Becoming China’s Baudelaire: A Case Study on the Learning and Use of the French Language by Chinese Work-Study Students

Abstract

This article explores Li Jinfa’s transformation from a work-study student to “China’s Baudelaire,” whose symbolist poetry features a distinctive “francophone foreignness.” It addresses the “language question”—specifically, French language acquisition and utilization—intrinsic to Chinese students’ encounters with Western thought, culture, and life in the early twentieth century. Employing approaches of historical sociolinguistics, it not only investigates the materials, methods, and environments available for Li’s French language acquisition but also examines how he learned and used the language. It argues that, more than just a means for studying abroad, the French language was deeply intertwined with French literature, culture, and quotidian life in shaping Li’s engagement with a foreign world as a work-study student and with literary expression as a symbolist poet. Moreover, rather than serving solely a collective mission toward either Enlightenment or revolution, francophone education among work-study students fostered personal journeys of self-discovery.

他的視聽常觀察遍萬物之喜怒,

爲自己之歡娛與失望之長嘆,

執其如椽之筆,

冩陰靈之小照, 和星斗之運行。

何處是他的溫愛與期望?

寧蜷伏在Notre Dame 之鐘聲響處

Comme un Blessè [sic] qu’on oublie.

—Extract from “Poet” 詩人, Li Jinfa 李金髮, ca. 1922, in Light Rain 微雨.

[Translation]

He sees the happiness and sadness of this world,

He sighs in pleasure and despair of his own,

Pen as his beam, he depicts,

The deceased soul and the movement of the star.

His tender love and hope?

Where the bell of Notre Dame is tolled, he crouches down,

Like an injured that we forget.

On October 16, 1919, Li Jinfa 李金髮, a nineteen-year-old Chinese man from Guangdong province, boarded the American ship Wollowra at the port of Shanghai, heading for France. On board with him were another forty-two young people hailing from eight different provinces (Zhou, 2008: 230–33). They formed the eighth batch of work-study students to participate in the “diligent work, frugal study” movement 勤工儉學運動 (hereafter the work-study movement) in France. Championed by a group of Chinese anarchist intellectuals, notably Li Shizeng 李石曾, Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培, and Wu Zhihui 吳稚暉 since the early 1910s, the work-study movement aimed to “civilize and enlighten” ordinary Chinese youth through their “frugal study” in France supported by their “diligent work” in local factories. ¹ Before Li Jinfa, 315 Chinese students from the first seven batches had already arrived, and after him, another 1,485 students from the ensuing thirteen batches followed suit. Between March 1919 and December 1920, almost every month a ship filled with young, aspiring students would sail from Shanghai to Marseille, traversing oceans and seas.

Li Jinfa was not special among these students. His home province of Guangdong was one of the three provinces that sent the largest number of students (the other two being Hunan and Sichuan). As a male student, he was not part of the small group of approximately fifty female students who attracted media attention (Zhou, 2008: 207–331; Barman and Dulioust, 1987: 18–19). And, like most work-study students, he spoke little French upon his arrival, and arrangements were made for him to learn the language at a local secondary school before he could become employed, secure a salary, and thereby proceed with his “frugal study.” But Li was indeed fortunate. His two brothers were willing to support him financially, and, in 1920, he obtained a scholarship from the Beiyang government. ² As his status changed from “frugal student” to “self-funded student,” he entered, in 1921, l’École nationale supérieure d’art de Dijon, and half a year later the prestigious l’École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts de Paris, studying sculpture with the influential French sculptor Alfred Boucher, a friend of Auguste Rodin. More fortunate than many work-study students who soon realized that their diligent work could hardly pay for their frugal study and that jobs had become increasingly scarce in post-war France, Li continued his language and academic studies until the end of 1924 (Li, 1998: 44–59). ³ And unlike some of his peers who, having endured either joblessness or precarious circumstances in French factories, turned into “proletarians” in the literal sense and then radical political activists, Li immersed himself in French art and literature (Zheng, 2014: 172–211). In 1925, he returned to China to teach sculpture at the Shanghai Art Academy 上海美術學院, but his fame as “China’s Baudelaire” soon eclipsed his reputation as a sculptor, thanks to the publication of three anthologies of his symbolist poetry, namely Light Rain 微雨, Long-Term Visitor and Hard Times 食客與凶年, and Singing for Joy 為幸福而歌 (Shenbao, 1925; Li, 1998: 150).

This article examines how Li Jinfa acquired the French language as one of the work-study students and how he utilized it as a symbolist poet. Initially, his language learning might have been instrumental, and perhaps somewhat reluctant—primarily aimed at facilitating his pursuit of higher education in France. However, gradually—through daily reading, communication, engagement with French literature, and composition of symbolist poetry—the French language, culture, and quotidian life integrated not only to mark his educational experience but also to shape his literary expression. His poem “Poet” 詩人 (as showcased at the outset of this article), which featured a creative fusion of the Chinese and French languages, the distinctive aura of symbolism, and a delicate portrayal of the self, illustrates the profound interplay between language, literature, and the poet’s self-consciousness. Meanwhile, as we shall see, because of his insufficient, intermittent language instruction and his heavy reliance on reading and self-study in language acquisition, Li Jinfa’s poetry attests to the creative, albeit limited, ways in which the French language was used among Chinese work-study students.

Drawing inspiration from sociolinguistic and cultural-linguistic methodologies, historians have paid increasing attention to the social and cultural processes of language use and choice throughout history (Offord, 2020: 1–3). As Peter Burke points out, the fundamental question essential to sociolinguists—who speaks what language to whom and when—is equally central to the historical understanding of language as a constitutive part of identity, cultural capital, political power, and epistemological dominance (Burke, 1987: 3–17). Although historical sociolinguistics complements sociolinguistic studies by emphasizing historical contexts and conditions, like sociolinguistics, it predominantly addresses native speakers and issues related to bilingualism and multilingualism, thereby often assuming fluency and familiarity with the language.

As a result, the learning and use of foreign languages—a crucial social, cultural, and often ideological activity in the increasingly interconnected modern world—have lacked dedicated historiography as well as sociolinguistic examination. The book series Languages and Culture in History, published by Amsterdam University Press since 2016, along with recent scholarly works on language choice, attitude, and language use in imperial Russia, represent pioneering and much-needed efforts to historicize the relationship between foreign languages, ideas, culture, and identity, with particularly acute attention paid to the learning and use of French in Europe (Offord, Rjéoutski, and Argent, 2018; van Strien-Chardonneau and Escalle, 2016; Rjéoutski and Frijhoff, 2018; Caparrós, 2019; Coffey, 2022; Tomalin, 2016; McLelland, 2018).

When examining the history of French acquisition and utilization among Europeans, scholars emphasize the significance of the Republic of Letters as a unique socio-cultural milieu and the Grand Tour elite as a distinct social group in addressing the question of who spoke French to whom and when. They also draw attention to the conflict between francophone cosmopolitanism and the rising nationalism across Europe. For the Grand Tour elite, the French lifestyle as a cosmopolitan way of life and the French language as a lingua franca constituted a universal cultural experience, which often contradicted their political, literary, and linguistic attitudes associated with the nation (Offord, Rjéoutski, and Argent, 2018: 115–21; van Strien-Chardonneau, 2018: 77–80; Tomalin, 2016: 44–45).

Besides linguistic attitudes and language choice, scholars have also investigated the institutions formed and methods used for French language acquisition. The coexistence of public institutions and private milieux marks the ways in which young Europeans became proficient in the language since the seventeenth century. On the one hand, French teaching appears to have become increasingly professionalized and institutionalized, evidenced by the opening of French schools (and reforms in traditional Latin grammar schools), the introduction of public exams at the universities of Oxford and Cambridge, the establishment of professional language associations and journals, and the creation of l’Alliance Française and l’Institut Français along with their branches worldwide (Frijhoff, 2018: 52–59; McLelland, 2018: 8–10; Offord, Rjéoutski, and Argent, 2018: 133). On the other hand, the private, intimate, and gendered aspects of the French language remained significant. The “gouvernante method” was inherent to the experience of language learning shared among the children of elite European families (Debrenne, 2016: 127–30; Tomalin, 2016: 116–31).

