Cao Yu was a master of modern Chinese drama, a founding figure of modern spoken theater, renowned at home and abroad, and hailed as the “Shakespeare of the East.” Throughout his life he loved his country and supported the Communist Party. Yet during the Cultural Revolution he was still criticized, sent down for labor, and suffered severe psychological devastation.

Forty years after Mao’s death, as the Jade Emperor prepared to hold court, Mao thought of Cao Yu. He felt that perhaps Cao might speak a few good words for him before the Jade Emperor, and so he asked to see him. The Jade Emperor agreed.

A name, Mao believed, was a person’s most important label. When speaking with others, he liked to begin with their names. Upon meeting Cao Yu, he asked frankly:

“How should I address you, Mr. Cao or Mr. Wan?”

Cao replied: “My original surname is Wan; my name was Wan Jiabao. Cao Yu is my pen name. The traditional character for ‘Wan’ can be split into upper and lower parts—the grass radical above sounds like ‘Cao,’ and the lower part is ‘Yu,’ thus forming ‘Cao Yu.’ The name became established, and many assumed I was truly surnamed Cao. My children returned to the ancestral surname Wan.”

Mao said: “So that’s the story. The Cultural Revolution caused you great suffering and inflicted immense psychological harm. After that you produced no more creative work. I feel deeply guilty.”

He began with an apology, seeking to ingratiate himself.

Cao answered: “In truth, after Liberation I had little worthy creation. My creative peak was in the 1930s. There was still a little afterward in the early years of New China, but after the Cultural Revolution there was nothing.”

Mao asked: “Why did you have such passion in the 1930s?”

Cao replied: “In the 1910s China overthrew the Qing dynasty, yet internal strife and civil war followed without end. In the 1920s and 1930s the people were generally oppressed and yearned for freedom. My works Thunderstorm, Sunrise, The Wilderness, Peking Man—all reflected that theme. At that time I was emotionally full, because I gave voice to society’s call and received wide resonance.”

Mao said: “Your first play, Thunderstorm, caused a sensation in Shanghai for three years and established your place in dramatic history. You contributed greatly to modern Chinese culture. After the founding of New China, you enthusiastically came north to lead theatrical work. You wrote some plays after Liberation as well, didn’t you?”

Cao replied: “In 1954 I wrote the contemporary drama Bright Skies, and later the historical plays The Gall and the Sword (1960) and Wang Zhaojun (1978). Bright Skies was judged by society as a failure; I myself felt discouraged. It depicted the remolding of intellectuals, but it was written at the direction of leadership, not from the heart as Thunderstorm was. People said my creativity had shrunk. Bright Skies was pure praise of the Communist Party, and it found no resonance—no real value. I almost forgot it. Creation had to follow Party directives; the theme came first.

“I greeted the new society with enthusiasm. At the 1949 founding ceremony I even directed a yangge dance troupe. I constantly adjusted myself to adapt to the new society. I was once assigned to write about a shop clerk, so I went to a small shop to experience life, selling soy sauce and vinegar. Then leadership asked me to write about flood control—none of it came to fruition.”

Mao said: “It seems writing on command produces nothing good. I understand now—creation must arise from a writer’s inner inspiration to produce works loved by the people and full of vitality.”

Cao responded: “I also had to remold myself on command, which left me at a loss. My creative inspiration truly withered.”

Mao asked: “How did the Cultural Revolution cause you such severe psychological harm?”

Cao answered: “They labeled me a ‘reactionary academic authority’ and a ‘reactionary writer.’ Big-character posters were pasted on my door. I was confined in a cowshed, made to sweep the streets, pelted with stones by children, cursed as ‘reactionary writer Cao Yu.’

“What I could not endure most was being repeatedly forced to write ‘confession statements.’ Again and again they were rejected and sent back. I did not know how to curse myself sufficiently. In agony I once knelt before my wife, begging her to help me die. Later, fortunately, a kind colleague secretly helped me frame a confession in the required ideological tone. I recopied it and submitted it, and it finally passed. Beyond writing confessions, I had to do labor. I did not mind labor, but my health was poor and I fell ill. Eventually I was assigned to guard the gate, sweep the courtyard, and distribute mail. I gladly did it—better than endlessly writing confessions.”

Mao said: “Your temperament was pure; your confessions sincere—very good.”

Cao replied: “My purity once verged on derangement. I once wept before your colored portrait, repenting: ‘Chairman Mao, why have I not written anything praising you? I wrote Sunrise—why did I not write about the birth of the Communist Party? The Party is the true sunrise! I did not write about the Red Sun.’

“Whenever I saw anyone—adult or child—I would bow at a ninety-degree angle, muttering, ‘I am the reactionary writer Cao Yu.’”

Mao said: “They tormented you into confusion. After your rehabilitation, did you still wish to write?”

Cao answered: “Very much so. I even wrote many small notes and dialogues. I conceived of writing about Sun Wukong. He would wear the golden headband; whenever the incantation was recited, he could not speak the truth. He would struggle painfully, yet never escape the Buddha’s palm. In the end the Great Sage would accept amnesty, be titled ‘Victorious Fighting Buddha,’ sitting there benign and kind, no longer like the original monkey. Later I was hospitalized. Ba Jin once said to me: ‘Jiabao, you have treasures in your heart—bring them out!’ But I was intermittent, always without strength, unable to concentrate. I never figured out the ending.”

Mao asked: “If you wrote about the Buddha, were you writing about me?”

Cao replied: “Yes. You were like the Buddha. Not only Sun Wukong—no one could escape your palm. Lin Biao could not either.”

Mao asked: “What would the ending have been?”

Cao said: “That is where I was stuck. I was not as rational or strong as Ba Jin. I had been so tormented that I could not focus my mind, could not think wisely. My thinking was in fact incomplete. I am an emotional person. Under repression I could only emit a little smoke—I could no longer ignite. I could write nothing more. That is my lifelong regret.”

Mao said: “Your earlier works remain full of vitality. They continue to be adapted into films.”

Cao replied: “Yes. The Wilderness, for example, was adapted into a film in 1981 by Ye Jianying’s daughter. After many years of dormancy, it revived. Yet it was not approved for release until 1987—perhaps due to controversy over ‘the theory of human nature.’”

Mao said: “You have received many memorial honors. In your hometown of Qianjiang in Hubei there is an ancestral memorial hall, the Cao Yu Theater, Cao Yu Park. In Tianjin there is your former residence memorial site. The Cao Yu Drama Literature Award and the Cao Yu Education Award have been established. You may feel comforted.”

Cao replied: “I have been in heaven for thirty years and feel free. Yet I still sense a tightening band upon my head. I asked the Jade Emperor why. He said that the one who remotely controls and recites the spell—the Buddha—has not confessed. Therefore my soul cannot be fully liberated. That is my only regret.”

In closing, Cao said: “During the thirty years after the founding of the nation under your rule, there were bloody storms and disasters one after another; tens of millions died. You have never repented. Your successors have not repented either, and still cover up your crimes. This pains me deeply. You must confess and apologize to the people. Only then may you receive the Jade Emperor’s pardon.”

Mao replied perfunctorily: “I am continuing to reflect and await judgment.”

Cao answered: “Your words are fine. I will watch your actions.”

NEXT: 83. Nie Gannu (1903–1986)