ambitious fathers who longed to have their daughters appear before the
Emperor, and possibly make the fortune of the family by captivating the
Imperial glance. This led to the most beautiful and talented young girls
being sent to the Palace, where they often lived and died without ever
being summoned before the Son of Heaven. Although numberless tragic
poems have been written by these unfortunate ladies, many charming
romances did actually take place, made possible by the custom of
periodically dispersing the superfluous Palace women and marrying them
to suitable husbands.
In striking contrast to the unfortunates who dragged out a purposeless
life of idleness, was the lot of the beauty who had the good fortune to
capture the Imperial fancy, and who, through her influence over the
Dragon Throne, virtually ruled the Middle Kingdom. No extravagancies
were too great for these exquisite creatures, and many dynasties have
fallen through popular revolt against the excesses of Imperial
concubines.
It would be quite erroneous to suppose, however, that the Emperor's life
was entirely given up to pleasure and gaiety, or that it was chiefly
passed in the beautiful seclusion of the Imperial gardens. The poems,
it is true, generally allude to these moments, but the cares of state
were many, and every day, at sunrise, officials assembled in the
Audience Hall to make their reports to the Emperor. Moreover, Court
ceremonials were extremely solemn occasions, carried out with the utmost
dignity.
As life at Court centred about the persons of the Emperor and Empress,
so life in the homes of the people centred about the elders of the
family. The men of wealthy families were usually of official rank, and
led a life in touch with the outer world, a life of social intercourse
with other men in which friendship played an all-engrossing part. This
characteristic of Chinese life is one of the most striking features of
the poetic background. Love poems from men to women are so rare as to be
almost non-existent (striking exceptions do occur, however, several of
which are translated here), but poems of grief written at parting from
"the man one loves" are innumerable, and to sit with one's friends,
drinking wine and reciting verses, making music or playing chess, were
favourite amusements throughout the T'ang period.
Wine-drinking was general, no pleasure gathering being complete without
it. The wine of China was usually made from fermented grains, but wines
from grapes, plums, pears, and other fruits were also manufactured. It
was carefully heated and served in tall flagons somewhat resembling our
coffee-pots, and was drunk out of tiny little cups no bigger than
liqueur glasses. These cups, which were never of glass, were made of
various metals, of lacquered or carved wood, of semi-precious stones
such as jade, or agate, or carnelian; porcelain, the usual material for
wine-cups to-day, not having yet been invented. Custom demanded that
each thimbleful be tossed off at a gulp, and many were consumed before a
feeling of exhilaration could be experienced. That there was a good deal
of real drunkenness, we cannot doubt, but not to the extent that is
generally supposed. From the character of the men and the lives they
led, it is fairly clear that most of the drinking kept within reasonable
bounds. Unfortunately, in translation, the quantity imbibed at these
wine-parties becomes greatly exaggerated. That wine was drunk, not
merely for its taste, but as a heightener of sensation, is evident; but
the "three hundred cups" so often mentioned bear no such significance as
might at first appear when the size of the cups is taken into account.
Undoubtedly, also, we must regard this exact number as a genial
hyperbole.
If husbands and sons could enjoy the excitement of travel, the spur of
famous scenery, the gaieties of Court, and the pleasures of social
intercourse, wives and daughters were obliged to find their occupations
within the _Kuei_ or "Women's Apartments," which included the gardens
set apart for their use. The ruling spirit of the _Kuei_ was the
mother-in-law; and the wife of the master of the house, although she was
the mother of his sons and the director of the daughters-in-law, did not
reach the fulness of her power until her husband's mother had died.
The chief duty of a young wife was attendance upon her mother-in-law.
With the first grey streak of daylight, she rose from her immense
lacquer bed, so large as to be almost an anteroom, and, having dressed,
took the old lady her tea. She then returned to her own apartment to
breakfast with her husband and await the summons to attend her
mother-in-law's toilet, a most solemn function, and the breakfast which
followed. These duties accomplished, she was free to occupy herself as
she pleased. Calligraphy, painting, writing poems and essays, were
popular pursuits, and many hours were spent at the embroidery frame or
in making music.