Regarding the use of the French language in Europe, scholars have highlighted themes such as correspondence in French among nobles, aristocrats, and diplomats, francophone literature, the francophone press, and the francophone “journal intime” (Offord et al., 2015; Strien-Chardonneau and Escalle, 2016). Owing to its association with the court, nobility, elite culture, scholarship, the book trade, and the Church, the use of French was crucial for accessing centers of political, social, and cultural power. Meanwhile, through “ego writings,” particularly the journal intime, many young francophones expressed their delicate feelings about love, loss, and youth, while constructing a narrative of subjectivity (Frijhoff, 2018: 50; Escalle, 2016: 143–64).

The concepts and approaches relevant to the history of French language acquisition and utilization in Europe, such as cosmopolitanism/nationalism, language choice and attitude, the governance and sociality of language studies, and language use, provide a valuable toolkit for this research. What did the French language mean for Chinese work-study students? What teaching programs, materials, and socio-cultural environments were available for their language studies? How and how well did they learn? How did they use French? And in what ways did the learning and use of French enable their engagement not only with new worldviews but also with new selves? This article not only demonstrates the ways in which Li Jinfa acquired French but also examines the educational programs, learning literature, and socio-cultural milieux available to work-study students like Li, as well as the choices they made regarding how to avail themselves of the various educational opportunities. As we shall see, Li’s linguistic, literary, and cultural journey toward becoming “China’s Baudelaire” may have been exceptional, but it was by no means unique or detached from this broader context.

Chinese work-study students were not part of the Republic of Letters. Instead, they acquired French—as a crucial step to accessing Western science, thought, and culture—within the context of what Shu-mei Shih calls “semi-colonialism.” Shih maintains that the lack of a central colonial government and, importantly, China’s linguistic integrity made colonialism in China after the Opium Wars multilayered, fractured, and incomplete. On the one hand, this “semi-colonialism” allowed for certain degrees of intellectual autonomy and stimulated multidirectional cultural pursuits among Chinese intellectuals. On the other hand, it fostered an overall uncritical attitude toward the “West” as the epicenter of modern ideas and culture, despite their advocacy of anti-imperialism against the “West” as an imperialist force (Shih, 2001: 34–40). Moreover, most Chinese intellectuals in the May Fourth era, unlike their Russian counterparts in the eighteenth century, were not bilingual or multilingual. Although some New Culture leaders, such as Lu Xun 魯迅, were cautious about the unexamined adoption of Western culture, the dominant attitude toward foreign languages was not one of resistance intended to preserve Chinese linguistic and cultural integrity (Shih, 2001: 84–86). ⁴

The work-study movement was one of the intellectual endeavors aimed at enlightening China with modern ideas and culture from the West, particularly from France. Its pinnacle spanned from 1916, when Li Shizeng and Cai Yuanpei established the Société Franco-Chinoise d’éducation 華法教育會 in Paris, to 1921, when the founding of l’Institut Franco-Chinois de Lyon 里昂中法大學 signaled the reorientation of the movement from “work-study” toward higher education. Li Shizeng, a francophone scholar and fervent advocate of French utopian and anarchist thought, associated the French Republic with values of freedom, pacifism, and moral righteousness, in contrast to the predominant imperialist powers, such as Germany and Britain, which he deemed to be valorizing nothing but materialism and utilitarian profit (Bailey, 2019: 166).

Unlike their European predecessors, Li and his peers were not concerned that their Sino-French educational project would obstruct Chinese nationalism. They saw francophone cosmopolitanism in Chinese cultural and scholarly life—encompassing the borderless spirit of liberty, equality, and fraternity, Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s political and educational thought, René Descartes’s philosophy, Voltaire’s literature, Marie Curie’s physics, Jean-Baptiste Lamarck’s biology, and more—as the means to ignite China’s enlightenment and modernization, and therefore to advance national interests (“Discussing primarily about the boundaries of the Sino-French educational spheres,” 1926: 3). While the promoters of the movement, akin to the Grand Tour elite, maintained a significant Francophile network that was largely elite-led and cosmopolitan, their aim was not to cultivate a Chinese elite capable of possessing the unique and universal cultural code of European high society (Bailey, 2014, 2019; Yan, 2013). On the contrary, as Paul Bailey argues, they desired to impart egalitarianist education to ordinary Chinese, thereby reducing class differences between the “knowledgeable” and the “ignorant” in China (Bailey, 2014: 32).

With a program that was intended to be egalitarian in nature, it is unsurprising that some of its recipients were attracted not only to Enlightenment principles but also to the expanding ideas of anarchism and Marxism while in France. As financial difficulties loomed large for some work-study students, the appeal of the “ism” of Henri Barbusse, a pioneering radical thinker in France, increased (Racine, 1967). Around 1920, the benches near the fountains of Luxembourg Park were often occupied by Chinese students reading Le manifeste du Parti Communiste, who customarily brought with them a dictionary to grasp vocabulary and a red pencil to underline various tenses (Li, 2014: 386–87). The existing scholarship, therefore, stresses the “politicization” of the movement, concentrating on the radical Montargis group—comprising students who studied and worked in Montargis and were preoccupied with anarchist and Marxist ideas, such as Cai Hesen 蔡和森 and Xiang Jingyu 向警予 (of the twelfth batch of work-study students)—because of their political activism and their role in the founding of the Chinese Communist Party. ⁵

Nora Wang asserts that “tous les jeunes intellectuels Chinois expatriés en France dans les années 1920 font de la politique; tous, ou presque” (all young Chinese intellectuals who went to France around 1920 were involved in politics, all, or almost all) (Wang, 2002: 161). This conviction, indicating a strong connection between French language acquisition, work-study, and political radicalization, is inaccurate. Cai Hesen mentioned in his letter to Mao Zedong in 1920 that, “among the nearly 1,000 work-study students, ‘good elements’ are an extreme minority and therefore there is no need for us to expand our [Marxist] organizations” (Cai, 1980b [1920]: 28). Zheng Chaolin 鄭超麟, another radical work-study student (of the ninth batch), lamented that “when the European Youth League of the Chinese Communist Party was founded in June 1922, only eighteen students participated in the founding meeting in the bois de Boulogne in Paris’s western suburbs . . . and it is doubtful whether we had another eighteen supporters in the whole of Europe” (Zheng, 2014: 202). Geneviève Barman and Nicole Dulioust’s study of female work-study students further reveals that more than half of the female participants committed themselves to long-term studies, not political activities, in France and obtained degrees from French universities (Barman and Dulioust, 1987: 28–29).

While historians have scrutinized the evolution of the work-study movement, the motivations, ideas, and networks of its promoters, and the political activism of some students, they seldom address the critical issue of foreign language in work-study students’ engagement with France, French culture, literature, and life. Li Jinfa was not one of the work-study students who “font de la politique.” Nor did he echo the promoters of the movement in embracing francophone education solely as a collective mission to enlighten the Chinese mind, reform Chinese society, and modernize the Chinese state. Li’s transformation from a work-study student to “China’s Baudelaire” not only testifies to the crucial linguistic, literary, and cultural aspects of the work-study movement, but also signifies how the processes of foreign language acquisition and utilization interplayed with personal journeys of self-discovery.

New Language: Schools, Programs, and Textbooks

Li Jinfa did not have an impressive study background prior to his journey to France. By the age of fourteen, he had only received limited Confucian education in his village in Mei county 梅縣, Guangdong. His subsequent studies at a new-style primary school in town hardly provided him with substantial knowledge in any subject apart from Chinese literature. Around the age of eighteen, he traveled to Hong Kong with the hope of pursuing Western higher education. However, his lack of English skills eventually forced him to return home without obtaining even a high school diploma, awaiting alternative opportunities. In 1919, upon his arrival in Shanghai, he was immediately attracted to the prevalent work-study movement and was motivated to go to France as a work-study student. Learning French thus became an immediate and pressing task for him (Li, 1998: 30–41).

