FIR-FLOWER TABLETS
POEMS FROM THE CHINESE
[Illustration: MAP OF CHINA SHOWING
In Black, the Present Divisions and names
In Red, the Ancient Districts &c. referred to in the Poems
_(The transliteration used is that of the Post Office)_]
[Illustration]
FIR-FLOWER TABLETS
_Poems translated from the Chinese by_
FLORENCE AYSCOUGH
_Hon. Mem. North China Branch, Royal Asiatic Society_
ENGLISH VERSIONS
BY
AMY LOWELL
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge_
1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY FLORENCE AYSCOUGH AND AMY LOWELL.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
PREFACE
BY AMY LOWELL
Let me state at the outset that I know no Chinese. My duty in Mrs.
Ayscough's and my joint collaboration has been to turn her literal
translations into poems as near to the spirit of the originals as it was
in my power to do. It has been a long and arduous task, but one which
has amply repaid every hour spent upon it. To be suddenly introduced to
a new and magnificent literature, not through the medium of the usual
more or less accurate translation, but directly, as one might burrow it
out for one's self with the aid of a dictionary, is an exciting and
inspiring thing. The method we adopted made this possible, as I shall
attempt to show. The study of Chinese is so difficult that it is a
life-work in itself, so is the study of poetry. A sinologue has no time
to learn how to write poetry; a poet has no time to learn how to read
Chinese. Since neither of us pretended to any knowledge of the other's
craft, our association has been a continually augmenting pleasure.
I was lucky indeed to approach Chinese poetry through such a medium. The
translations I had previously read had given me nothing. Mrs. Ayscough
has been to me the pathway to a new world. No one could be a more
sympathetic go-between for a poet and his translator, and Mrs. Ayscough
was well-fitted for her task. She was born in Shanghai. Her father, who
was engaged in business there, was a Canadian and her mother an
American. She lived in China until she was eleven, when her parents
returned to America in order that their children might finish their
education in this country. It was then that I met her, so that our
friendship is no new thing, but has persisted, in spite of distance, for
more than thirty years, to ripen in the end into a partnership which is
its culmination. Returning to China in her early twenties, she became
engaged to an Englishman connected with a large British importing house
in Shanghai, and on her marriage, which took place almost immediately,
went back to China, where she has lived ever since. A diligent student
of Chinese life and manners, she soon took up the difficult study of
literary Chinese, and also accepted the position of honorary librarian
of the library of the North China Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society.
Of late years, she has delivered a number of lectures on Chinese
subjects in China, Japan, America, and Canada, and has also found time
to write various pamphlets on Chinese literature and customs.
In the Autumn of 1917, Mrs. Ayscough arrived in America on one of her
periodic visits to this country. She brought with her a large collection
of Chinese paintings for exhibition, and among these paintings were a
number of examples of the "Written Pictures." Of these, she had made
some rough translations which she intended to use to illustrate her
lectures. She brought them to me with a request that I put them into
poetic shape. I was fascinated by the poems, and, as we talked them
over, we realized that here was a field in which we should like to work.
When she returned to China, it was agreed that we should make a volume
of translations from the classic Chinese writers. Such translations were
in the line of her usual work, and I was anxious to read the Chinese
poets as nearly in the original as it was possible for me to do. At
first, we hardly considered publication. Mrs. Ayscough lives in Shanghai
and I in Boston, and the war-time mails were anything but expeditious,
but an enthusiastic publisher kept constantly before us our ultimate, if
remote, goal. Four years have passed, and after many unavoidable delays
the book is finished. We have not done it all by correspondence. Mrs.
Ayscough has come back to America several times during its preparation;
but, whether together or apart, the plan on which we have worked has
always been the same.
Very early in our studies, we realized that the component parts of the
Chinese written character counted for more in the composition of poetry
than has generally been recognized; that the poet chose one character
rather than another which meant practically the same thing, because of
the descriptive allusion in the make-up of that particular character;
that the poem was enriched precisely through this undercurrent of
meaning in the structure of its characters. But not always--and here was
the difficulty. Usually the character must be taken merely as the word
it had been created to mean. It was a nice distinction, when to allow
one's self the use of these character undercurrents, and when to leave
them out of count entirely. But I would not have my readers suppose that
I have changed or exaggerated the Chinese text. Such has not been the
case. The analysis of characters has been employed very rarely, and only
when the text seemed to lean on the allusion for an added vividness or
zest. In only one case in the book have I permitted myself to use an
adjective not inherent in the character with which I was dealing--and,
in that case, the connotation was in the word itself, being descriptive
of an architectural structure for which we have no equivalent--except in
the "Written Pictures," where, as Mrs. Ayscough has stated in her
Introduction, we allowed ourselves a somewhat freer treatment.
It has been necessary, of course, to acquire some knowledge of the laws
of Chinese versification. But, equally of course, these rules could only
serve to bring me into closer relations with the poems and the technical
limits of the various forms. It was totally impossible to follow either
the rhythms or the rhyme-schemes of the originals. All that could be
done was to let the English words fall into their natural rhythm and not
attempt to handicap the exact word by introducing rhyme at all. This is
the method I followed in my translations of French poems in my book,
"Six French Poets." I hold that it is more important to reproduce the
perfume of a poem than its metrical form, and no translation can
possibly reproduce both.