Chinese poetry is full of references to the toilet, to the intricate
hair-dressing, the "moth-antennæ eyebrows," the painting of faces, and
all this was done in front of a mirror standing on a little rack placed
on the toilet-table. A lady, writing to her absent husband, mourns that
she has no heart to "make the cloud head-dress," or writes, "looking
down upon my mirror in order to apply the powder and paint, I desire to
keep back the tears. I fear that the people in the house will know my
grief. I am ashamed."
In spite of the fact that they had never laid eyes on the men they were
to marry before the wedding-day, these young women seem to have depended
upon the companionship of their husbands to a most touching extent. The
occupations of the day were carried on in the _Kuei_; but, when evening
came, the husband and wife often read and studied the classics together.
A line from a well-known poem says, "The red sleeve replenishes the
incense, at night, studying books," and the picture it calls up is that
of a young man and woman in the typical surroundings of a Chinese home
of the educated class. Red was the colour worn by very young women,
whether married or not; as the years advanced, this was changed for soft
blues and mauves, and later still for blacks, greys, or dull greens. A
line such as "tears soak my dress of coarse, red silk" instantly
suggests a young woman in deep grief.
The children studied every day with teachers; the sons and daughters of
old servants who had, according to custom, taken the family surname,
receiving the same advantages as those of the master. These last were,
in all respects, brought up as children of the house, the only
distinction being that whereas the master's own children sat "above" the
table, facing South, the children of the servants sat "below," facing
North. A more forcible reminder of their real status appeared later in
life, since they were debarred from competing in the official
examinations unless they left the household in which they had grown up
and relinquished the family surname taken by their fathers. A curious
habit among families, which extended even to groups of friends, was the
designation by numbers according to age, a man being familiarly known as
Yung Seven or T'sui Fifteen. It will be noticed that such designations
often occur in the poems.
Only four classes of persons were recognized as being of importance to
society and these were rated in the following order: scholars,
agriculturalists, labourers, and traders--officials, of course, coming
under the generic name of scholars. Soldiers, actors, barbers, etc.,
were considered a lower order of beings entirely and, as such, properly
despised.
China, essentially an agricultural country, was economically
self-sufficient, producing everything needed by her population. The
agriculturalist was, therefore, the very backbone of the state.
In rendering Chinese poetry, the translator must constantly keep in mind
the fact that the architectural background differs from that of every
other country, and that our language does not possess terms which
adequately describe it.
Apart from the humble cottages of the very poor, all dwelling-houses, or
_chia_, are constructed on the same general plan. They consist of a
series of one-story buildings divided by courtyards, which, in the
houses of the well-to-do, are connected by covered passages running
along the sides of each court. A house is cut up into _chien_, or
divisions, the number, within limits, being determined by the wealth and
position of the owners. The homes of the people, both rich and poor, are
arranged in three or five _chien_; official residences are of seven
_chien_; Imperial palaces of nine. Each of these _chien_ consists of
several buildings, the number of which vary considerably, more buildings
being added as the family grows by the marriage of the sons who, with
their wives and children, are supposed to live in patriarchal fashion in
their father's house. If officials sometimes carried their families with
them to the towns where they were stationed, there were other posts so
distant or so desolate as to make it practically impossible to take
women to them. In these cases, the families remained behind under the
paternal roof.
How a house was arranged can be seen in the plan at the end of this
book. Doors lead to the garden from the study, the guest-room, and the
Women's Apartments. These are made in an endless diversity of shapes and
add greatly to the picturesqueness of house and grounds. Those through
which a number of people are to pass to and fro are often large circles,
while smaller and more intimate doors are cut to the outlines of fans,
leaves, or flower vases. In addition to the doors, blank spaces of wall
are often broken by openings at the height of a window, such openings
being most fantastic and filled with intricately designed latticework.