Shanghai in 1919 served as an ideal place for learning French. While the Shanghai Academy of Foreign Languages 上海廣方言館, a new-style school opened by the Qing government to cultivate talented individuals in foreign languages and foreign affairs, had closed its doors in 1905, the profound influence of French Jesuit missionaries in francophone scholarship and education persisted into the Republican era (Biggerstaff, 1961; Wiest, 2001). The hub of Jesuit missions in Shanghai was Xujiahui 徐家匯, a district southeast of the city center, where a library, a cathedral (the Cathédrale Saint Ignace 聖依納爵主教座堂), a college (the Collège Saint Ignace 聖依納爵公學/徐匯中學), and a publishing house (l’Imprimerie de la mission catholique à l’orphelinat de T’ou-sè-weè 徐家匯土山灣印書館) constituted a distinctive French religious and intellectual subculture (Clark, 2017: 121, 125). In 1903, with the help of French Jesuits, l’Université l’Aurore 震旦大學 was established in Xujiahui to impart francophone higher education to the young Chinese generation. The university also offered a three-year foundation program equivalent to a high school education to equip students academically and linguistically for university-level courses in French. In 1915, it further initiated the cours spécial de l’université (special French language training course), a fast-track, short-term program tailored for Chinese high school graduates lacking sufficient knowledge of French (l’Université l’Aurore, 1935: 175–77).

Père Tosten, who had been teaching at l’Université l’Aurore since 1910, was the principal instructor for both the foundation program and the cours spécial (l’Université l’Aurore, 1935: 183–88; “Le père Henri Tosten et le cours spécial de l’université,” 1937–1938: 25). He was known for his rigorous tutelage. His training for beginners comprised five hours of teaching every day. The first hour focused on pronunciation and grammar, likely aided by Père Boucher’s Introduction à l’étude de la langue Française à l’usage des élèves Chinois (Introduction to the Study of the French Language for the Use of Chinese Students). The last four hours were dedicated to reading and comprehension, primarily supported by Père Haouisée’s Extraits des écrivains Français (Extracts from French Writers). Presumably influenced by the traditional method of teaching Latin in European church schools, he placed a major emphasis on memorization. Beginners would learn twenty-five lines of text from Extraits des écrivains Français and memorize them by heart every day. More advanced students were required not only to recite a short literary work every day, such as a fable by Jean de La Fontaine, a poem by Victor Hugo, or a short story by Alphonse Daudet, but also to rewrite from memory a lengthy text, often an essay in history or philosophy spanning around 1,000 words, every week (“Le père Henri Tosten et le cours spécial de l’université,” 1937–1938: 28–29; Shi, 1984: 51–52). This does not mean that Tosten’s teaching was dull or noninteractive. He engaged his class with lively, expressive explanations of these French poems, fables, novellas, and short stories, while also inviting students to translate Chinese classical poems and odes into French (“Le père Henri Tosten et le cours spécial de l’université,” 1937–1938: 27, 30).

The principal textbooks for l’Aurore programs included not only Boucher’s Introduction and Haouisée’s Extraits des écrivains Français but also Père Tsang’s Grammaire Française élémentaire à l’usage des élèves Chinois (Elementary French Grammar for the Use of Chinese Students), all of which were published by the printing house in Xujiahui. Boucher’s Introduction, despite being a grammar manual, emphasized pronunciation and conversation. Within its initial lessons, phonetic demonstrations were reinforced by a reading exercise, comprising short sentences for learners to practice the pronunciation of specific syllables, such as “J’ai une belle robe blanche,” “J’aime le poisson frais,” and “Je n’ai jamais vu Pékin” for pronouncing “ai” and “ais/ait” (Boucher, 1924: v–vi, 25). Tsang’s Grammaire Française, on the other hand, was all about grammar. It contained 455 grammar rules and corresponding examples. The first 347 items were explained in both French and Chinese, while the last 108 items were delineated only in French (Tsang, 1924). Despite being more erudite and less engaging than Introduction, Grammaire Française found favor among some students, who believed that learning grammar not only enhanced their general linguistic competence but also improved their writing skills (Zhang, 1940: 56). The most popular textbook among l’Aurore students was undoubtedly Haouisée’s Extraits des écrivains Français. It was a collection of one hundred excerpts from the works of distinguished French writers since the seventeenth century, including classicists La Fontaine, Molière, and Voltaire, romanticists Alphonse de Lamartine, Rousseau, and Hugo, the naturalist Daudet, and notably, the Parnassian François Coppée, whose work bridged romanticism and symbolism (Zhang, 1940: 57; Dorra, 1994: 13). For some l’Aurore students, such as Sheng Cheng 盛成, Dai Wangshu 戴望舒, and Shi Zhecun 施蟄存, their initial exploration of French literary works in class evolved into a lifelong devotion to French literature (Zhang, 1940: 57; Shi, 1984: 55). ⁶

Around thirty graduates of l’Université l’Aurore jumped on the bandwagon of the work-study movement, forming a minority who were already fluent in French before reaching France (Xian, 1994: 87). Sheng Cheng, a graduate of the l’Aurore foundation program, ventured to France in early 1920 as a work-study student of the tenth batch. Shortly after his arrival, he wrote a nine-page letter in French to Eugène Bradier, the vice president and director of the Comité Franco-Chinois de patronage des jeunes Chinois en France (hereafter Comité Franco-Chinois de patronage), ⁷ seeking financial support to carry out advanced research at prestigious French institutions. The letter, fluently written and impeccably presented, demonstrated his extraordinary French writing skills (ANMT, 47 AS 2 B/1-7 (2c): 1–9). And Ding Zhaoqing 丁肇青, a graduate of l’Université l’Aurore, departed for France in late 1920 among the eighteenth batch. When he was recommended by Bradier to study at the Lycée Victor Hugo Besançon, the recommendation letter emphasized his proficiency in French, stating that Ding, “as a l’Aurore graduate, speaks French fluently” (ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/15-6 (17): 1). However, unlike Sheng Cheng and Ding Zhaoqing, Li Jinfa was ineligible to study at l’Université l’Aurore. He was too old to enroll in the three-year foundation program, and he lacked the high school qualification required for the cours spécial. Fortunately, other opportunities were available in Shanghai.

In 1918, following the founding of the Société Franco-Chinoises d’éducation in Paris, the promoters of the work-study movement established its subbranch in Shanghai. The Shanghai work-study headquarters was set up at No. 247 Joffre Avenue in the French Concession, within the public school affiliated with the French Municipal Council. As Chinese youth flocked to Shanghai to participate in the work-study movement, the promoters opened a preparatory school. Different from the cours spécial of l’Université l’Aurore, the Shanghai Work-Study Preparatory School 上海勤工儉學預備學校 did not enforce strict academic prerequisites, though applicants were required to pass an entrance test in at least two subjects: Chinese literature and physical health. On September 21, 1919, Li Jinfa took the entrance test. Three days later, he and another thirty-nine students formed the inaugural class of the preparatory school (Research Group on the History of the Chinese Communist Party, 1981: 195–96; Li, 1998: 41).

Around the same time that the Shanghai Work-Study Preparatory School was established, similar schools flourished across China under the auspices of the Société Franco-Chinoises d’éducation. Between 1917 and 1919, Li Shizeng initiated the establishment of several schools in his home province of Zhili. These included one school in Buli village 布里村 near Baoding, one affiliated with Yude Secondary School 育德中學 in Baoding, and two in Beijing, namely, the reorganized Beijing Frugal Study Preparatory School 北京儉學會預備學校 and the newly formed Beijing Advanced French Language Specialized School 北京高等法文專修館. Major cities such as Guangzhou, Fuzhou, Jinan, Chengdu, and Chongqing also opened their respective work-study preparatory schools (“Various preparatory schools for studying in France,” 1919: 1–11; State Council Information Office, 2005: 52).

