. We, on the other hand like to be kept guessing, the identity of the criminal remaining shrouded in mystery till the last page of the book. Thus in most Chinese crime novels the element of suspense is missing. The reader knows the answer to what to us is the basic question of “Who done it?” after the first few pages.
Second, the Chinese have an innate love for the supernatural. Ghosts and goblins roam about freely in most Chinese detective stories; animals and kitchen utensils deliver testimony in court, and the detective indulges occasionally in little escapades to the Nether World, to compare notes with the judges of the Inferno. This clashes with our principle that a detective novel should be as realistic as possible.
Third, the Chinese are a leisurely people, with a passionate interest for detail. Hence all their novels, including detective stories, are written in a broadly narrative vein, interlarded with lengthy poems, philosophical digressions, and what not, while all official documents relating to the case are quoted in full. Therefore, most Chinese detective novels are bulky affairs of a hundred and more chapters, and each of them would, when translated, fill several printed volumes.
Fourth, the Chinese have a prodigious memory for names and a sixth sense for family relationships. An educated Chinese can reel off without the slightest effort some seventy or eighty relatives, each with his name, surname and title, and the exact grade of relationship, for which, by the way, the Chinese language possesses an amazingly rich special vocabulary. The Chinese reader likes his novels well-populated, so that the list of dramatis personae of one single novel usually runs into two hundred or more characters. Our contemporary crime novels have mostly only a dozen or so main characters, and yet editors have found it necessary of late to add a list of these at the beginning of the book, for the reader’s convenience.
Fifth, the Chinese have quite different ideas as to what should be described in a detective novel, and what may well be left to the reader’s imagination. Although we insist on knowing in minute detail on how the crime was committed, we are not interested in the details of the punishment finally meted out to the criminal. If he does not crash his plane to the sea, or hurtle his car over a cliff, or is not removed from the scene in some other tidy way, we leave him at the end of the book, with some dark hints, to the hangman or the electric chair. The Chinese, however, expect a faithful account of how the criminal was executed, with every gruesome detail. Often also the Chinese author throws in as an “extra” a full description of the punishment the unfortunate criminal received, after his execution, in the Chinese Inferno. Such an ending is necessary to satisfy the Chinese sense of justice, but it offends the Western reader, since it reminds him too much of beating a man who is already down.
If, in addition to the above, it is remembered that the Chinese author as a matter of course takes it for granted that his reader is thoroughly familiar with the working of the law in China, and Chinese manners and customs, it will be clear that translating a Chinese detective novel for the general Western public implies rewriting it from beginning to end, and even then the pages of such a translation would be bristling with footnotes. It is true that an occasional footnote lends an air of dignity and veracity to a detective story, as in Van Dine’s novels describing Philo Vance’s exploits, but one can hardly expect the reader to like a lengthy footnote on every other page.
Thus, in setting out to present to the Western lover of crime literature a complete translation of a Chinese detective novel, my main problem was to find one that combines a maximum of undiluted detection and of general human interest, with a minimum of the peculiarly Chinese features discussed earlier.
I think I have found these requirements in the Dee Goong An, a Chinese detective novel written in the 18th century by an anonymous author.
This novel conforms to our accustomed standards in that it does not reveal the criminal at the very beginning, lacks the more fantastic supernatural element, has a limited number of dramatis personae, contains no material that is not germane to the plot, and is relatively short. At the same time the plot is quite ingenious, and the novel is well written, with all our familiar tricks to keep the reader in suspense, and with a judicious mixture of tragedy and comedy. It is even up to Western standards in so far that, next to being treated to the detective’s mental “tour de force”, we also follow him when actually engaged in some dangerous exploits. And in one respect this novel introduces a new literary device that, as far as I know, has not yet been utilized in our popular crime literature, viz. that the detective is engaged simultaneously on three different cases, entirely independent of each other, each with its own background and dramatis personae.
Further, the author of the Dee Goong An exercises remarkable restraint as regards moralizing lectures. As a matter of fact, there occurs only one such digression, and that at the very beginning, in the author’s introductory remarks. And it would have been an unforgivable offense against an age-old Chinese literary tradition if some moralistic reflections have been missing in that particular place.
Its weakest point, to our taste, is still the supernatural element. This, however, is only introduced twice in the particular novel, and both instances are not entirely unacceptable as they concern phenomena of a kind that is frequently discussed in Western parapsychological literature. Moreover neither of them is a decisive factor in the solution of the crime, because they merely confirm the detective’s previous deductions, and stimulates his attempts at analyzing the cases. The first instance concerns a manifestation of the spirit of a murdered man near his grave. Even in Western countries a wide-spread belief exists that the soul of a person done violently to death remains near its dead body, and may, in some way or other, make its presence known. The second instance is a dream which visits the detective at the time when he was most perplexed and worried over two cases. The dream confirms his suspicions, and enables him to see several known factors in their proper relation. This passage, occurring in Chapter XI, will be of some interest to our students of dream psychology.
