Fragments from the Vermilion Gate

In the turbulent years of the Republic of China, many old and distinguished families fell into decline. The world was turned upside down, and fortunes rose and fell in an instant. Once, they had imposing mansions and fine clothes and food; before long, all that remained were crumbling walls and overgrown ruins. The joys and sorrows of human life, wealth and splendor, were no more than fleeting illusions, shattered at a touch and empty upon reflection.

I happened to pass an abandoned residence in the old capital and found a stack of unfinished manuscripts beneath a collapsing pavilion. The pages were yellow and brittle, the ink faded. Some were stained with tears, others bore traces of fire. There was no signature or date, and I could not tell who had written them or when the events had taken place. Reading closely, I discovered that they recorded the rise and fall of a great family: its children’s tangled affections and doomed infatuations, its journey from prosperity to ruin. The account was heartrending.

The manuscript tells of a family of great wealth and status, renowned for its literary and scholarly traditions. Yet the younger generation was led astray by love, blinded by infatuation. They mistook a doomed relationship for a happy match and a passing obsession for deep devotion. They ignored advice, disgraced their family, flouted propriety, and gave no thought to the future. In the end, their reputation was ruined, relatives were estranged, the family fortune was squandered, and misfortunes piled up. The once splendid household was rocked by storms, until the family was destroyed and the mansion stood empty.

I closed the manuscript and sighed. Love can warm the heart, but it can also bring down an entire family. Many people lose themselves in love, mistaking obsession for devotion and recklessness for resolve. By the time their splendor has faded, it is too late for regret. Though this manuscript is incomplete and its account belongs to the past, its message is profound enough to warn and awaken its readers.

Unable to bear letting it disappear, I organized the pages and recorded their general contents under the title The Lost Manuscript of the Red Gate. It was not meant to recount romance or idle sorrows, but to show future readers that blind love is the most hurtful of all, and choosing the wrong love can destroy a family. Life is like a dream, and all things pass. Only by keeping a clear head and staying true to oneself can one see things through to the end.