Most preparatory schools comprised two sectors: a language sector dedicated to teaching French and an industrial sector that imparted rudimentary applied sciences and industrial skills alongside providing internships in ironwork. Students usually engaged in heavy benchwork in the mornings or evenings and attended classes in various subjects such as applied mechanics, mechanical drawing, thermodynamics, and French in the afternoons (Zhou, 2008: 141; Research Group on the History of the Chinese Communist Party, 1981: 196). Programs of these preparatory schools were often short, cheap, and flexible, serving the direct purpose of preparing students for their employment and initial study in France. While the courses were designed to last for at least one year, students mostly enrolled in autumn and graduated in the following spring. Costs, encompassing both tuition and accommodation, ranged from one to ten yuan a month, with the school in Buli village being the cheapest while the one in Shanghai was the most expensive. In contrast, the cours spécial required a full commitment to a two-year program for those with no knowledge of French, which would cost 320 yuan. It was not difficult for students to transfer from one preparatory school to another. For instance, approximately thirty students from Hunan, after studying for six months in the preparatory school in Buli village, found themselves still unready—financially, academically, and linguistically—for their intended journey to France. Subsequently, they were transferred to the school in Baoding to continue their preparation (l’Université l’Aurore, 1935: 175–76; “Various preparatory schools for studying in France,” 1919: 1–11; Zhou, 2008: 9–10). For many students, accumulating the required 300 yuan—needed for European-style formal clothing, travel expenses, and initial activities in France—was more crucial than learning French. Indeed, Li Jinfa promptly boarded the next ship departing Shanghai as soon as he received the funds from his family, despite having just been accepted to the preparatory school in Shanghai and not yet attending a single class there (Li, 1998: 41). ⁸

Even if Li Jinfa were to have completed his studies at the Shanghai Work-Study Preparatory School, achieving mastery of French would have been unlikely, as these preparatory schools often lacked professional teachers, adequate materials, and effective methodologies for language instruction. As Bailey suggests, the work-study movement primarily stemmed from Li Shizeng’s personal experience and network. In 1908, having completed his higher education in biology at an agricultural college in Montargis and later at l’Institut Pasteur in Paris, Li opened a bean curd factory at La Garenne-Colombes, a suburb in the northwest of Paris, and began to recruit Chinese workers from his home province of Zhili (Bailey, 2019: 161, 164; Zhou, 2008: 5). His efforts to civilize and enlighten his employees, most of whom were young, undereducated villagers, with basic training in French and other subjects such as mathematics and Chinese thus sparked the beginning of the work-study program.

Over a decade later, as Li Shizeng expanded the work-study movement and established preparatory schools nationwide, some of his former employees were hired to teach French. At the preparatory school in Buli village, for instance, the two French tutors, Qi Liandeng 齊連登 and Zhang Xiubo 張秀波, were both former workers from Li’s bean curd factory. Although the tutors attempted to use Boucher’s Introduction, the popular l’Aurore textbook, to assist their teaching, their students only received mimeographed copies of a few chapters because of book shortages. Not long after the course commenced, Qi fell sick, while Zhang returned to France to work. It is therefore uncertain to what extent their students were able to complete the 210-page textbook during their limited study period (Zhou, 2008: 5–10).

Not every preparatory school used Boucher’s textbook, however. Li Jinfa’s peers at the preparatory school in Shanghai seemed to have been engrossed in their industry-focused studies and internships, subsequently learning nothing but some basic French conversations in their French class. Similarly, students at the preparatory school in Beijing were exhausted from practicing ironwork at the workshop in Changxindian 長辛店, a western suburb of Beijing. They found their French class impromptu and unproductive, often involving rote memorization of over one hundred new words in a two-hour session by repeatedly writing French words on one side of a paper and their Chinese translations on the other (Research Group on the History of the Chinese Communist Party, 1981: 196; Zhou, 2008: 141). Most of these preparatory schools subscribed to the Revue des travailleurs Chinois 華工雜誌, an organ of the Société Franco-Chinoise d’éducation published in France between 1917 and 1920. Each issue of the magazine concluded with a table of vocabulary in French, English, and Chinese, and a list of basic conversations in these three languages. From “bonjour Monsieur Li” in the first issue to “si j’avais su cela plus tôt, je vous aurais écrit” in issue 48, these conversations and vocabulary tables could have served as suitable learning materials, though it remains uncertain if students at these preparatory schools utilized them for their language studies (“French–English–Chinese conversation,” 1917, 1920).

Compared to the programs offered at l’Université l’Aurore, then, those at the work-study preparatory schools were hastily established and often poorly managed, resulting in insufficient language instruction for work-study students. Worse still, many young Chinese, eager to start their new life in France, disregarded the requisite preliminary studies at these preparatory schools. When Li Jinfa embarked on the American ship Wollowra in October 1919, he could not speak a single word of French. His situation was not exceptional among work-study students. Zheng Chaolin mentioned that he and his peers from Fujian had only studied French for about three weeks in Guangzhou with a local Chinese woman. Xu Teli 徐特立, a student from Hunan, also lamented his lack of fluency upon arriving in France (Zheng, 2014: 175; Xu, 1919: 31). For many of them, the actual learning and use of the French language did not commence until they set foot on foreign soil and immersed themselves intensively in France as a linguistic environment, an ideological and literary crucible, and a sociocultural milieu.

New Life: Reading, Literature, and the “Milieux Français”

The new life of Chinese work-study students began with a month-long residence aboard a foreign ship bound for France. Before departure, they spent 100 yuan to acquire a set of formal attire—including a shirt, tie, jacket, trousers, and leather shoes. The new outfit excited these young Chinese, who practiced tying a tie, corrected each other’s way of walking, and roamed around Shanghai’s streets to show it off. Another 100 yuan was used to purchase a fourth-class ship ticket. Converted from the ship’s cargo hold, the fourth-class cabin was narrow and dark, packed with over twenty bunk beds covered by straw mattresses. The initial excitement soon gave way to fatigue and boredom due to the unpleasant living conditions and long journey at sea. To pass the time and manage their daily affairs, students formed communications, music, sports, and language groups. Many practiced French on the deck, although it is uncertain if they had direct communication with French passengers. ⁹

When they finally arrived in Marseille by way of Hong Kong, Saigon, Singapore, Colombo, Djibouti, and Suez, they had already spent more than a month at sea. Upon arrival, they were picked up by staff members of the Société Franco-Chinoises d’éducation and were offered their first formal dinner at a French restaurant, where they learned how to use a fork and knife, how to drink soup without making noise, and how to place cutlery after eating (Zhou, 2008: 136; Li, 1998: 42). With their recently purchased European clothes, newly gained dining etiquette, and barely fluent French, Chinese work-study students embarked as much on a personal search for new ideas and new selves as a collective educational mission.

Zheng Chaolin detailed in his memoir how the trip to France ignited his personal “enlightenment.” Hailing from a small town in Fujian province scarcely influenced by the New Culture and May Fourth movements, his exposure to the West was confined to three weeks of French language training at a work-study preparatory school. During the voyage to France, he met students from other regions who had been more exposed to imported political ideas and translated Western literature, and he read for the first time La jeunesse 新青年, the organ of the New Culture Movement, which advocated science, democracy, Marxism, and critical thought in China. As he began to question the traditional Confucian education imposed upon him by his “scholarly, land-owning, old-style” family, he became increasingly open to the new ideas and new life awaiting him in France. As soon as he read in La jeunesse the “Declaration of the Independence of Mind,” signed by Henri Barbusse, Romain Rolland, and Bertrand Russell, he was determined to track down bookstores in Paris and subscribe to Clarté, Barbusse’s journal (Zheng, 2014: 172–212).

Reading thus became an integral part of language learning, reinforcing it while being reinforced in return. With the help of a dictionary, Zheng Chaolin read Clarté and later l’Humanité (the organ of the French Socialist Party, later of the French Communist Party) and the Bulletin communiste (edited by supporters of the Comintern within the French Socialist Party). He also read Rolland’s masterpiece Jean-Christophe to improve his French, despite finding the more pacifist and liberalist “Rollandism” less appealing than the “ism” of Barbusse (Zheng, 2014: 209). Similarly, when Cai Hesen proceeded with his French learning, he devoted himself to reading as his main activity, disregarding what was being taught in preparatory schools in China or lycées in France. From the outset, Cai was explicit about the fact that he was learning French to be able to explore French publications on socialism, syndicalism, and communism. He planned to spend one year reading local newspapers and magazines and, when his French improved, to engage in conversations and more advanced studies (Cai, 1980b [1920]: 27–28). Cai’s enthusiasm for reading impressed and influenced Zheng Chaolin, as Zheng stated:

On the French course at [the work-study preparatory school in] Baoding or Beijing, others concentrated on learning how to speak; he [Cai Hesen], however, paid sole attention to learning how to read. After just a few days of learning French, he started reading theoretical publications, with the aid of a dictionary. I do not know exactly what books he read. In those days, all sorts of socialist ideas were current in China, particularly anarchist ideas. (Zheng, 2014: 194)

French language learning, in this case, was not simply a linguistic practice of mastering pronunciation, syntax, and grammar, but an ideological engagement with the most prevalent, authentic, and pioneering ideas in France. Words formed not merely meaningful texts but also fresh concepts and new worldviews. And reading, as a means of language acquisition, enabled a “direct” communication between Chinese students and French thinkers—a communication that was not to be dictated by others or mediated by translations. Subsequently, through reading, Chinese students combined their language learning with language use, while also gaining autonomy over how they learned and used the language.

