品花宝鉴 全书始 序
余谓游戏笔墨之妙，必须绘形绘声。传真者能绘形，而不能绘声；传奇者能绘声，而不能绘形，每为憾焉。若夫形声兼绘者，余于诸才子书，并《聊斋》、《红楼梦》外，则首推石函氏之《品花宝鉴》矣。
传闻石函氏本江南名宿，半生潦倒，一第磋跎，足迹半天下。所历名山大川，聚为胸中丘壑，发为文章，故邪邪正正，悉能如见其人，真说部中之另具一格者。
余从友人处多方借抄，其中错落，不一而足。正订未半，而借者踵至，虽欲卒读，几不可得。后闻外间已有刻传之举，又复各处探听。始知刻未数卷，主人他出，已将其板付之梓人，梓人知余处有抄本，是以商之于余，欲卒成之。即将所刻者呈余披阅。非特鲁鱼亥豕，且与前所借抄之本少有不同。
今年春，愁病交集，根无可遣，终日在药炉茗碗间消磨岁月，颇觉自苦，聊借此以遣病魔。再三校阅，删订画一，七越月而刻成。若非余旧有抄本，则此数卷之板，竟为爨下物矣。
至于石函氏，与余未经谋面，是书竟赖余以传，事有因缘，殆可深信。
尝读韩文云：大凡物不得其平则鸣。又云：择其善鸣者而假之鸣。余但取其鸣之善，而欲使天下之人皆闻其鸣，借纸上之形声，供目前之啸傲。镜花水月。过眼皆空；海市蜃楼。到头是幻。又何论夫形为谁之形，声为谁之声，更何论夫绘形绘声者之为何如人耶！世多达者，当不河汉余言。是为序。
幻中了幻居士
品花宝鉴序
余前客都中，馆于同里某比部宅，曾为《梅花梦》传奇一部，虽留意于词藻，而末谐于声律，故未尝以之示人。比部赏余文曲而能达，正而能雅，而又戏而善谑，遂嘱余为说部，可以畅所欲言，随笔抒写，不愈于倚声按律之必落人窠日乎？时余好学古文诗赋歌行等类，而稗官一书心厌薄之。及秋试下第，境益穷，志益悲，块然块垒于胸中而无以自消，日排遣于歌楼舞榭间，三月而忘倦，略识声容伎艺之妙，与夫性情之贞淫，语言之雅俗，情文之真伪。间与比部品题梨园，雌黄人物，比部曰：「予嘱君之所为小说者，其命意即在乎此，何不即以此辈为之？如得成书，则道人所未道也。」余亦心好之，遂窃拟之。始得一卷，仅五千余言，而比部以为可，并为之点窜斟酌。
继复得二三卷，笔稍畅，两月间得卷十五。借阅者已接踵而至，缮本出不复返，哗然谓新书出矣。继以羁愁潦倒，思窒不通，遂置之不复作。
明年有粤西太守聘余为书记，偕之粤，历游数郡间，山水奇绝，觉生平所习之学皆稍进。亦尝游览青楼戏馆间，而殊方异俗鲜称人意。一二同游者亦木讷士，少宏通风雅。主人从政无暇，此书置之敝簏中八年之久，蟫蚀过半，余亦几忘之矣。
及居停回都，又携余行，劝余再应京兆试。粤境皆山溪幽阻，水道如蛇盘蚓曲，风雪阻舟，巉巉沙石间，日行一二里、二三里不等。居停遂督余续此书甚急，几欲刻期而待。自粤兴安县境至楚武昌府境。舟行凡七十日，白昼人声喧杂，不能构思。夜阉人静，秉烛疾书，共得十五卷。及入长江，风帆便利，过九江，抵金陵，乡心萦梦，不复能作矣。
至都已七月中旬，检出时文试帖等略略翻阅。试事毕，康了如故，年且四十余矣，岂犹能如青青子衿日事咕哔耶？固知科名之与我风马牛也。贫乏不能自归，仍依居停而客焉。有农部某君，十年前即见余始作之十五卷，今又见近续之十五卷，甚嗜之，以为功已得半，弃之可借，嘱予成之，且日来哓哓，竟如师之督课。余喜且惮，于腊底拥护挑灯，发愤自勉，五阅月而得三十卷，因以告竣。
又阅前作之十五卷，前后舛错，复另易之，首尾共六十卷。
皆海市蜃楼，羌无故实。所言之色，皆吾目中未见之色；所言之情，皆吾意中欲发之情；所写之声音笑貌，妍媸邪正，以至狭邪淫荡秽亵诸琐屑事，皆吾私揣世间所必有之事。而笔之所至，如水之过峡，舟之下滩，骥之奔泉。听其所止而休焉，非好为刻薄语也。至于为公卿，为名士，为俊优、佳人、才婢、狂夫、俗子，则如干宝之《搜神》，任昉之《述异》，渺茫而已。噫，此书也，固知离经畔道，为著述家所鄙，然其中亦有可取，是在阅者矣。
旷废十年，而功成半载，固知精于勤而荒于嬉，游戏且然，况正学乎。
某比部启余于始，某太守勖余于中，某农部成余于终，此三君者，于此书实大有功焉。倘使三君子皆不好此书，则至今犹如天之无云，水之无波，树之无风，而纸之无字，亦安望有此洒洒洋洋奇奇怪怪五十余万言耶？脱稿后为叙其颠末如此。
天上琼楼，泥犁地狱，随所位置矣。
石函氏书
品花宝鉴题词
一宇褒讥寓劝惩，贤愚从古不相能。
情如骚雅文如史，怪底传钞纸价增。
骂尽人间谗谄辈，浑如禹鼎铸神奸。
怪他一枝空灵笔，又写妖魔又写仙。
闺阁风流迥出群，美人名士斗诗文。
从前争说《红楼》艳，更比《红楼》艳十分。
卧云轩老人题
Preface to “The Precious Mirror of Flowers”
I believe that the art of writing for amusement must be capable of capturing both form and sound. Traditional portraiture can capture form but not sound; traditional storytelling captures sound but not form. This has always been a source of regret. As for works that manage to capture both form and sound, aside from books by talented writers like Liaozhai Zhiyi and Dream of the Red Chamber, I would first recommend “The Precious Mirror of Flowers” by Mr. Shihan.
It is said that Mr. Shihan was a renowned elder from Jiangnan, who spent half his life in destitution and only narrowly missed achieving official rank. He traveled extensively, and the landscapes he encountered were imprinted in his heart, finding expression in his writings. Whether portraying the virtuous or the debauched, he was always able to make one feel as if they were meeting the characters in person. Truly, his work stands out among other storytellers.