In this novel we find some rather gruesome descriptions of torture inflicted on prisoners during sessions of the tribunal. The reader will have to take these as they are. The scene on the execution ground, in the last chapter, on the other hand, is more brief and more matter-of-fact than in many other Chinese detective novels.
Special attention must be drawn to the brief interlude, that occurs halfway in the novel, between Chapter XV and XVI; at first sight, this interlude has absolutely nothing to do with the story. This is a very interesting feature, common to most of the shorter Chinese novels. Such an interlude is always written in the form of one scene of a Chinese theatrical play: a few actors appear, and engage in a dialogue, interspersed with songs, as is usual on the Chinese stage. These actors are indicated only by the technical stage terms for their role, such as “young man”, “pere noble”, etc. it is left to the reader’s ingeniousness to find out which characters of the novel they represent. The interesting point is that in such an interlude we are given an insight directly into the subconscious mind of the main characters. They have cast off all their inhibitions and restraint. Thus these Chinese interludes are, in a way, the counterpart of the psychological character sketches of our modern novels. Ancient Chinese novels never indulge in a psychological analysis of the characters they describe, but grant the reader glimpses of the innermost thoughts and emotions of the characters either through such theatrical interludes, or through dreams. This device of “a dream in a dream” or “a play in a play” was also utilized by our ancient Western writers, for instance, such a famous example as Act II, scene 2, in “Hamlet”.
Although some peculiar Chinese features are less pronounced in this novel than in other Chinese stories, the Dee Goong An is still thoroughly Chinese. In addition to giving a faithful description of the working methods of ancient Chinese detectives, and of the problems they are confronted with when trying to solve a crime, and of the ways and byways of the Chinese underworld, this story at the same time gives the reader a good idea of the administration of justice in ancient China, acquaints him with the main provisions of the Chinese Penal Code, and, finally, with the Chinese way of life in general.
As to its content, this novel describes three criminal cases.
The first might be called “The Double Murder at Dawn”. This is a crude murder, committed for gain. This case introduces us to the hazardous life of the traveling silk merchants. They buy raw silk cheaply during the season in Kiangsu Province, and then sell it for a profit along the highways of the northern provinces. These itinerary merchants are tough customers, shrewd businessmen and good fighters, familiar with all the dangers and pitfalls of the Chinese highways. This case takes the reader up and down the famous silk roads of Shantung Province, and acquaints him with wily managers of silk depots, inn keepers, robber gangs, and all the other types of people that make their living from the road.
The scene of the second case, “The Strange Corpse”, is laid among the population of a small village. It is a crime of passion, which proves uncommonly hard to solve. Here a most realistic portrait is drawn of the woman who is suspected of having committed the murder. Although she is but the wife of a small shopkeeper, her iron will and great force of character remind one of the formidable Empress Dowager of the last years of the Empire, and of other Chinese women who have played a prominent role in Chinese history. We also learn about the duties and the worries of the village warden; we enter the public bathhouse, which serves as a club for the local people, and we assist at a full-fledged exhumation and the subsequent autopsy.
The third case, “The Poisoned Bride”, concerns the local gentry. The lovely young girl meets with a horrible death on her wedding night is the daughter of a Bachelor of Arts, and the bridegroom the son of an old prefect, who lives retired in a spacious mansion, with countless courtyards and galleries. To complete this dignified picture, the suspect is a Candidate of Literature.
Thus this novel presents, as it were, a cross-section of Chinese society. But all three cases have one factor in common, and that is that they occur in one and the same district, and are solved by the same detective.
This novel Dee Goong An is offered here in a complete translation. Possibly it would have had a wider appeal if it had been entirely re-written in a form more familiar to our readers. Then, however, much of the genuine Chinese atmosphere of the original would have disappeared, and in the end both the Chinese author, and the Western reader would have been the losers. Some parts may be less interesting to the Western reader than others, but I am confident that also in this literal translation the novel will be found more satisfactory than the palpable nonsense that is foisted on the long-suffering public by some writers of faked “Chinese” stories, which describes a China and a Chinese people that exist nowhere except in their fertile imaginations.
The central figure, the master-detective of this novel is, as in all Chinese detective stories, a district magistrate. From early times until the establishment of the Chinese Republic in 1911, this government official united in his person the functions of judge, jury, prosecutor and detective.
The territory under his jurisdiction, a district, was the smallest administrative unit in the complicated Chinese government machine; it usually comprised one fairly large walled city, and all the countryside around it, say for sixty or seventy miles. The district magistrate was the highest civil authority in this unit, he was in charge of the town and land administration, the tribunal, the bureau for the collection of taxes, the register-office, while he was also generally responsible for maintenance of the public order in the entire district. Thus he had practically full authority over all phases of the life of the people in his district, who call him, therefore, the “father-and-mother” official. He was responsible only to the higher authorities, viz. the prefect or the governor of the province.