Cai Hesen’s and Zheng Chaolin’s experiences seem to suggest that learning French paved a natural path toward political radicalization. The Collège de Montargis, under the direction of Monsieur Chapeau, a socialist and an old patron of Li Shizeng, accommodated Cai and his radical acolytes, thus becoming a harbor of political activism for Chinese students in France (Zheng, 2014: 192). But the Collège de Montargis was only one of the 202 colleges, lycées, and specialized institutions that opened their doors to Chinese work-study students. Besides Montargis, four other schools near Paris hosted the largest number of Chinese students: the Collège Carnot à Fontainebleau, the Collège de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the Collège Jacques Amyot à Melun, and the Collège Jean de La Fontaine à Château-Thierry (Catalogue of the collection of the Comité Franco-Chinois de patronage, 1981: 5–32; ANMT, 47 AS 1 A/2-1 (3): 1–2).

In the spring of 1920, Li Jinfa was enrolled at the Collège Carnot à Fontainebleau, along with twenty other work-study students. The college organized a special class dedicated to teaching French to its Chinese students. However, the French tutor, an elderly gentleman, struggled to engage the class with his grammar instruction, despite having assistance from a Chinese man who had learned French in Vietnam. Frustrated, the tutor eventually abandoned the class, leaving his students to rely on dictionaries for self-learning. Disenchanted by their French class, Li and his friends found solace in the vast forest surrounding Fontainebleau. Calling it “long woods” 長林—the very motif that would later frequently appear in his poetry to symbolize his hometown—Li frequented the forest, marveling at its exuberant and lush greenery and imagining the profound depths of its scenery. A few months later, Li, along with these friends, left Fontainebleau for Bruyères, a small town in northeastern France, to study French at the Collège de Bruyères, owing to its lower tuition and living expenses. While it is unclear whether the French instruction at Bruyères was more effective than that at Fontainebleau, the principal of the Collège de Bruyères, at least, demonstrated more concern for his nine Chinese students. To help them improve their French, the principal dedicated his evenings to reading and discussing French classic literature with them, especially plays by Molière. This evening reading club, in Li Jinfa’s eyes, was more engaging and effective than any French class that he had ever attended (ANMT, 47 AS 1 A/2-1 (3): 1; Li, 1998: 43–46, 173–74).

After learning French at Fontainebleau and Bruyères for over a year, Li Jinfa finally began his studies at l’École nationale supérieure d’art de Dijon and, half a year later, at l’École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts de Paris. When he moved to Paris, another language-learning opportunity was made available for Chinese work-study students. In November 1921, the Comité Franco-Chinois de patronage approached l’Alliance Française Paris to accept Chinese students living in the vicinity of Paris. From December onward, a total of forty-one Chinese enrolled in the cours du soir (evening course) at l’Alliance Française (ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/14-1 (1a): 1; ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/14-1 (6d): 1). Divided into two levels, the cours du soir was designed to assist foreigners from various nationalities in acquiring comprehensive French language skills within a condensed time frame. Students would commit themselves to a nine-month intensive training course, spanning from October to June, with sessions held four times a week (ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/14-1 (21b): 19–21; ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/14-1 (3a): 1). The tuition fee, forty francs per month, was significantly lower than that charged by French colleges or lycées, which ranged from 150 to over 200 francs per month. Although the Comité Franco-Chinois de patronage ceased all financial support for work-study students enrolled in French secondary schools from September 1921, it provided full subsidies to most students enrolled in the cours du soir (ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/14-1 (6c): 1; ANMT, 47 AS 3 B/6 25 (3c): 1; ANMT, 47 AS 2 B/6 II 2 (16): 1).

However, despite being well supported and professionally managed, this course did not resonate well with work-study students. In June 1922, when the course was nearing its completion, only four Chinese remained enrolled. Among them, only one was commended by l’Alliance Française as “very hardworking and making significant progress,” while the other three received tepid comments (ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/14-1 (20c): 1–3; ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/14-1 (19a): 1). Li Jinfa did not even register for this course. To him, French grammar was the most redundant, uninspiring element of the language, and sitting in class to master it was a hopeless way of learning French (Li, 1998: 44). How, then, did he improve his French?

Like Cai Hesen, Li Jinfa could hardly separate the necessity of language learning from his passion for reading. However, unlike Cai, he viewed the French language as an intrinsic part of his literary journey rather than a tool for political and ideological pursuits. He began his linguistic-literary adventure with Daudet’s Le petit chose and quickly expanded his reading list to include Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary and Guy de Maupassant’s novellas (Li, 1998: 44; “Mr. Li Jinfa’s answers to my twenty questions,” 2015). This reading selection corroborates the understanding that early twentieth-century francophone intellectuals in Asia largely favored naturalist-realist works. While Maupassant’s novels enjoyed immense popularity among Chinese readers and translators, Émile Zola was the most translated writer in Japan (Kang, 2022: 144).

However, Li Jinfa’s taste underwent a significant shift as his understanding of the French language, literature, and culture deepened. During his time in Bruyères, presumably inspired by the evening reading club, he became attracted to poetry and began composing his own poems. Upon moving to Paris, he subscribed to French literary magazines and read the works of Victor Hugo and Anatole France. While he cherished Hugo’s romantic poems, it was the “poisonous verses” of Charles Baudelaire and Paul Verlaine that stimulated his linguistic and literary talent. Finding these “poisonous verses” a perfect match for his sensitive, melancholic nature, he bought all the anthologies of the two poets not only to emulate their poetic language but also to assimilate their attitudes toward aesthetics and life (Li, 1998: 53; “Mr. Li Jinfa’s answers to my twenty questions,” 2015). Although he also read La jeunesse and Après le travail 工餘, a magazine launched by Chinese anarchist students in France, he did not echo this radical trend: “I was somewhat influenced by them and at times felt upset about the ways of the world, but I did not turn left” (Li, 1998: 53; Zheng, 2014: 198).

Li Jinfa was not the only work-study student “intoxicated” by French symbolist poetry when improving French through reading. Wang Duqing 王獨清, a student of the fifteenth batch, also quickly succumbed to the allure of décadence, became absorbed by the aesthetics of the “mal du siècle,” and fell entirely under the spell of Baudelaire. For Wang, political radicalization and Baudelairean decadence were merely two different manifestations of the same internal chaos experienced by work-study students. Their humble social origins, limited educational backgrounds, insufficient preparation for working and studying in France, and their somewhat “un-cushioned” encounter with a foreign society all contributed to deep anxiety. Meanwhile, the dual experience—embracing Paris as the crucible of new ideas, sentiments, and culture while repudiating it as a capitalist, bourgeois menace—did little to soothe their restless young hearts. Some, like Zheng Chaolin and Cai Hesen, found their guiding light in Barbusse, while others, in Wang’s words, “escaped to the so-believed pure aesthetics, where they were able to negotiate their survival and existence in a desperate, pessimistic, and decadent manner” (Wang, 1932: 150–51). Although Wang, unlike Li Jinfa, felt deeply guilty for gradually losing his courage and enthusiasm for politics, he could not help but be drawn, like Li, to the decadent world projected by Baudelaire, devouring symbolist poetry in the cafés of the Latin Quarter, sometimes for the whole day, sometimes for the entire night (Wang, 1932: 149–50, 154–55).