Our plan of procedure was as follows: Mrs. Ayscough would first write
out the poem in Chinese. Not in the Chinese characters, of course, but
in transliteration. Opposite every word she put the various meanings of
it which accorded with its place in the text, since I could not use a
Chinese dictionary. She also gave the analyses of whatever characters
seemed to her to require it. The lines were carefully indicated, and to
these lines I have, as a rule, strictly adhered; the lines of the
translations usually corresponding, therefore, with the lines of the
originals. In the few poems in which the ordering of the lines has been
changed, this has been done solely in the interest of cadence.
I had, in fact, four different means of approach to a poem. The Chinese
text, for rhyme-scheme and rhythm; the dictionary meanings of the words;
the analyses of characters; and, for the fourth, a careful paraphrase by
Mrs. Ayscough, to which she added copious notes to acquaint me with all
the allusions, historical, mythological, geographical, and technical,
that she deemed it necessary for me to know. Having done what I could
with these materials, I sent the result to her, when she and her Chinese
teacher carefully compared it with the original, and it was returned to
me, either passed or commented upon, as the case might be. Some poems
crossed continent and ocean many times in their course toward
completion; others, more fortunate, satisfied at once. On Mrs.
Ayscough's return to America this year, all the poems were submitted to
a farther meticulous scrutiny, and I can only say that they are as near
the originals as we could make them, and I hope they may give one
quarter of the pleasure to our readers that they have to us in preparing
them.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION xix
LI T'AI-PO. (A.D. 701-762)
Songs of the Marches 1
Battle to the South of the City 5
The Perils of the Shu Road 6
Looking at the Moon After Rain 9
The Lonely Wife 10
The Pleasures Within the Palace 12
The Young Girls of Yüeh 13
Written in the Character of a Beautiful Woman 14
Songs to the Peonies 16
Spring Grief and Resentment 18
The Palace Woman and the Dragon Robes 19
The Nanking Wine-Shop 20
Fêng Huang T'ai 21
The Northern Flight 22
Fighting to the South of the City 24
The Crosswise River 26
On Hearing the Buddhist Priest Play his Table-Lute 27
Ch'ang Kan 28
Sorrow During a Clear Autumn 30
Poignant Grief During a Sunny Spring 32
Two Poems Written to Ts'ui (the Official) 34
Sent as a Parting Gift to the Second Official 35
The Song of the White Clouds 36
Wind-Bound at the New Forest Reach 37
At the Ancestral Shrine of King Yao 38
Drinking Alone in the Moonlight. I 39
Drinking Alone in the Moonlight. II 40
Statement of Resolutions After Being Drunk 41
River Chant 42
Separated by Imperial Summons 44
A Woman Sings 46
The Palace Woman and the Soldiers' Cook 47
The Sorrel Horse 48
A Beautiful Woman Encountered on a Field-Path 49
Saying Good-Bye to a Friend 50
Descending the Extreme South Mountain 51
The Terraced Road 52
Hearing a Bamboo Flute in the City of Lo Yang 54
The Retreat of Hsieh Kung 55
A Traveller Comes to the Old Terrace of Su 56
The Rest-House on the Clear Wan River 57
Drinking Song 58
Answer to an Affectionate Invitation 60
Parrot Island 61
The Honourable Lady Chao 62
Thinking of the Frontier 63
A Song of Resentment 64
Picking Willow 66
Autumn River Song 67
Visiting the Taoist Priest 68
Reply to an Unrefined Person 69
Reciting Verses by Moonlight 70
Passing the Night at the White Heron Island 71
Ascending the Three Chasms 72
Parting from Yang, a Hill Man 73
Night Thoughts 74
The Serpent Mound 75
Old Tai's Wine-Shop 76
Drinking in the T'ao Pavilion 77
Song for the Hour When the Crows Roost 78
Poem Sent to the Official Wang 79
Drinking Alone on the Rock in the River 80
A Farewell Banquet 81
Taking Leave of Tu Fu 82
The Moon Over the Mountain Pass 83
The Taking-Up of Arms 84
A Song of the Rest-House of Deep Trouble 85
The "Looking-For-Husband" Rock 86
After Being Separated for a Long Time 87
Bitter Jealousy in the Palace of the High Gate 88
Eternally Thinking of Each Other 89
Passionate Grief 91
Sung to the Air: "The Mantzŭ like an Idol" 92
At the Yellow Crane Tower. 93
In Deep Thought, Gazing at the Moon 94
Thoughts from a Thousand Li 95
Word-Pattern 96
The Heaven's Gate Mountains 97
On Hearing that Wang Ch'ang-ling Had Been Exiled 98
Parting Gift to Wang Lun 99
Saying Good-Bye to a Friend Going to the Plum-Flower
Lake 100
A Poem Sent to Tu Fu 101
Bidding Good-Bye to Yin Shu 102
TU FU. (A.D. 712-770)
A Visit to the Fêng Hsien Temple 103
The Thatched House Unroofed by an Autumn Gale 104
The River Village 106
The Excursion 107
The Recruiting Officers 109
Crossing the Frontier. I 111
Crossing the Frontier. II 112
The Sorceress Gorge 113
Thinking of Li Po on a Spring Day 114
At the Edge of Heaven 115
Sent to Li Po as a Gift 116
A Toast for Mêng Yün-ch'ing 117
Moon Night 118
PO CHÜ-I (A.D. 772-846)
Hearing the Early Oriole 119
LIU YÜ-HSI (_Circa_ A.D. 844)
The City of Stones 120
NIU HSI-CHI. (_Circa_ A.D. 733)
Sung to the Tune of "The Unripe Hawthorn Berry" 121
WANG WEI. (A.D. 699-759)
After an Imperial Audience 122
The Blue-Green Stream 123
Farm House on the Wei Stream 124
CH'IU WEI. (_Circa_ A.D. 700)
Seeking for the Hermit of the West Hill 125
CHI WU-CH'IEN. (Circa A.D. 733)
Floating on the Pool of Jo Ya 126
MÊNG CHIAO. (_Circa_ A.D. 790)
Sung to the Air: "The Wanderer" 127
WEI YING-WU. (_Circa_ A.D. 850)
Farewell Words to the Daughter of Yang 128
WÊN T'ING-YÜN. (_Circa_ A.D. 850)
Sung to the Air: "Looking South" 130
DESCENDANT OF FOUNDER SOUTHERN T'ANG
DYNASTY. (_Circa_ A.D. 960)
Together We Know Happiness 131
T'AO YÜAN-MING. (A.D. 365-427)
Once More Fields and Gardens 132
ANONYMOUS. LIANG DYNASTY (A.D. 502-557)
Song of the Snapped Willow 134
AUTHORSHIP UNCERTAIN. CHOU DYNASTY. REIGN OF KING HSÜAN.