I borrowed a copy of this book from a friend and transcribed it with great effort. However, the transcription was incomplete, and the friend to whom I had loaned it had not returned it, so I was unable to finish reading. Later, I heard that the book was being published, and I sought out more information. I learned that only a few volumes had been printed, and the owner had already handed the plates over to the engraver. The engraver knew that I had a manuscript and sought my assistance in completing the work. He showed me the printed volumes, which were not only riddled with errors but also differed slightly from the manuscript I had borrowed earlier.
This spring, I was beset by illness and depression, and I spent my days idly between the medicine pot and the tea bowl. Feeling rather miserable, I decided to use this task as a way to dispel my ailments. I painstakingly revised and corrected the text, and after seven months, it was finally engraved and printed. Had I not already possessed a manuscript, these engraved plates would likely have been lost forever.
As for Mr. Shihan, I have never met him, and yet this book owes its transmission to me. There seems to be a deeper reason behind this, one that I find hard to deny.
I once read an essay by Han Yu, which said: “All things cry out when they are not in harmony.” He also said: “Choose those who cry out well and let them speak for you.” I merely chose the best cries, hoping that the world would hear them. With this combination of form and sound on paper, I offer something for people to take pleasure in. Flowers reflected in the mirror, the moon on the water—everything is an illusion. What does it matter whose form it is, whose voice it is? What does it matter who the person is that can capture both form and sound? There are many discerning people in this world, and they surely won’t take my words lightly. This is my preface.
—The Hermit within the Illusion of Illusions
Preface to “The Precious Mirror of Flowers”
When I was staying in the capital, I resided at the home of a certain official from my hometown. I once composed a play titled “The Dream of Plum Blossoms.” Though I focused on the beauty of the words, I did not harmonize them with sound, so I never shared it with anyone. This official appreciated my writing for its refinement, correctness, elegance, and playful wit, and he asked me to write a novel where I could freely express my thoughts, rather than being constrained by rhyme and meter as one would in writing plays. At that time, I was engrossed in learning ancient poetry, essays, and prose, while I held little interest in popular novels. After failing the autumn examinations, my circumstances worsened, and I grew increasingly despondent. With no way to alleviate my frustrations, I spent my days in song and dance halls, and after three months, I had grown quite familiar with the subtleties of performance and the distinction between virtue and debauchery, refinement and vulgarity, authenticity and pretense. Occasionally, I would discuss the performers and their skills with the official, who would often suggest that I use them as inspiration for the novel he had requested. He said, “If you manage to write this book, it will surely contain ideas that no one has spoken of before.” I liked the idea, and I started writing. After finishing just one chapter of about five thousand words, the official approved and made some revisions.