While reading largely substituted for conventional classroom learning in aiding Li Jinfa’s mastery of French, it would be wrong to think that his language learning experience was exclusively textual and solitary. Many work-study students, dissatisfied with the segregation of Chinese students in French colleges and lycées, moved out of student accommodations to improve their French within the milieux Français (Xian, 1994: 85). Although Li Jinfa still largely adhered to the Chinese circles during his time in Fontainebleau and Bruyères, his academic and social networks expanded significantly when he entered university. He recalled his first days at l’École nationale supérieure d’art de Dijon, where he was surrounded by French classmates curious about China’s cultural “epitomes,” such as bird’s nest soup, concubines, and the queue (the traditional Qing hairstyle) (Li, 1998: 175). These tentative conversations driven by curiosity quickly developed into frequent communication and close personal bonds. Li enjoyed afternoon teas at French homes and outdoor sketching in the countryside, finding his French hosts and companions truly marvelous. Meanwhile, his best friend Lin Fengmian 林風眠, a work-study student (of the twelfth batch) studying oil painting at the same university, quickly found himself in a bittersweet first crush with a French girl (Li, 1998: 175–81).

The importance of the milieux Français in French language acquisition among work-study students is best exemplified by Sun Fuxi’s 孫福熙 experience. Akin to Li Jinfa, Sun went to France as a work-study student (of the twentieth batch) and chose to study art. Furthermore, as with Li, he had never received any professional training in the language prior to his trip to France, except for some intermittent self-study that left him with nothing but faulty pronunciation and flawed knowledge of grammar. The lack of language proficiency, however, did not prompt Sun to take any preparatory class at a French college or lycée. Instead, he decided to engage in university studies directly while relying on everyday communication with his French professors, classmates, and friends to master the language (“Bulletin d’identité,” 1921: 1; Sun, 1931a: 8).

In an emotive, beautifully crafted memoir, Sun recounted his experience of living in Lyon and studying at l’École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts de Lyon. He spoke of his best friend Boquin, his three professors, Monsieur Laurent, Monsieur Morisot, and Monsieur Vicard, as well as Monsieur Lebeau, a gentleman introduced by Monsieur Vicard to help him improve his French. His first months in Lyon entailed some awkward moments when he attempted to use English words to compensate for his limited French. On one occasion, he said “face” in English, but his landlady misheard it as “fesse,” meaning buttock in French. However, his poor French did not prevent his professors and classmates from communicating with him. Monsieur Laurent resorted to hand gestures and drawings to elucidate French words, while Monsieur Morisot frequently asked him to explain traditional Chinese emblems and symbols, such as the dragon. His classmates and school staff were always curious to know how the Chinese used chopsticks and if they truly ate cats. In answering these questions, his French improved naturally (Sun, 1931a: 8, 1931b: 1, 6–7).

Much like Li Jinfa, Sun Fuxi also quickly assimilated himself into the local French community. As a regular guest at Boquin’s, he received kind help from Boquin’s wife, who often compiled lists of words with similar pronunciations for him to practice (e.g., cou, coucou, cours, court, coût, coucher, coupe, and so on). In his casual language lessons at Monsieur Lebeau’s, he restudied how to pronounce and how to write—elements of “practical French” that he could not achieve through self-study. Moreover, he learned how to relax during tea and coffee breaks, engaging in conversations about trivial aspects of life with Madame Lebeau. By the time he left France, his French had become so fluent that he was able to employ polite vocabulary and formal syntax to create a subtle, half-joking, half-sarcastic tone. The evening when he went to Monsieur Lebeau’s home for a farewell visit, teacher and student talked until midnight. As he prepared to leave, Monsieur Lebeau, lighting one match after another to illuminate his path, uttered a final piece of advice: “Do not forget to practice French every day!” (Sun, 1931a: 4–5, 1931b: 1, 9–10).

As Zhaoming Qian argues, direct communication with native interlocutors shapes cultural exchange in a way that other interactions can hardly parallel (Qian, 2017: 13–14). Qian’s study reveals how a one-afternoon conversation between Ezra Pound and Zeng Baosun 曾寶蓀, the great-granddaughter of Zeng Guofan 曾國藩, inspired Pound’s translation of traditional Chinese poetry. If Pound’s cultural encounter with a well-educated Chinese lady in Italy in the 1920s was somewhat fortuitous, Chinese students in France could hardly avoid direct interaction with native interlocutors such as their landladies, classmates, and professors. Their French, in this regard, improved within a specific sociocultural milieu where French manners, culture, and life were not inculcated abstractly but demonstrated and absorbed naturally. Indeed, the milieux Français occasionally exhibited a racial sentiment. As Li Jinfa noted, French curiosity and hospitality sometimes stemmed from the surprise that “these Chinese, though hailing from a foreign place, were not as uncivilized as we believed” (Chen, 1996: 50–51). Nevertheless, the cordial and intimate relationships he formed with French natives—he was overwhelmed, for a long period, by the romantic feelings of a French girl that he was unable to fully return—seemed to have prevented him from viewing himself as a victim of imperialist hostility. ¹⁰ Rather than adopting the political language of nationalism or anti-imperialism, his poetry, as we shall see, features an inward reflection on and expression of the self.

New Self: Language Use and the Literary Expression of the Self

Although Li Jinfa’s French improved within the milieux Français, it is uncertain to what extent he achieved comprehensive linguistic skills, given his inconsistent training and his lack of interest in grammar rules. His spoken French must have been sound, for he often acted as an interpreter for his friend Lin Fengmian, who could “hardly say a few words in French without sweating and blushing like a virgin” (Li, 1998: 46). His French writing, however, was somewhat flawed. He never published any literary work written solely in French. The dozen poems he managed to compose in French were ruthlessly mocked by his friends. Even the French words and phrases that he inserted into his poems (written mainly in Chinese) were replete with spelling and grammatical mistakes. Although he had translated a few French poems into Chinese, the considerable errors that he was unable or unwilling to address prevented him from doing any more translations (Li, 2020: 329; Chau, 2023: 108). If he were to use the French language, he had to seek a way that was compatible with his linguistic skills as well as his literary taste.

This is not to suggest that the work-study generation lacked the opportunities and linguistic competence to pursue francophone writing. Sheng Cheng, the aforementioned l’Aurore graduate, gained recognition in France as a francophone writer. In 1928, he published his first book in French: Ma mère. His literary style was indeed minimalist, characterized by short, simple sentences without dependent clauses, prioritizing content words while minimizing the use of function words (Sheng, 1928, 1932: 251). But the fluency and efficacy of his literary expression in French were unquestionable. Paul Valéry, the highly esteemed symbolist poet and French academician, was deeply moved by the book and wrote a sixteen-page-long preface to it (Valéry, 1928: 11–26). Li Jinfa was not capable of writing a book in French, but he found his way to use the language to aid his literary expression. Similar to Ezra Pound’s use of Chinese in the Cantos, Li crystallized his limited knowledge of the French language and French symbolist poetry into his own verses, marked by a creative blend of French and Chinese languages (Kern, 1996: 202–206).

Between 1920 and 1926, Li composed hundreds of symbolist poems, of which 355 were later published in his three anthologies. His childhood friend Huang Shiqi 黃士奇, who also went to France as a work-study student (of the sixteenth batch), penned the first review of these anthologies (Chen, 1996: 21). Celebrating Li as “China’s Baudelaire,” the review praised Li’s poetry for being “fluid, heterogenous, unpredictable, mysterious, individual, and impossible to see through.” Despite gently complaining, on behalf of Chinese readers, about the omnipresent French words and phrases in these poems, the review asserted that “these francophone elements have helped a Chinese poet to express sentiments that could hardly be conveyed in Chinese.” The reviewer predicted that Li Jinfa, thanks to his ugliness-oriented, world-weary, and decadent style, would soon become China’s “prince de poètes” (Huang, 1926).

Huang Shiqi was too optimistic, however. Li Jinfa was indeed recognized as China’s first symbolist poet, but his poetry received more critiques than compliments in the ensuing years. As realist, nationalist, and revolutionary genres gained prominence over romantic-modernist aesthetics in China in the late 1920s and the 1930s, his poetry encountered mockery and criticism for its perceived hollowness of content, inconsistency and incompleteness in form, and vagueness in expression (Minguo ribao, 1935; Dagongbao, 1948). The incorporation of the French language was seen as nothing but a brutal tactic to catch attention and conceal the superficiality of the content. “Apart from its ‘francophone foreignness’ 異國情調, there is nothing special about his poetry,” remarked one critic in 1935 (Minguo ribao, 1935). ¹¹ Worse still, Li’s harshest critic identified this “francophone foreignness” not as the only value of his poetry but as the central crime, blaming his poor linguistic skills—in French as well as in Chinese—for ruining both French symbolist poetry and modern Chinese poetry (Chau, 2023: 87).