(826-781 B.C.)
The Cloudy River 135
EMPEROR WU OF HAN. (156-87 B.C.)
To the Air: "The Fallen Leaves" 139
EMPEROR CHAO OF HAN. (94-73 B.C.)
Early Autumn at the Pool of Sprinkling Water 140
EMPEROR LING OF LATER HAN. (A.D. 156-189)
Proclaiming the Joy of Certain Hours 141
PAN CHIEH-YÜ. (_Circa_ 32 B.C.)
Song of Grief 142
CHIANG TS'AI-P'IN. (_Circa_ A.D. 750)
Letter of Thanks for Precious Pearls 143
YANG KUEI-FEI. (_Circa_ A.D. 750)
Dancing 144
LIANG DYNASTY. (A.D. 502-557)
Songs of the Courtesans 145
MOTHER OF THE LORD OF SUNG. (_Circa_ 600 B.C.)
The Great Ho River 147
WRITTEN PICTURES
An Evening Meeting 151
The Emperor's Return 152
Portrait of Beautiful Concubine 153
Calligraphy 154
The Palace Blossoms 155
One Goes a Journey 156
From the Straw Hut Among the Seven Peaks 157
On the Classic of the Hills and Sea 159
The Hermit 160
After How Many Years 161
The Inn at the Mountain Pass 164
Li T'ai-po Meditates 165
Pair of Scrolls 166
Two Panels 167
The Return 168
Evening Calm 169
Fishing Picture 170
Spring. Summer. Autumn 171
NOTES. 173
KEY TO PLAN OF CHINESE HOUSE 223
TABLE OF CHINESE HISTORICAL PERIODS 227
Thanks are due to the editors of _The North American Review_, _The
Bookman_, _The Dial_, _The New York Evening Post_, _Poetry_, and _Asia_,
for permission to reprint poems which have already appeared in their
magazines.
ILLUSTRATIONS
MAP _Frontispiece_
FACSIMILE OF "HANGING-ON-THE-WALL POEM" _To face p. 170_
PLAN OF CHINESE HOUSE _To face p. 223_
INTRODUCTION
BY FLORENCE AYSCOUGH
There has probably never been a people in whose life poetry has played
such a large part as it has done, and does, among the Chinese. The
unbroken continuity of their history, throughout the whole of which
records have been carefully kept, has resulted in the accumulation of a
vast amount of material; and this material, literary as well as
historical, remains available to-day for any one who wishes to study
that branch of art which is the most faithful index to the thoughts and
feelings of the "black-haired race," and which, besides, constitutes one
of the finest literatures produced by any race the world has known.
To the confusion of the foreigner, however, Chinese poetry is so made up
of suggestion and allusion that, without a knowledge of the backgrounds
(I use the plural advisedly) from which it sprang, much of its meaning
and not a little of its beauty is necessarily lost. Mr. Arthur Waley, in
the preface to his "A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems," says:
"Classical allusion, always the vice of Chinese poetry, finally
destroyed it altogether." Granting the unhappy truth of this statement,
the poetry of China is nevertheless so human and appealing as to speak
with great force even to us who live under such totally different
conditions; it seems worth while, therefore, to acquire a minimum of
knowledge in regard to it and so increase the enjoyment to be derived
from it. In the present collection, I have purposely included only those
poems in which this national vice is less in evidence; and this was not
a difficult task. There is such an enormous body of Chinese poetry that
the difficulty has been, not what to take, but what to leave out. I have
been guided somewhat by existing translations, not wishing to duplicate
what has already been adequately done, when so much still remains
untouched. Not that all these poems appear in English for the first
time, but many of them do; and, except for Mr. Waley's admirable work,
English renderings have usually failed to convey the flavour of the
originals.