I have already spoken of the _Kuei_ or Women's Apartments. In poetry,
this part of the _chia_ is alluded to in a highly figurative manner. The
windows are "gold" or "jade" windows; the door by which it is approached
is the _Lan Kuei_, or "Orchid Door." Indeed, the sweet-scented little
epidendrum called by the Chinese, _lan_, is continually used to suggest
the _Kuei_ and its inmates.
Besides the house proper, there are numerous structures erected in
gardens, for the Chinese spend much of their time in their gardens. No
nation is more passionately fond of nature, whether in its grander
aspects, or in the charming arrangements of potted flowers which take
the place of our borders in their pleasure grounds. Among these outdoor
buildings none is more difficult to describe than the _lou_, since we
have nothing which exactly corresponds to it. _Lous_ appear again and
again in Chinese poetry, but just what to call them in English is a
puzzle. They are neither summer-houses, nor pavilions, nor cupolas, but
a little of all three. Always of more than one story, they are employed
for differing purposes; for instance, the _fo lou_ on the plan is an
upper chamber where Buddhist images are kept. The _lou_ generally
referred to in poetry, however, is really a "pleasure-house-in-the-air,"
used as the Italians use their belvederes. Here the inmates of the house
sit and look down upon the garden or over the surrounding country, or
watch "the sun disappear in the long grass at the edge of the horizon"
or "the moon rise like a golden hook."
Another erection foreign to Western architecture is the _t'ai_, or
terrace. In early days, there were many kinds of _t'ai_, ranging from
the small, square, uncovered stage still seen in private gardens and
called _yüeh t'ai_, "moon terrace," to immense structures like high,
long, open platforms, built by Emperors and officials for various
reasons. Many of these last were famous; I have given the histories of
several of them in the notes illustrating the poems, at the end of the
book.
It will be observed that I have said practically nothing about religion.
The reason is partly that the three principal religions practised by the
Chinese are either so well known, as Buddhism, for example, or so
difficult to describe, as Taoism and the ancient religion of China now
merged in the teachings of Confucius; partly that none of them could be
profitably compressed into the scope of this introduction; but chiefly
because the subject of religion, in the poems here translated, is
generally referred to in its superstitious aspects alone. The
superstitions which have grown up about Taoism particularly are
innumerable. I have dealt with a number of these in the notes to the
poems in which they appear. Certain supernatural personages, without a
knowledge of whom much of the poetry would be unintelligible, I have set
down in the following list:
Hsien.
Immortals who live in the Taoist Paradises. Human beings may attain
"_Hsien-ship_," or Immortality, by living a life of contemplation in the
hills. In translating the term, we have used the word "Immortals."
Shên.
Beneficent beings who inhabit the higher regions. They are kept
extremely busy attending to their duties as tutelary deities of the
roads, hills, rivers, etc., and it is also their function to intervene
and rescue deserving people from the attacks of their enemies.
Kuei.
A proportion of the souls of the departed who inhabit the "World of
Shades," a region resembling this world, which is the "World of Light,"
in every particular, with the important exception that it has no
sunshine. Kindly _kuei_ are known, but the influence generally suggested
is an evil one. They may only return to the World of Light between
sunset and sunrise, except upon the fifth day of the Fifth Month
(June), when they are free to come during the time known as the "hour of
the horse," from eleven A.M. to one P.M.
Yao Kuai.
A class of fierce demons who live in the wild regions of the Southwest
and delight in eating the flesh of human beings.
There are also supernatural creatures whose names carry a symbolical
meaning. A few of them are:
Ch'i Lin.
A composite animal, somewhat resembling the fabulous unicorn, whose
arrival is a good omen. He appears when sages are born.
Dragon.
A symbol of the forces of Heaven, also the emblem of Imperial power.
Continually referred to in poetry as the steed which transports a
philosopher who has attained Immortality to his home in the Western
Paradise.
Fêng Huang.