Angie Chau, after illustrating how and why Li Jinfa’s poetry offended his intellectual peers and alienated his Chinese audience, asks what could have been done by the poet to make his use of the French language more legitimate or literarily more effective (Chau, 2023: 107). This, however, might be the wrong question to ask. From the outset, Li did not intend for his poems to be legitimate or effective for any specific audience. Responding to the criticism, he stated: “My poetry is a record of my own inspiration, a song sung aloud in intoxication, I cannot hope that everyone will understand it” (Chau, 2023: 85). The question we should ask is, perhaps, in what ways did the “francophone foreignness” facilitate Li’s engagement with and expression of the self.

The “francophone foreignness” in Li’s poetry was attained in two ways: by incorporating foreign words and phrases into Chinese verses and by adopting a symbolist style. Most of his poems were embellished with French words, phrases, and sentences without any translation or explanation. Some of them carried specific aesthetic and cultural connotations, such as “fantaisie,” “mélancolie,” “décadent,” and “pot-au-feu.” Others—like “adieu,” “salut,” “merci,” “voilà,” “regarder,” “baiser,” “viens ici,” and “plus tard”—were so familiar to him from his daily communication with native interlocutors that they seemed to have simply sprung to mind to complete, adorn, or interrupt the Chinese expressions. In a poem about memories of insects, birds, and farm animals that one day filled his mind, the poet wrote:

麥稈襯著在木屐里,

喘氣在鼻端,

向犬兒說 vien iei [sic, should have been vien ici]! (Li, 2020: 158–59)

[Translation]

Wheat straw in wooden clogs,

Breathing in the nose,

Say to the dog come here!

Here, “vien ici” not only functions to rhyme with the Chinese postposition li 里 (“in”) that ends a previous line but also, more importantly, completes the stanza in an authentic and spontaneous manner, as if the poet had literally spoke these French words aloud when the image of a countryside dog surfaced from a childhood memory.

In another poem about love and soulmates, the poet chanted:

在大洋呼嘯里,

取我僅有之情去,

然後我給你 Je t’aime. (Li, 2020: 344)

[Translation]

From the wuthering ocean,

Obtain my only affection,

Then I give you I love you.

Unlike the previous example, “Je t’aime” in this stanza disrupts the rhyme of the preceding Chinese lines. And, grammatically, it follows the Chinese verb “give” 給 awkwardly—“Je t’aime” should be said, not given. However, if we interpret this poem as a journal intime recording a tentative acknowledgment of romantic feelings, then “Je t’aime” becomes indispensable and irreplaceable. It allows the poet to express emotions in a way that is both passionate and reserved, enabling him to hide behind foreign words when he feels shy about saying “love” in his native tongue. This line may be problematic in grammar and poeticity, but it effectively communicates his delicate feelings to himself.

Occasionally, more complex phrases or sentences in French were inserted between the Chinese lines, notably the last line of the poem “Poet”: “Comme un Blessè [sic, should have been blessé] qu’on oublie” (Li, 2020: 43). “Un blessé qu’on oublie” exemplifies how the poet employed French for self-portrayal and self-representation. In fact, “self” is a principal theme in Li Jinfa’s poetry, and its literary expression is aided not only by the employment of French words, phrases, and sentences but also by the incorporation of symbolism.

To demonstrate this, it is important to delve into the most recurring tropes in his poems. The first central motif in his poetry is gelü 革履 (a classical Chinese word appearing eight times in his three anthologies), meaning “leather shoes.” As an indispensable part of the modern European attire that work-study students spent 100 yuan to acquire, “leather shoes” symbolize their direct contact with and exploration of the modern foreign land. Scholars have been inclined to associate Chinese intellectuals in France in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries with the Baudelairean flâneur, who constantly gauged the urban landscape and, simultaneously, embodied the alienation of modern man (Ren, 2016: 90–103; Tian, 2021: 63). However, different from the flâneur, who was both created and estranged by the modern world, Li Jinfa first needed to become a “modern man” and immerse himself in the modern world to possibly capture the sense of alienation.

In his poem “Words for My Self-Portrait” 題自冩像, he expressed both his willingness to explore the foreign world and his awareness of the limitation of the self:

昔日武士被著甲,

力能搏虎!

我麼, 害點羞。

[. . .]

我有革履, 僅能走世界之一角,

生羽麼, 太多事了呵! (Li, 2020: 29)

[Translation]

Warriors in the past had their armor and,

The strength to kill tigers!

Me, I am only a little shy.

[. . .]

I have my leather shoes, enough to reach only one corner of the world,

Growing feathers and wings, for me is too much!

Although the motif of gelü always accompanies that of “the world” in his poetry, Li did not seem to possess the flâneur’s confidence when it came to the relationship between the world and the self. Instead of feeling that the world was his home and that he was the center of the world—as expressed in Baudelaire’s words, “être hors de chez soi, et pourtant se sentir partout chez soi; voir le monde, être au centre du monde”—Li remained a shy student and a long-term visitor (Gogröf-Voorhees, 1998: 46). As he chanted in his poem “Self-Relief” 自解:

可整之革履,

足繼吾之遠道. . .

[. . .]

這個世界,

任你們去管領。(Li, 2020: 79)

[Translation]

I can prepare my leather shoes,

Enough to continue my long voyage. . .

[. . .]

This world,

I leave it to you to manage.

Another recurring motif in Li Jinfa’s poetry is the nymphe (a word written in French appearing eight times in his three anthologies). As a devoted fan of French symbolism, Li must have been familiar with the ancient myths that underpinned the Parnassian poetry, to which Baudelaire, Verlaine, and Stéphane Mallarmé were all indebted (Dorra, 1994: 132, 139; Whidden, 2007: 17–46). And he must have read poems such as “À Clymène” and “l’Après-midi d’un faune” that depicted the mesmerizing world of nymphs, muses, satyrs, and fauns (Verlaine, 2020: 99; Mallarmé, 2020: 41–44). However, the motif of the nymphe in his poetry is seldom associated with a foreign, unearthly world. On the contrary, the nymphe inhabited the poet’s purest and most intense memories of his hometown. In the poem “Memories of Han Ying” 憶韓英, Li recounted the old days at home and asked a question of one Han Ying, presumably a childhood friend:

你可如 Nymphe 與小羊跳躍在林里?

洗浴在清泉之底。

我呢,

再裝大古詩人麼?

不能了,

確已不能了,

一切固有喪盡了。(Li, 2020: 125)

[Translation]

Do you dance with lambs in the woods, like a nymph?

Bathing at the bottom of clear streams.

And I,

Still pretending to be a great poet?

No,

Not anymore, indeed.

Everything permanent is lost.

Having been away from home for three years, Li lamented his loss of naiveté and the child’s heart, alongside “everything permanent” (Li, 2020: 124–25). In another poem, entitled “Sagesse” (in French), presumably to pay homage to Verlaine’s famous collection of the same title, Li again drew a parallel between the idyllic view of rivers and fruit trees in his hometown and a place frequented by centaures and nymphes:

噫, 故鄉的河流, 果樹,

忘卻我在天空之下。

時間一刻一刻的產生,

撫育著新花與殘葉,

我已是亦建立起來。

[. . .]

在每個金色之葉里,

我吸收到自然無理之氣息,

縱 Centare [sic, should have been Centaure] 與 Nymphe 頻來,

此地於我是荒涼的。(Li, 2020: 415–18)

[Translation]

Alas, the rivers and fruit trees of my hometown,

Losing me under the sky.

Time is produced one minute after another,

New flowers and old leaves are cultivated,

I am also formed.

[. . .]

In every golden leaf,

I absorb the wild, unmanufactured air of nature,

Frequented by centaurs and nymphs,

This place for me is barren.

The hometown—where the poet was born and “formed”—is the antithesis of Paris, the modern city. His two poems about Paris, namely “Sleep Talking of Paris” 巴黎的囈語 and “Hallucination on a Cold Night” 寒夜之幻覺, align with the aura of decadence prevalent in Baudelaire’s Les fleurs du mal. In these verses, Paris is cold, dark, and withered, covered by thick fog and inundated by the foul odor of death seeping from underground cellars (Li, 2020: 51–54, 81–82). The banks of the River Seine are a ground of death:

巴黎亦枯瘦了, 可望見之寺塔

悉高插空際。

如死神之手,

Seine 河之水, 奔騰在門下,

泛著無數人屍與牲畜。(Li, 2020: 81)

[Translation]

Paris is withered, the spire of Notre Dame

Piercing into the sky.