Chinese scholars rank their principal poets in the following order: Tu
Fu, Li T'ai-po, and Po Chü-i. Realizing that, naturally, in any
literature, it is the great poets which another nation wishes to read, I
have purposely kept chiefly to them, and among them to Li T'ai-po, since
his poems are of a universal lyricism. Also, Mr. Waley has devoted his
energies largely to Po Chü-i. Tu Fu is very difficult to translate, and
probably for that reason his work is seldom given in English collections
of Chinese poems. Some of his simpler poems are included here, however.
A small section of the book is devoted to what the Chinese call
"written-on-the-wall-pictures." I shall come back to these later.
The great stumbling-block which confronts the translator at the outset
is that the words he would naturally use often bring before the mind of
the Occidental reader an entirely different scene to that actually
described by the Oriental poet. The topography, the architecture, the
fauna and flora, to say nothing of the social customs, are all alien to
such a reader's own surroundings and cannot easily be visualized by him.
Let me illustrate with a modern poem, for it is a curious fact that
there has lately sprung up in America and England a type of poetry which
is so closely allied to the Chinese in method and intention as to be
very striking. This is the more remarkable since, at the time of its
first appearance, there were practically no translations of Chinese
poems which gave, except in a remote degree, the feeling of the
originals. So exact, in fact, is this attitude toward the art of poetry
among the particular group of poets to whom I have reference and the
Chinese masters, that I have an almost perfect illustration of the
complications of rendering which a translator runs up against by
imagining this little poem of Miss Lowell's being suddenly presented to
a Chinese scholar in his grass hut among the Seven Peaks:
NOSTALGIA
BY AMY LOWELL
"Through pleasures and palaces"--
Through hotels, and Pullman cars, and steamships...
Pink and white camellias
floating in a crystal bowl,
The sharp smell of firewood,
The scrape and rustle of a dog stretching himself
on a hardwood floor,
And your voice, reading--reading--
to the slow ticking of an old brass clock...
"Tickets, please!"
And I watch the man in front of me
Fumbling in fourteen pockets,
While the conductor balances his ticket-punch
Between his fingers.
As we read this poem, instantly pictures of American travel start before
our eyes: rushing trains with plush-covered seats, negro porters in
dust-grey suits, weary ticket-collectors; or marble-floored hotel
entrances, clanging elevator doors, and hurrying bell-boys, also the
vivid suggestion of a beautiful American house. But our scholar would
see none of this. To him, a journey is undertaken, according to the part
of the country in which he must travel, either in a boat, the types of
which are infinitely varied, from the large, slow-going travelling barge
capable of carrying many passengers, to the swifter, smaller craft
which hold only two or three people; in one of the several kinds of
carriages; in a wheelbarrow, a sedan chair, a mule litter, or on the
back of an animal--horse, mule, or donkey, as the case may be. Again,
there is no English-speaking person to whom "Home, Sweet Home" is not
familiar; in a mental flash, we conclude the stanza suggested by the
first line, and know, even without the title, that the subject of the
poem is homesickness. Our scholar, naturally, knows nothing of the kind;
the reference is no reference to him. He is completely at sea, with no
clue as to the emotion the poem is intended to convey, and no
understanding of the conditions it portrays. Poem after poem in Chinese
is as full of the intimate detail of daily life, as dependent upon
common literary experience, as this. There is an old Chinese song called
"The Snapped Willow." It, too, refers to homesickness and allusions to
it are very frequent, but how can an Occidental guess at their meaning
unless he has been told? In this Introduction, therefore, I have
endeavoured to give as much of the background of this Chinese poetry as
seems to me important, and, since introductions are made to be skipped,
it need detain no one to whom the facts are already known.
The vast country of China, extending from the plains of Mongolia on the
North to the Gulf of Tonquin on the South, a distance of somewhat over
eighteen hundred miles, and from the mountains of Tibet on the West to
the Yellow Sea on the East, another stretch of about thirteen hundred
miles, comprises within its "Eighteen Provinces" practically every
climate and condition under which human beings can exist with comfort. A
glance at the map will show the approximate positions of the ancient
States which form the poetic background of China, and it will be noticed
that, with the exception of Yüeh, they all abut either on the Huang Ho,
better known as the Yellow River, or on the Yangtze Kiang. These two
great rivers form the main arteries of China, and to them is largely due
the character of the people and the type of their mythology.
The Yellow River, which in the old mythology was said to have its source
in the Milky Way (in the native idiom, "Cloudy" or "Silver River"),
really rises in the K'un Lun Mountains of Central Asia; from thence its
course lies through the country supposed to have been the cradle of the
Chinese race. It is constantly referred to in poetry, as is also its one
considerable tributary, the Wei River, or "Wei Water," its literal name.
The Yellow River is not navigable for important craft, and running as it
does through sandy loess constantly changes its course with the most
disastrous consequences.
The Yangtze Kiang, "Son of the Sea," often referred to as the "Great
River," is very different in character. Its source lies among the
mountains of the Tibetan border, where it is known as the "River of
Golden Sand." After flowing due South for several hundred miles, it
turns abruptly to the North and East, and, forcing its way through the
immense wall of mountain which confronts it, "rushes with incredible
speed" to the far-off Eastern Sea, forming in its course the Yangtze
Gorges, of which the most famous are the San Hsia, or "Three Chasms." To
these, the poets never tire of alluding, for, to quote Li T'ai-po, the
cliffs rise to such a height that they seem to "press Green Heaven." The
water is low during the Winter months, leaving many treacherous rocks
and shoals uncovered, but rises to a seething flood during the Summer,
when the Tibetan snows are melting. The river is then doubly dangerous,
as even great pinnacles of rock are concealed by the whirling rapids.