It was in his function of judge that the district magistrate displayed his talents as a detective. In Chinese crime literature, therefore, we find the master-minds that solve baffling crimes never referred to as “detectives”, but always as “judges”. The hero of our present story, who bears the surname Dee, is always called Dee Goong, “Judge Dee”. In Chinese a criminal case is called an, thus the original title of this novel, Dee Goong An, in literal translation means “Criminal Cases Solved by Judge Dee”.
This is the stereotype title of all Chinese detective novels. We have the Bao Goong An “Criminal Cases Solved by Judge Bao”, the Peng Goong An “Criminal Cases Solved by Judge Peng”, and so on.
The anonymous author of the Dee Goong An evidently at some time or other in his career occupied the function of district magistrate. This need not astonish us, since most writers of novels were retired officials, who wrote them for their own amusement, and preferred to remain anonymous because formerly all novels were considered as inferior literature in China. The Chinese word for “novel” is hsiao-shwo, “small talk”, and novels should never be mentioned together with works on history, philosophy, poetry and other instructive subjects. As it is, this novel shows that the author was thoroughly familiar with judicial procedure, and with the Chinese Penal Code. I have checked the conduct of the cases as described here with the provisions of the code, and found it correct in all details; those interested are referred to the “Translator’s Postscript” at the end of this book, where the pertinent laws are quoted.
This novel clearly shows the comprehensive duties of the magistrate in his quality as presiding judge of the district tribunal. Crimes are directly reported to him, it is he who is expected to collect and sift all evidence, find the criminal, arrest him, make him confess, sentence him, and finally administer to him the punishment for his crime.
To assist him in this onerous task he receives but little help from the permanent personnel of the tribunal. The constables, the scribes, the guards, the executioner, the warden of the jail, the coroner and his assistants, all these minions of the law perform only their routine tasks. The judge is not supposed to require their help in the gentle art of detection.
Every judge, therefore, has attached to his person three or four trusted lieutenants, whom he carefully selects at the beginning of his career, and keeps with him while he is being transferred from one post to another, till he ends his days as a prefect or a provincial governor. These lieutenants derive their rank and position (which is higher than that of any of the other members of the tribunal), from the personal authority of the judge. It is upon them that the judge relies for assistance in the detection and solving of crimes.
In every Chinese detective story these lieutenants are described as fearless strong-arm men, experts in Chinese boxing and wrestling. And in every Chinese detective story the judge recruits these men from the “brothers of the green woods”, that is to say highway robbers of the Robin Hood type. They usually became robbers because having been falsely accused, having killed a cruel official, beaten up a crooked politician, or for other similar reasons, they were forced to live by their wits. The judge induces them to reform, and thereafter become his loyal helpers, faithful servants of justice.
Judge Dee, the hero of the present novel, has four such lieutenants. Two, Ma Joong and Chiao Tai, are former “brothers of the green woods”; the third, Tao Gan, is a reformed itinerant confidence man, while the fourth, Hoong Liang, is an elderly retainer of the judge’s family. Judge Dee made the latter sergeant over all the constables, and we therefore refer to him in our story as Sergeant Hoong. This sergeant also serves Judge Dee as a kind of Watson; for having seen the judge grow up, he can, as an old and trusted servant, give his master advice, and Judge Dee can freely discuss with him his problems without losing “face”, or jeopardizing the dignity of his office.
These lieutenants are the judge’s legmen. He sends them out to make discreet inquiries; he tells them to interview witnesses, trail suspects, find out the hiding place of a criminal and arrest him. It is very important for them to be experts in wrestling and boxing, for the Chinese detective has the same noble tradition as his later colleagues of Bow Street, he carries no arms, and catches his man with his bare hands.
Except for Sergeant Hoong, however, they have more brawn than brains. It is the judge who tells them where to go and what to do, and it is he who sifts and coordinates the information they bring him, and then solves the crime by sheer mental power.
This does not imply that the judge does not move at all, and, like Rex Stout’s ponderous Nero Wolfe, refuses to budge from his quarters. The code of conduct for the Chinese high official prescribes that whenever the judge leaves the tribunal on official business, he shall do so with all the pomp and circumstance incident to his office. But the judge can go about incognito, and often does. Having disguised himself, he leaves the tribunal in secret, and sets out on private tours of investigation.
Still it is true that the main scene of the judge’s activity is the court hall of the tribunal. There, enthroned on the dais behind the high bench, he confuses the wily suspects by his clever questioning, bullies hardened criminals into a confession, wheedles the truth out of timorous witnesses, and dazzles everybody alike with his brilliant wit.