Like the hand of Death,

The torrent of the Seine, roaming beneath the doors,

Afloat, countless corpses and carcasses.

However, it would be simplistic to argue that the stark contrast between Paris and Li’s hometown—a small village surrounded by the Nanling Mountains 南嶺 in South China—merely expresses a feeling of estrangement from Western modernity and a yearning for the “unmanufactured” life back home (Li, 1998: 2–7). In 1922, while studying in Paris, Li received a photo of his hometown sent by his family. Although he was pleased that the deep woods and clear streams around his village remained unchanged, he firmly stated in a headnote to his poem titled “Hometown” 故鄉 that “such peaceful village life no longer attracts me” (Li, 2020: 83). Even though the memories of green woods, blue streams, and the golden sun always felt tangible, Li understood that “the flames of childhood” would diminish and the place frequented by centaures and nymphes would eventually appear “barren” to him (Li, 2020: 416, 665–67). Torn between the nymphe that dwelled in his memories of home and the gelü that would prepare him for new voyages across the modern world, Li’s decision remained ambiguous. The incompatibility in his language choice—using a French word and a French symbolist concept to express the most intimate feelings about home—reflects the ambivalence and struggle in his search for the self.

Wang Duqing, who shared Li’s experience of language acquisition and passion for Baudelairean decadence, also used French to enrich his poetry. However, unlike Li, Wang’s use of the language was not to foster an inward engagement with an ambivalent, unsettled self, but to announce a determined departure from the old French self and an embrace of the new Chinese self:

Assez vu! sur les boulevards, les gens lents ou gais,

Assez vu! toutes les longueurs des ponts et des quais,

Assez vu! devant Notre-Dame, les yeux des filles éclatants de flammes,

Assez vu! sur les Champs-Élysées, la vive volupté du pas des femmes.

[. . .]

是的, 我底故國那兒, 偉大的民族眼看就要破裂滅亡!

我還是歸去, 迅速的歸去, 這兒不是應該久留的地方!

這兒確能使人追求快樂, 但可惜我已沒有追求快樂的心情!

這兒是近代文明底中心, 但可惜我已厭惡這種近代的文明! (Wang, 1933: 51–53)

[Translation]

Enough seen! on the boulevards, the people slow or cheerful,

Enough seen! the stretch of bridges and quays,

Enough seen! in front of Notre Dame, the girls’ eyes bursting with flames,

Enough seen! on the Champs-Élysées, the lively voluptuousness of women’s steps.

[. . .]

Yes, in my homeland, a great nation is about to collapse and perish!

I must leave, immediately leave, here is not the place I should linger long!

This place allows me to pursue joy, but I am no longer in the mood for it!

This place is the center of modern civilization, but I have lost all my taste for it!

These lines in French are grammatically correct and poetically sound, suggesting Wang’s overall stronger language skills compared to Li’s. Their meaning is clear, perfectly corresponding to the ensuing stanzas written in Chinese. In fact, the idea of breaking away from the past self, intoxicated by French culture and life, and forming a new self dedicated to national salvation is so repeatedly and explicitly conveyed in Chinese throughout the poem that a lack of knowledge of French would not impede a Chinese reader’s understanding. In this case, these lines in French were mostly written for the poet himself, as a private farewell addressed to his French self. Wang Duqing returned to China in 1925, now determined to resolve all his “lovesickness” 相思 through revolutionary realism rather than romanticism and symbolism (Wang, 1933: 113–15). ¹² However, Li Jinfa was not willing to abandon his French self. Leaving France in the same year as Wang, he shipped nothing to China but the anthologies of French symbolist poetry he had carefully collected, which filled up a large wooden crate (Li, 1998: 59).

Conclusion

Li Jinfa’s transformation from a work-study student to a symbolist poet began with French language acquisition. He was not a model student. He skipped the preparatory school in Shanghai, spent more time in the forest than in his French class in Fontainebleau, and showed no interest in the cours du soir of l’Alliance Française in Paris. The reasons behind his absence were twofold. First, most of the programs and courses offered to Chinese work-study students were either poorly regulated or ineffective. The work-study preparatory schools in China suffered from a lack of professional staff, suitable textbooks, and sophisticated methodologies for language instruction. The language courses provided by French colleges and lycées, which grouped Chinese students of different backgrounds and levels into a “special class,” were often perfunctory and unengaging. Second, the study environment of these schools never seemed appealing to Chinese students. Those who studied at French colleges and lycées lamented living in the same dormitories and going to the same classes with their compatriots, believing that it hindered their opportunities to practice French. Meanwhile, those who attended the cours du soir at l’Alliance Française found it difficult to integrate with students from other nations. Ironically, the solution proposed by l’Alliance Française was to open an “exclusive class” solely for Chinese students in the upcoming academic year (Xian, 1994: 85; ANMT, 47 AS 5 B/14-1 (20c): 1–3). Furthermore, Li Jinfa and his peers did not find grammar courses and classroom instruction to be a productive way of learning French. Cai Hesen’s advice to work-study candidates clearly reflects the prevailing attitude: “Not only is it not necessary to enter schools in China, but there is also no need to enter schools in foreign countries; all we need is to travel the world, acquire their languages, read their books, and observe their lifestyles” (Cai, 1980a [1919]: 22–23).

Rather than classroom instruction, many work-study students drew inspiration from French literature, turning to reading as a method of autonomous learning. This approach was not new. Before them, European francophone elites had indulged in French literature, relying on international travel and reading to refresh their knowledge of foreign languages. However, unlike European aristocrats, for whom reading in French was a privilege and a form of entertainment, Li Jinfa committed himself to French literature as indispensable spiritual sustenance. As a group that expected to embrace France as the epicenter of Enlightenment and revolution yet which was also destined to realize Paris’s decadence, work-study students found inspiration not only in Barbusse’s Clarté but also in decadent literature. When Li encountered Baudelaire and Verlaine, he was convinced that their verses, though in French, were written in his own language and for him. His experience of reading day and night, forgetting to eat or sleep, was shared by Wang Duqing, who, like Li, immersed himself in symbolist poetry not only to improve his French but also to seek resonances in his search for the self.

Reading, however, was not the only method through which work-study students effectively improved their French. While in France, many of them formed intimate personal bonds with their classmates, teachers, and host families. Li Jinfa, along with his peer Sun Fuxi, enhanced their linguistic abilities through daily communication within the milieux Français. It might be far-fetched to argue that the French hospitality and friendship Li enjoyed resulted in his disinterest in politics, but they certainly contributed to a sense of familiarity and comfort with the French language, allowing quotidian, colloquial French vocabulary to constitute his literary expression.

Li Jinfa gained fame as “China’s Baudelaire” owing to the “francophone foreignness” that characterized his poetry. Ironically, his verses were also vilified for the same reason. Indeed, due to the limited, intermittent, and unsystematic language instruction he had received, his linguistic skills, particularly in French writing, were far from competent. Inserting French words, phrases, and sentences—often with considerable errors in spelling and grammar—may have been the only feasible way for him to use the language, aside from reading and oral communication with native interlocutors.

Such use of French, however, should not be seen merely as a linguistic compromise. Rather, it was authentic and spontaneous, fueled by his sense of familiarity and comfort with the language, while shaping his literary expression as a symbolist poet. Rather than communicating specific ideas to his Chinese audience—a task at which he utterly failed—his poetry served as an effective channel for his self-communication, self-representation, and self-identification. In this regard, Li’s French-imbued poetry bears a certain resemblance to the francophone journal intime, a significant mode of language use adopted by francophones to conduct private, personal, and heartfelt conversations with themselves and to reveal the most delicate and ambiguous feelings about the self. Thus, for Li Jinfa, French language acquisition and utilization constituted inextricable linguistic, ideological, sociocultural, and literary processes, in which “who learns and uses French, for what, and how” marked a personal journey of self-discovery. Notably, although he and Wang Duqing eventually parted ways in the search for the self, they both employed the French language to deliberate on and make sense of these journeys.