Near this point, the Serpent River, so-called from its tortuous
configuration, winds its way through deep ravines and joins the main
stream. As may be imagined, navigation on these stretches of the river
is extremely perilous, and an ascent of the Upper Yangtze takes several
months to perform since the boats must be hauled over the numerous
rapids by men, called professionally "trackers," whose work is so
strenuous that they are bent nearly double as they crawl along the
tow-paths made against the cliffs. In spite of the precipitous nature of
the banks, many towns and villages are built upon them and rise tier on
tier up the mountain sides. Having run about two-thirds of its course
and reached the modern city of Hankow, the Great River changes its mood
and continues on its way, immense and placid, forming the chief means of
communication between the sea and Central China. The remarkably fertile
country on either side is intersected by water-ways, natural and
artificial, used instead of roads, which latter do not exist in the
Yangtze Valley, their place being taken by paths, some of which are
paved with stone and wide enough to accommodate two or three people
abreast.
As travel has always been very popular, every conceivable form of
water-borne craft has sprung up, and these the poets constantly used as
they went from the capital to take up their official posts, or from the
house of one patron to another, the ancient custom being for the rich to
entertain and support men of letters with whom they "drank wine and
recited verses," the pastime most dear to their hearts. The innumerable
poems of farewell found among the works of all Chinese poets were
usually written as parting gifts from the authors to their hosts.
As it nears the sea, the river makes a great sweep round Nanking and
flows through what was once the State of Wu, now Kiangsu. This and the
neighbouring States of Yüeh and Ch'u (the modern Chêkiang and parts of
Hunan, Kweichow, and Kiangsi) is the country painted in such lovely,
peaceful pictures by Li T'ai-po and his brother poets. The climate being
mild, the willows which grow on the banks of the rivers and canals are
seldom bare and begin to show the faint colour of Spring by the middle
of January; and, before many days, the soft bud-sheaths, called by the
Chinese "willow-snow," lie thick on the surface of the water. Plum-trees
flower even while the rare snow-falls turn the ground white, and soon
after the New Year, the moment when, according to the Chinese calendar,
Spring "opens," the fields are pink with peach-bloom, and gold with
rape-blossom, while the air is sweetly scented by the flowers of the
beans sown the Autumn before. Walls and fences are unknown, only low
ridges divide the various properties, and the little houses of the
farmers are built closely together in groups, as a rule to the South of
a bamboo copse which acts as a screen against the Northeast winds
prevailing during the Winter; the aspect of the rich plain, which
produces three crops a year, is therefore that of an immense garden, and
the low, grey houses, with their heavy roofs, melt into the picture as
do the blue-coated people who live in them. Life is very intimate and
communistic, and the affairs of every one in the village are known to
every one else. The silk industry being most important, mulberry-trees
are grown in great numbers to provide the silk-worms with the leaves
upon which they subsist, and are kept closely pollarded in order that
they may produce as much foliage as possible.
This smiling country on the river-banks, and to the South, provides a
striking contrast to those provinces lying farther North and West.
Shantung, the birthplace of Confucius, is arid and filled with rocky,
barren hills, and the provinces of Chili, Shansi, Shensi, and Kansu,
which extend Westward, skirting the Great Wall, are also sandy and often
parched for lack of water, while Szechwan, lying on the Tibetan border,
although rich and well irrigated, is barred from the rest of China by
tremendous mountain ranges difficult to pass. One range, called the
"Mountains of the Two-Edged Sword," was, and is, especially famous. It
formed an almost impassable barrier, and the great Chu Ko-liang,
therefore, ordered that a roadway, of the kind generally known in China
as _chan tao_ (a road made of logs laid on piers driven into the face of
a cliff and kept secure by mortar) be built, so that travellers from
Shensi might be able to cross into Szechwan. This road is described by
Li T'ai-po in a very beautiful poem, "The Terraced Road of the Two-Edged
Sword Mountains."
These varied scenes among which the poets lived differed again from
those which flashed before their mental eyes when their thoughts
followed the soldiers to the far Northwest, to the country where the
Hsiung Nu and other Mongol tribes lived, those Barbarians, as the
Chinese called them, who perpetually menaced China with invasion, who,
in the picturesque phraseology of the time, desired that their horses
should "drink of the streams of the South." These Mongol hordes
harassed the Chinese State from its earliest days; it was as a defence
against them that the "First Emperor" erected the Great Wall, with a
length of "ten thousand _li_" as Chinese hyperbole unblushingly
states--its real length is fifteen hundred miles. This defence could,
however, merely mitigate, not avert, the evil; only constant effort,
constant fighting, could prevent the Mongol hordes from overrunning the
country.
Beyond the Jade Pass in Kansu, through which the soldiers marched, lay
the desert and the steppes stretching to the very "Edge of Heaven," and
on this "edge" stood the "Heaven-high Hills"; while, on the way,
surrounded by miles of sand, lay the Ch'ing Hai Lake (Green, or Inland,
Sea), a dreary region at best, and peopled by the ghosts of countless
soldiers who had fallen in battle on the "Yellow Sand Fields."