A glorious bird, symbol of the Empress, therefore often associated with
the dragon. The conception of this bird is probably based on the Argus
pheasant. It is described as possessing every grace and beauty. A
Chinese author, quoted by F. W. Williams in "The Middle Kingdom,"
writes: "It resembles a wild swan before and a unicorn behind; it has
the throat of a swallow, the bill of a cock, the neck of a snake, the
tail of a fish, the forehead of a crane, the crown of a mandarin drake,
the stripes of a dragon, and the vaulted back of a tortoise. The
feathers have five colours which are named after the five cardinal
virtues, and it is five cubits in height; the tail is graduated like the
pipes of a gourd-organ, and its song resembles the music of the
instrument, having five modulations." Properly speaking, the female is
_Fêng_, the male _Huang_, but the two words are usually given in
combination to denote the species. Some one, probably in desperation,
once translated the combined words as "phœnix," and this term has been
employed ever since. It conveys, however, an entirely wrong impression
of the creature. To Western readers, the word "phœnix" suggests a bird
which, being consumed by fire, rises in a new birth from its own ashes.
The _Fêng Huang_ has no such power, it is no symbol of hope or
resurrection, but suggests friendship and affection of all sorts. Miss
Lowell and I have translated the name as "crested love-pheasant," which
seems to us to convey a better idea of the beautiful _Fêng Huang_, the
bird which brings happiness.
Luan.
A supernatural bird sometimes confused with the above. It is a sacred
creature, connected with fire, and a symbol of love and passion, of the
relation between men and women.
Chien.
The "paired-wings bird," described in Chinese books as having but one
wing and one eye, for which reason two must unite for either of them to
fly. It is often referred to as suggesting undying affection.
Real birds and animals also have symbolical attributes. I give only
three:
Crane.
Represents longevity, and is employed, as is the dragon, to transport
those who have attained to Immortality to the Heavens.
Yuan Yang.
The exquisite little mandarin ducks, an unvarying symbol of conjugal
fidelity. Li T'ai-po often alludes to them and declares that, rather
than be separated, they would "prefer to die ten thousand deaths, and
have their gauze-like wings torn to fragments."
Wild Geese.
Symbols of direct purpose, their flight being always in a straight line.
As they follow the sun's course, allusions to their departure suggest
Spring, to their arrival, Autumn.
A complete list of the trees and plants endowed with symbolical meanings
would be almost endless. Those most commonly employed in poetry in a
suggestive sense are:
Ch'ang P'u.
A plant growing in the Taoist Paradise and much admired by the
Immortals, who are the only beings able to see its purple blossoms. On
earth, it is known as the sweet flag, and has the peculiarity of never
blossoming. It is hung on the lintels of doors on the fifth day of the
Fifth Month to ward off the evil influences which may be brought by the
_kuei_ on their return to this world during the "hour of the horse."
Peony.
Riches and prosperity.
Lotus.
Purity. Although it rises from the mud, it is bright and spotless.
Plum-blossom.
Literally "the first," it being the first of the "hundred flowers" to
open. It suggests the beginnings of things, and is also one of the
"three friends" who do not fear the Winter cold, the other two being the
pine and the bamboo.
Lan.
A small epidendrum, translated in this book as "spear-orchid." It is a
symbol for noble men and beautiful, refined women. Confucius compared
the _Chün Tzŭ_, Princely or Superior Man, to this little orchid with its
delightful scent. In poetry, it is also used in reference to the Women's
Apartments and everything connected with them, suggesting, as it does,
the extreme of refinement.
Chrysanthemum.
Fidelity and constancy. In spite of frost, its flowers continue to
bloom.
Ling Chih.
Longevity. This fungus, which grows at the roots of trees, is very
durable when dried.
Pine.
Longevity, immutability, steadfastness.
Bamboo.
This plant has as many virtues as it has uses, the principal ones are
modesty, protection from defilement, unchangeableness.
Wu-t'ung.
A tree whose botanical name is _sterculia platanifolia_. Its only
English name seems to be "umbrella-tree," which has proved so
unattractive in its context in the poems that we have left it
untranslated. It is a symbol for integrity, high principles, great
sensibility. When "Autumn stands," on August seventh, although it is
still to all intents and purposes Summer, the wu-t'ung tree drops one
leaf. Its wood, which is white, easy to cut, and very light, is the only
kind suitable for making that intimate instrument which quickly betrays
the least emotion of the person playing upon it--the _ch'in_, or
table-lute.