After writing two or three more chapters, I found the writing process became smoother. Within two months, I had completed fifteen chapters. By then, many people had heard of my new work, and those who borrowed the manuscript rarely returned it. People started buzzing about the “new book.” But as my frustrations and poverty grew worse, I was unable to continue and set the work aside.
The following year, a provincial governor from Guangxi invited me to serve as his secretary, and I accompanied him on a journey through several prefectures. The magnificent landscapes along the way broadened my knowledge, and I felt my learning had deepened. I also visited brothels and theaters, but the customs of these distant places did not appeal to me. My companions were mostly unsophisticated men with little appreciation for culture. The governor was too busy with administrative duties to have time for leisure, so I left the book in a battered box for eight years. Half of it was eaten by worms, and I had nearly forgotten about it.
When I returned to the capital, the same official who had encouraged me took me with him and urged me to sit for the metropolitan examinations again. The roads through Guangxi were winding and treacherous, with waterways snaking through narrow passes like coiled snakes. Snowstorms often stopped our boats in their tracks. Sometimes, we only managed to travel one or two miles a day. During these long delays, the official pushed me to continue writing the book, almost as if he were setting deadlines. From Guangxi to Hubei, the journey took seventy days. By day, the noise of people around me made it impossible to think, but at night, when the world was silent, I wrote by candlelight, completing fifteen chapters.
Once we entered the Yangtze River, the winds were favorable, and we sailed smoothly past Jiujiang and arrived in Nanjing. At that point, thoughts of home filled my dreams, and I could no longer write.
By mid-July, I had returned to the capital and briefly reviewed my examination essays. After completing the exams, I returned to my usual routine. By then, I was already over forty years old, and I no longer had the energy to chase academic success as I had in my youth. I realized that the pursuit of fame and success was as distant from me as the sky from the earth. Lacking the funds to return home, I remained a guest in the official’s residence.
A certain agricultural official, who had seen my first fifteen chapters a decade earlier, now saw the newly completed fifteen chapters and was greatly impressed. He believed that since half of the work was already finished, it would be a waste to abandon it. He encouraged me to finish it and constantly urged me on, almost like a teacher overseeing a student’s homework. Both pleased and pressured, I resolved to complete the book. Under the light of a flickering lamp, I worked through the winter and, after five months, had finished thirty chapters.
Upon reviewing the first fifteen chapters, I found inconsistencies between the earlier and later sections, so I rewrote parts of it, eventually completing the book in sixty chapters.
This book is like a mirage, with no foundation in reality. The colors I describe are colors I have never seen; the emotions I express are feelings I long to release. The voices and expressions I depict—whether beautiful or ugly, virtuous or debauched, and all the trivial matters of lust and debauchery—are based on what I imagine to be true of the world. My writing flows as smoothly as water through a gorge, or a boat descending rapids, or a horse galloping toward a spring. I stop when the writing naturally comes to an end, not because I enjoy writing harsh words. As for depicting ministers, scholars, actors, beauties, talented maids, madmen, and fools, it is all as distant and vague as the ghost stories of Gan Bao or the strange tales of Ren Fang.
Ah, this book, I know it strays from orthodox teachings, and serious scholars may disdain it. Yet, there is something to be gained from it, if only the reader can discern it.
Ten years of neglect, half a year to complete—this proves the saying that diligence leads to success, while indulgence leads to failure. If such a frivolous work requires effort, how much more must serious learning?
The three individuals—the official who first encouraged me, the governor who supported me in the middle, and the agricultural official who urged me to finish—are all greatly responsible for the completion of this book. Without their appreciation for it, the book would still be like a sky without clouds, water without waves, trees without wind, and paper without words. How could there be these 500,000 words of strange and wonderful prose?
Upon finishing the manuscript, I decided to write this account of its creation.
Heavenly palaces or the depths of hell, the fate of this work is now in the hands of the readers.
—Mr. Shihan
Verse for “The Precious Mirror of Flowers”
In a single word, praise and criticism are implied,
The wise and the foolish have never gotten along.
The emotions are like The Songs of Chu, the writing like history,
It’s no wonder the price of paper rises with its copies.
It curses all the slanderers of the world,
Like the cauldron of Yu
casting out treacherous ministers.
How strange that such an ethereal pen,
Could write both demons and immortals.
The romances of women in boudoirs surpass all others,
The beauties and scholars compete in poetry and prose.
Once, they said Dream of the Red Chamber was romantic,
But this is ten times more romantic than Dream of the Red Chamber.
—Inscribed by the Old Man of the Lying Cloud Studio