In addition to these backgrounds of reality, that of the Fertile Empire
and that of the Barren Waste, there was another--that of the "Western
Paradise" inhabited by the _Hsi Wang Mu_ (Western Empress Mother) and
those countless beings who, after a life in this world, had attained
Immortality and dwelt among the _Hsien_, supernatural creatures living
in this region of perfect happiness supposed to lie among the K'un Lun
Mountains in Central Asia. From the spontaneous manner in which they
constantly refer to it, and from the vividness of the pictures
suggested by their references to it, one can almost question whether
this Fairy World, the World of Imagination, with its inhabitants, were
not as real to the writers of the early days as was the World of
Actuality. Thus the topography of Chinese poetry may be said to fall
into three main divisions, and allusions are made to
1. The beautiful scenes in the Eighteen Provinces.
2. The desolate region beyond the Jade Pass.
3. The glorious "Western Paradise."
Ideals determine government, and government determines social life, and
social life, with all that the term connotes, is the essence of every
literature.
The theory upon which the Chinese State was established is exceedingly
interesting, and although the ideal was seldom reached, the system
proved enduring and brought happiness to the people who lived under it.
The Emperor was regarded as the Son of the Celestial Ruler, as Father of
his people, and was supposed to direct his Empire as a father should
direct his children, never by the strong arm of force, but by loving
precept and example. In theory, he held office only so long as peace and
prosperity lasted, this beneficent state of things being considered a
proof that the ruler's actions were in accordance with the decree of
Heaven. Rebellion and disorder were an equal proof that the Son of
Heaven had failed in his great mission; and, if wide-spread discontent
continued, it was his duty to abdicate. The "divine right of kings" has
never existed in China; its place has been taken by the people's right
to rebellion.
This system created a very real democracy, which so struck the Dutchman,
Van Braam, when he conducted a commercial embassy to the Court of Ch'ien
Lung in 1794, that he dedicated his account of the embassy to "His
Excellency George Washington, President of the United States," in the
following remarkable manner:
Sir,
Travels among the most ancient people which now inhabits this globe,
and which owes its long existence to the system which makes its
chief the Father of the National Family, cannot appear under better
auspices than those of the Great Man who was elected, by the
universal suffrage of a new nation, to preside at the conquest of
liberty, and in the establishment of a government in which
everything bespeaks the love of the First Magistrate for the people.
Permit me thus to address the homage of my veneration to the
virtues, which in your Excellency, afford so striking a resemblance
between Asia, and America. I cannot shew myself more worthy of the
title of Citizen of the United States, which is become my adopted
country, than by paying a just tribute to the Chief, whose
principles and sentiments, are calculated to procure them a duration
equal to that of the Chinese Empire.
The semi-divine person of the Emperor was also regarded as the "Sun" of
the Empire, whose light should shine on high and low alike. His
intelligence was compared to the penetrating rays of the sun, while that
of the Empress found its counterpart in the soft, suffusing brilliance
of the moon. In reading Chinese poetry, it is important to keep these
similes in mind, as the poets constantly employ them; evil counsellors,
for instance, are often referred to as "clouds which obscure the sun."
The Son of Heaven was assisted in the government of the country by a
large body of officials, drawn from all classes of the people. How these
officials were chosen, and what were their functions, will be stated
presently. At the moment, we must take a cursory glance at Chinese
history, since it is an ever-present subject of allusion in poetry.
Two favourite, and probably mythical, heroes, the Emperors Yao and Shun,
who are supposed to have lived in the semi-legendary period two or three
thousand years before the birth of Christ, have been held up ever since
as shining examples of perfection. Shun chose as his successor a man who
had shown such great engineering talent in draining the country, always
in danger of floods from the swollen rivers, that the Chinese still say:
"Without Yü, we should all have been fishes." Yü founded the first
hereditary dynasty, called the Hsia Dynasty, and, since then, every time
the family of the Emperor has changed, a new dynasty has been
inaugurated, the name being chosen by its first Emperor. With Yü's
accession to the throne in 2205 B.C., authentic Chinese history begins.
Several centuries later, when Yü's descendants had deteriorated and
become effete, a virtuous noble named T'ang organized the first of
those rebellions against bad government so characteristic of Chinese
history. He was successful, and in his "Announcement to the Ten Thousand
Districts," set forth what we should call his platform in these words:
"The way of Heaven is to bless the good and punish the wicked. It sent
down calamities upon the house of Hsia to make manifest its crimes.
Therefore I, the little child, charged with the decree of Heaven and its
bright terrors, did not dare forgive the criminal.... It is given to me,
the one man, to ensure harmony and tranquillity to your State and
families; and now I know not whether I may not offend the Powers above
and below. I am fearful and trembling lest I should fall into a deep
abyss." The doctrine that Heaven sends calamity as a punishment for
man's sin is referred to again and again in the ancient "Book of
History" and "Book of Odes." It is a belief common to all primitive
peoples, but in China it persisted until the present republic demolished
the last of the long line of dynastic empires.