Willow.
A prostitute, or any very frivolous person. Concubines writing to their
lords often refer to themselves under this figure, in the same spirit of
self-depreciation which prompts them to employ the euphemism, "Unworthy
One," instead of the personal pronoun. Because of its lightness and
pliability, it conveys also the idea of extreme vitality.
Peach-blossom.
Beautiful women and ill-success in life. The first suggestion, on
account of the exquisite colour of the flower; the second, because of
its perishability.
Peach-tree.
Longevity. This fruit is supposed to ripen once every three thousand
years on the trees of Paradise, and those who eat of this celestial
species never die.
Mulberry.
Utility. Also suggests a peaceful hamlet. Its wood is used in the making
of bows and the kind of temple-drums called _mo yü_--wooden fish. Its
leaves feed the silk-worms.
Plantain.
Sadness and grief. It is symbolical of a heart which is not "flat" or
"level," as the Chinese say, not open or care-free, but of one which is
"tightly rolled." The sound of rain on its leaves is very mournful,
therefore an allusion to the plantain always means sorrow. Planted
outside windows already glazed with silk, its heavy green leaves soften
the glaring light of Summer, and it is often used for this purpose.
Nothing has been more of a stumbling-block to translators than the fact
that the Chinese year--which is strictly lunar, with an intercalary
month added at certain intervals--begins a month later than ours; or, to
be more exact, it is calculated from the first new moon after the sun
enters Aquarius, which brings the New Year at varying times from the end
of January to the middle of February. For translation purposes, however,
it is safe to count the Chinese months as always one later by our
calendar than the number given would seem to imply. By this calculation
the "First Month" is February, and so on throughout the year.
The day is divided into twelve periods of two hours each beginning at
eleven P.M. and each of these periods is called by the name of an
animal--horse, deer, snake, bat, etc. As these names are not duplicated,
the use of them tells at once whether the hour is day or night. Ancient
China's method of telling time was by means of slow and evenly burning
sticks made of a composition of clay and sawdust, or by the clepsydra,
or water-clock. Water-clocks are mentioned several times in these poems.
So much for what I have called the backgrounds of Chinese poetry. I must
now speak of that poetry itself, and of Miss Lowell's and my method of
translating it.
Chinese prosody is a very difficult thing for an Occidental to
understand. Chinese is a monosyllabic language, and this reduces the
word-sounds so considerably that speech would be almost impossible were
it not for the invention of tones by which the same sound can be made to
do the duty of four in the Mandarin dialect, five in the Nankingese,
eight in the Cantonese, etc., a different tone inflection totally
changing the meaning of a word. Only two chief tones are used in poetry,
the "level" and the "oblique," but the oblique tone is subdivided into
three, which makes four different inflections possible to every sound.
Of course, like English and other languages, the same word may have
several meanings, and in Chinese these meanings are bewilderingly many;
the only possible way of determining which one is correct is by its
context. These tones constitute, at the outset, the principal difference
which divides the technique of Chinese poetry from our own. Another is
to be found in the fact that nothing approaching our metrical foot is
possible in a tongue which knows only single syllables. Rhyme does
exist, but there are only a little over a hundred rhymes, as tone
inflection does not change a word in that particular. Such a paucity of
rhyme would seriously affect the richness of any poetry, if again the
Chinese had not overcome this lingual defect by the employment of a
juxtaposing pattern made up of their four poetic tones. And these tones
come to the rescue once more when we consider the question of rhythm.
Monosyllables in themselves always produce a staccato effect, which
tends to make all rhythm composed of them monotonous, if, indeed, it
does not destroy it altogether. The tones cause what I may call a
psychological change in the time-length of these monosyllables, which
change not only makes true rhythm possible, but allows marked varieties
of the basic beat.
One of the chief differences between poetry and prose is that poetry
must have a more evident pattern. The pattern of Chinese poetry is
formed out of three elements: line, rhyme, and tone.