As to the methods followed by the judge to solve a crime, he is naturally handicapped by the lack of all the aids developed by modern science: for him there is no fingerprint system, there are no chemical tests, no photographic experiments. On the other hand his work is facilitated by the extraordinarily wide powers granted him under the provisions of the Penal Code. He can have anyone arrested, he can put the question to suspects under torture, have recalcitrant witnesses beaten up on the spot, use hearsay evidence, bully a defendant to tell a lie, and then trip him up with relish, in short he can openly and officially use all kinds of third and fourth degrees which will make our judges shiver in their gowns.
It must be added, however, that it is not by the use of torture or other violent means, the judge achieves his successes but rather by his wide knowledge of his fellow men, his logical thinking, and, above all, by his deep psychological insight. It is mainly due to these assets that he succeeds in solving many a case that would have been a hard nut to crack for our modern detectives.
Chinese magistrates like Judge Dee were men of great moral strength and intellectual power, and at the same time refined literati, thoroughly conversant with Chinese arts and letters. In short a kind of man, whom one would like to know better.
It is unfortunate, therefore, that the Chinese detective novel cannot afford to devote much space to detailed character sketches any more than ours. This is more to be regretted in the case of the present novel, since Judge Dee was a real person, one of the famous statesmen of the Tang dynasty (618-907). He was born in 630, the son of a distinguished scholar-official, and died in 700, as a Minister of State. During the latter half of his career, when he was serving at the Imperial Court, he played an important role in the national and international affairs of the Empire. Chinese historical records give a detailed account of his brilliant official career. But such biographies are of a strictly factual character. They are silent upon Judge Dee’s private life.
The present novel takes this same aloof attitude. When our story begins, we meet Judge Dee “sitting in his private office, attending to some routine business”, and at the end of the book we leave him in that same office “putting the files in order for his successor”. Not one word about his home, his children, his hobbies.
Literary sources say that Judge Dee left “collected works”, but these seem to have become lost; only nine of his memorials to the Throne are preserved. Although Judge Dee lived in the age of the great poets, he himself does not seem to have much indulged in this pastime of the Chinese scholar-official. The Chuan-tang-shi, a collection of Tang poetry in no less than 120 volumes, gives only one poem of eight lines written by Judge Dee. And that is a complimentary poem addressed to the Throne, which so bristles with difficult literary allusions that a later editor had to add two pages of closely printed explanations. Thus this last chance of catching a glimpse of Judge Dee’s personal feelings is lost.
This scarcity of literary information makes the few images of the judge that have been preserved all the more precious. The frontispiece of this book shows Judge Dee in full ceremonial dress. This is a Chinese woodcut, which evidently was struck off from an old block, that had been re-cut a number of times. Yet one can easily imagine that the original painting which served as a model was no mean work of art. Judge Dee is represented in a delightfully informal pose. His right hand plays with his side whiskers, his left is stuck carelessly between the folds of his robe. Doubtless Judge Dee is ruminating over a particularly puzzling case. His face must have worn an expression of immense skepticism, which is still faintly noticeable in this blockprint.
Despite its worn condition, I prefer this print to some conventionalized “portraits”, preserved in several collections of “Famous men of succeeding dynasties”. In my opinion, there can be no doubt that the original painting was a very old one; it turns up in most later works that figure Judge Dee, and can be recognized even in a small illustration in the most recent edition of the Dee Goong An, published in Shanghai in 1947.
Leafing through old Chinese illustrated books, we may obtain at least some hints as to how Judge Dee spent his few hours of leisure. The accompanying plate shows the library in the house of a high official, and gives a general idea of how that Chinese 7th century 221B Baker Street looked like. Let us hope that Judge Dee at least occasionally thus relaxed, late at night, after he had at last left the tribunal.
Stretched out on a pantherskin, reclining comfortably against a backrest, an informal cap on his head, our judge is immersed in his book. On the table by his side other books lie ready. Probably these are not volumes on jurisprudence, and certainly not love stories. Judge Dee was married, and had the usual number of concubines a man of his official rank was entitled to, and it must be feared that he took love in a rather casual way. No, it is practically certain that these books are the works of some Taoist philosopher like Chuang Tsu, where the deeper wisdom is expressed in humorous little parables, or some minor histories, written in a light vein, and describing the complicated intrigues in the official world of bygone times. A graceful coral tree in a craquele vase gives rest to the eye, and fragrant smoke curls up from the incense burner.
Finally, his reading finished, and the deep silence of night reigning outside, Judge Dee may well have played, just before retiring, a few melodies on the Chinese lute, the seven-stringed psaltery that is lying on the table, still half in its brocade cover. And then he will have done better than Sherlock Holmes on his violin, for playing this instrument was one of the accomplishments of every refined scholar-official.