T'ang made a great and wise ruler. The Dynasty of Shang, which he
founded, lasted until 1122 B.C., and was succeeded by that of Chou, the
longest in the annals of Chinese history--so long, indeed, that
historians divide it into three distinct periods. The first of these,
"The Rise," ran from 1122 B.C. to 770 B.C.; the second, "The Age of
Feudalism," endured until 500 B.C.; the third, "The Age of the Seven
States," until 255 B.C. Starting under wise rulers, it gradually sank
through others less competent until by 770 B.C. it was little more than
a name. During the "Age of Feudalism," the numerous States were
constantly at war, but eventually the strongest of them united in a
group called the "Seven Masculine Powers" under the shadowy suzerainty
of Chou. Although, from the political point of view, this period was
full of unrest and gloom, from the intellectual it was exceedingly
brilliant and is known as the "Age of Philosophers." The most famous
names among the many teachers of the time are those of Lao Tzŭ, the
founder of Taoism, and Confucius. To these men, China owes the two great
schools of thought upon which her social system rests.
The "Age of the Seven States" (Masculine Powers) ended when Ch'in, one
of their number, overcame and absorbed the rest. Its prince adopted the
title of Shih Huang Ti, or "First Supreme Ruler," thus placing himself
on an equality with Heaven. Is it to be wondered at that the scholars
demurred? The literary class were in perpetual opposition to the
Emperor, who finally lost patience with them altogether and decreed that
all books relating to the past should be burnt, and that history should
begin with him. This edict was executed with great severity, and many
hundreds of the _literati_ were buried alive. It is scarcely surprising,
therefore, that the name of Shih Huang Ti is execrated, even to-day, by
a nation whose love for the written word amounts to veneration.
Although he held learning of small account, this "First Emperor," to
give him his bombastic title, was an enthusiastic promoter of public
works, the most important of these being the Great Wall, which has
served as an age-long bulwark against the nomadic tribes of Mongolia and
Central Asia. These tribes were a terror to China for centuries. They
were always raiding the border country, and threatening a descent on the
fertile fields beyond the mountains. The history of China is one long
struggle to keep from being overrun by these tribes. There is an exact
analogy to this state of affairs in the case of Roman Britain, and the
perpetual vigilance it was obliged to exercise to keep out the Picts.
Shih Huang Ti based his power on fear, and it is a curious commentary
upon the fact that the Ch'in Dynasty came to an end in 206 B.C., shortly
after his death, and only a scant half-century after he had founded it.
A few years of struggle, during which no Son of Heaven occupied the
Dragon Throne, succeeded the fall of the Ch'in Dynasty; then a certain
Liu Pang, an inconsiderable town officer, proved strong enough to seize
what was no one's possession and made himself Emperor, thereby founding
the Han Dynasty.
The Han is one of the most famous dynasties in Chinese history. An
extraordinary revival of learning took place under the successive
Emperors of Han. Tho greatest of them, Wu Ti (140-87 B.C.), is
frequently mentioned by the poets. Learning always follows trade, as has
often been demonstrated. During the Han Dynasty, which lasted until A.D.
221, intercourse with all the countries of the Near East became more
general than ever before, and innumerable caravans wended their slow way
across the trade routes of Central Asia. Expeditions against the
harassing barbarians were undertaken, and for a time their power was
scotched. It was under the Han that Buddhism was introduced from India,
but deeply as this has influenced the life and thought of the Middle
Kingdom, I am inclined to think that the importance of this influence
has been exaggerated.
This period, and those immediately preceding it, form the poetic
background of China. The ancient States, constantly referred to in the
poems, do not correspond to the modern provinces. In order, therefore,
to make their geographical positions clear, a map has been appended to
this volume in which the modern names of the provinces and cities are
printed in black ink and the ancient names in red. As these States did
not all exist at the same moment, it is impossible to define their exact
boundaries, but how strongly they were impressed upon the popular mind
can be seen by the fact that, although they were merged into the
Chinese Empire during the reign of Shih Huang Ti, literature continued
to speak of them by their old names and, even to-day, writers often
refer to them as though they were still separate entities. There were
many States, but only those are given in the map which are alluded to in
the poems published in this book. The names of a few of the old cities
are also given, such as Chin Ling, the "Golden Mound" or "Sepulchre,"
and Ch'ang An, "Eternal Peace," for so many centuries the capital. Its
present name is Hsi An-fu, and it was here that the Manchu Court took
refuge during the Boxer madness of 1900.
Little more of Chinese history need be told. Following the Han, several
dynasties held sway; there were divisions between the North and South
and much shifting of power. At length, in A.D. 618, Li Shih-min
established the T'ang Dynasty by placing his father on the throne, and
the T'ang brought law and order to the suffering country.
This period is often called the Golden Age of Chinese Learning. The
literary examinations introduced under the Han were perfected, poets and
painters were encouraged, and strangers flocked to the Court at Ch'ang
An. The reign of Ming Huang (A.D. 712-756), the "Brilliant Emperor," was
the culmination of this remarkable era. China's three greatest poets, Li
T'ai-po, Tu Fu, and Po Chü-i, all lived during his long reign of
forty-five years. Auspiciously as this reign had begun, however, it
ended sadly. The Emperor, more amiable than perspicacious, fell into
the toils of his favourite concubine, the lovely Yang Kuei-fei, to whom
he was slavishly devoted. The account of their love story--a theme
celebrated by poets, painters, and playwrights--will be found in the
note to "Songs to the Peonies." A rebellion which broke out was crushed,
but the soldiers refused to defend the cause of the Emperor until he had
issued an order for the execution of Yang Kuei-fei, whom they believed
to be responsible for the trouble. Broken-hearted, the Emperor complied,
but from this date the glory of the dynasty was dimmed. Throughout its
waning years, the shadow of the dreaded Tartars grew blacker and
blacker, and finally, in A.D. 907, the T'ang Dynasty fell.
Later history need not concern us here, since most of the poems in this
book were written during the T'ang period. Though these poems deal
largely with what I have called the historical background, they deal
still more largely with the social background and it is, above all, this
social background which must be understood.
If the Emperor were the "Son of Heaven," he administered his Empire with
the help of very human persons, the various officials, and these
officials owed their positions, great and small, partly to the Emperor's
attitude, it is true, but in far greater degree to their prowess in the
literary examinations. An official of the first rank might owe his
preferment to the Emperor's beneficence; but to reach an altitude where
this beneficence could operate, he had to climb through all the lower
grades, and this could only be done by successfully passing all the
examinations, one after the other. The curious thing is that these
examinations were purely literary. They consisted not only in knowing
thoroughly the classics of the past, but in being able to recite long
passages from them by heart, and with this was included the ability to
write one's self, not merely in prose, but in poetry. Every one in
office had to be, perforce, a poet. No one could hope to be the mayor of
a town or the governor of a province unless he had attained a high
proficiency in the art of poetry. This is brought strikingly home to us
by the fact that one of the chief pastimes of educated men was to meet
together for the purpose of playing various games all of which turned on
the writing of verse.
The examinations which brought about this strange state of things were
four. The first, which conferred the degree of _Hsiu Ts'ai_, "Flowering
Talent," could be competed for only by those who had already passed two
minor examinations, one in their district, and one in the department in
which this district was situated. The _Hsiu Ts'ai_ examinations were
held twice every three years in the provincial capitals. There were
various grades of the "Flowering Talent" degree, which is often
translated as Bachelor of Arts, some of which could be bestowed through
favour or acquired by purchase. The holders of it were entitled to wear
a dress of blue silk, and in Chinese novels the hero is often spoken of
as wearing this colour, by which readers are to understand that he is a
clever young man already on the way to preferment.
The second degree, that of _Ch'ü Jên_, "Promoted Man," was obtained by
passing the examinations which took place every third year in all the
provincial capitals simultaneously. This degree enabled its recipients
to hold office, but positions were not always to hand, and frequently
"Promoted Men" had to wait long before being appointed to a post; also,
the offices open to them were of the lesser grades, those who aspired to
a higher rank had a farther road to travel. The dress which went with
this degree was also of silk, but of a darker shade than that worn by
"bachelors."
The third examination for the _Chin Shih_, or "Entered Scholar," degree
was also held triennially, but at the national capital, and only those
among the _Ch'ü Jên_ who had not already taken office were eligible. The
men so fortunate as to pass were allowed to place a tablet over the
doors of their houses, and their particular dress was of violet silk.
The fourth, which really conferred an office rather than a degree, was
bestowed on men who competed in a special examination held once in three
years in the Emperor's Palace. Those who were successful in this last
examination became automatically _Han Lin_, or members of the Imperial
Academy, which, in the picturesque phraseology of China, was called the
"Forest of Pencils." A member of the Academy held his position, a
salaried one, for life, and the highest officials of the Empire were
chosen from these Academicians.
This elaboration of degrees was only arrived at gradually. During the
T'ang Dynasty, all the examinations were held at Ch'ang An. These four
degrees of learning have often been translated as Bachelor of Arts,
Master of Arts, Doctor of Literature, and Academician. The analogy is so
far from close, however, that most modern sinologues prefer to render
them indiscriminately, according to context, as student, scholar, and
official.
By means of this remarkable system, which threw open the road to
advancement to every man in the country capable of availing himself of
it, new blood was continually brought to the top, as all who passed the
various degrees became officials, expectant or in being, and of higher
or lower grade according to the Chinese measure of ability. Military
degrees corresponding to the civil were given; but, as these called for
merely physical display, they were not highly esteemed.
Since only a few of the candidates for office passed the examinations
successfully, a small army of highly educated men was dispersed
throughout the country every three years. In the towns and villages
they were regarded with the reverence universally paid to learning by
the Chinese, and many became teachers to the rising generation in whom
they cultivated a great respect for literature in general and poetry in
particular.
The holders of degrees, on the other hand, entered at once upon a career
as administrators. Prevented by an inexorable law--a law designed to
make nepotism impossible--from holding office in their own province,
they were constantly shifted from one part of the country to another,
and this is a chief reason for the many poems of farewell that were
written. The great desire of all officials was to remain at, or near,
the Court, where the most brilliant brains of the Empire were assembled.
As may be easily imagined, the intrigues and machinations employed to
attain this end were many, with the result that deserving men often
found themselves banished to posts on the desolate outskirts of the
country where, far from congenial intercourse, they suffered a mental
exile of the most complete description. Innumerable poems dealing with
this sad state are found in all Chinese anthologies.
There were nine ranks of nobility. The higher officials took the rank of
their various and succeeding offices, others were ennobled for signal
services performed. These titles were not hereditary in the ordinary
sense, but backwards, if I can so express it. The dead ancestors of a
nobleman were accorded his rank, whatever had been theirs in life, but
his sons and their descendants had only such titles as they themselves
might earn.