a friend. It came into ordinary use as such, I being unaware that
it was an antique. However, one day a connoisseur told me it was at
least a thousand years old, and urged me to preserve it carefully as
a valuable relic. This I did, but never took any further trouble to
ascertain whether such was actually the case or not. For supposing
that this inkstand really dated from the period assigned, its then
owner must have regarded it simply as an inkstand. He could not have
known that it was destined to survive the wreck of time and to come to
be cherished as an antique. And while we prize it now, because it has
descended to us from a distant past, we forget that then, when antiques
were relics of a still earlier period, it could not have been of any
value to antiquarians, themselves the moderns of what is antiquity to
us! The surging crowd around us thinks of naught but the acquisition
of wealth and material enjoyment, occupied only with the struggle for
place and power. Men lift their skirts and hurry through the mire; they
suffer indignity and feel no sense of shame. And if from out this mass
there arises one spirit purer and simpler than the rest, striving to
tread a nobler path than they, and amusing his leisure, for his own
gratification, with guitars, and books, and pictures, and other relics
of olden times,--such a man is indeed a genuine lover of the antique.
He can never be one of the common herd, though the common herd always
affect to admire whatever is admittedly admirable. In the same way,
persons who aim at advancement in their career will spare no endeavour
to collect the choicest rarities, in order, by such gifts, to curry
favour with their superiors, who in their turn will take pleasure in
ostentatious display of their collections of antiquities. Such is but
a specious hankering after antiques, arising simply from a desire
to eclipse one’s neighbours. Such men are not genuine lovers of the
antique. Their tastes are those of the common herd after all, though
they make a great show and filch the reputation of true antiquarians,
in the hope of thus distinguishing themselves from their fellows,
ignorant as they are that what they secure is the name alone without
the reality. The man whom I call a genuine antiquarian is he who
studies the writings of the ancients, and strives to form himself upon
their model, though unable to greet them in the flesh; who ever and
anon, in his wanderings up and down the long avenue of the past, lights
upon some choice fragment which brings him in an instant face to face
with the immortal dead. Of such enjoyment there is no satiety. Those
who truly love antiquity, love not the things, but the men of old,
since a relic in the present is much what it was in the past,--a mere
thing. And so if it is not to things, but rather to men, that devotion
is due, then even I may aspire to be some day an antique. Who shall say
that centuries hence an antiquarian of the day may not look up to me as
I have looked up to my predecessors? Should I then neglect myself, and
foolishly devote my energies to trifling with things?
“Such is popular enthusiasm in these matters. It is shadow without
substance. But the theme is endless, and I shall therefore content
myself with a passing record of my old inkstand.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: LI SHIH-CHÊN]
This chapter may close with the names of two remarkable men. LI
SHIH-CHÊN completed in 1578, after twenty-six years of unremitting
labour, his great Materia Medica. In 1596 the manuscript was laid
before the Emperor, who ordered it to be printed forthwith. It deals
(1) with Inanimate substances; (2) with Plants; and (3) with Animals,
and is illustrated by over 1100 woodcuts. The introductory chapter
passes in review forty-two previous works of importance on the same
subject, enumerating no fewer than 950 miscellaneous publications on
a variety of subjects. The famous “doctrine of signatures,” which
supposes that the uses of plants and substances are indicated to man by
certain appearances peculiar to them, figures largely in this work.
HSÜ KUANG-CH’I (1562-1634) is generally regarded as the only
influential member of the mandarinate who has ever become a convert
to Christianity. After graduating first among the candidates for
the second degree in 1597 and taking his final degree in 1604, he
enrolled himself as a pupil of Matteo Ricci, and studied under his
guidance to such purpose that he was able to produce works on the
new system of astronomy as introduced by the Jesuit Fathers, besides
various treatises on mathematical science. He was also author of an
encyclopædia of agriculture of considerable value, first published in
1640. This work is illustrated with numerous woodcuts, and treats of
the processes and implements of husbandry, of rearing silkworms, of
breeding animals, of the manufacture of food, and even of precautions
to be taken against famine. The Jesuit Fathers themselves scattered
broadcast over China a large number of propagandist publications,
written in polished book-style, some few of which are still
occasionally to be found in old book-shops.
FOOTNOTE:
[33] On the 23rd June 1900, almost while these words were being
written, the Han-lin College was burnt to the ground. The writer’s
youngest son, Mr. Lancelot Giles, who went through the siege of Peking,
writes as follows:--“An attempt was made to save the famous _Yung Lo
Ta Tien_, but heaps of volumes had been destroyed, so the attempt was
given up. I secured vol. 13,345 for myself.”
CHAPTER II
NOVELS AND PLAYS
Novels were produced in considerable numbers under the Ming dynasty,
but the names of their writers, except in a very few cases, have
not been handed down. The marvellous work known as the _Ch‘in P‘ing
Mei_, from the names of three of the chief female characters, has
been attributed to the grave scholar and statesman, Wang Shih-chêng
(1526-1593); but this is more a guess than anything else. So also is
the opinion that it was produced in the seventeenth century, as a
covert satire upon the morals of the Court of the great Emperor K‘ang
Hsi. The story itself refers to the early part of the twelfth century,
and is written in a simple, easy style, closely approaching the Peking
colloquial. It possesses one extraordinary characteristic. Many words
and phrases are capable of two interpretations, one of which is of a
class which renders such passages unfit for ears polite. Altogether the
book is objectionable, and would require a translator with the nerve of
a Burton.
* * * * *
The _Yü Chiao Li_ is a tale of the fifteenth century which has found
much favour in the eyes of foreigners, partly because it is of an
unusually moderate length. The ordinary Chinaman likes his novels long,
and does not mind plenty of repetitions after the style of Homer,
which latter feature seems to point in the direction of stories told by
word of mouth and written down later on, and may be taken in connection
with the opinion already expressed, that the Chinese novel came
originally from Central Asia. Here, however, in four small volumes, we
have a charming story of a young graduate who falls in love first with
a beautiful and accomplished poetess, and then with the fascinating
sister of a fascinating friend whose acquaintance--the brother’s--he
makes casually by the roadside. The friend and the sister turn out to
be one and the same person, a very lively girl, who appears in male
or female dress as occasion may require; and what is more, the latter
young lady turns out to be the much-loved orphan cousin of the first
and still cherished young lady, and also her intellectual equal. The
graduate is madly in love with the two girls, and they are irrevocably
in love with him. This is a far simpler matter than it would be in
Western countries. The hero marries both, and all three live happily
ever afterwards.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: THE LIEH KUO CHUAN]
The _Lieh Kuo Chuan_, anonymous as usual, is a historical novel dealing
with the exciting times of the Feudal States, and covering the period
between the eighth century B.C. and the union of China under
the First Emperor. It is introduced to the reader in these words:--
“The _Lieh Kuo_ is not like an ordinary novel, which consists mainly of
what is not true. Thus the _Fêng Shên_ (a tale of the twelfth century
B.C.), the _Shui Hu_, the _Hsi Yu Chi_, and others, are pure
fabrications. Even the _San Kuo Chih_, which is very near to truth,
contains much that is without foundation. Not so the _Lieh Kuo_. There
every incident is a real incident, every speech a real speech. Besides,
as there is far more to tell than could possibly be told, it is not
likely that the writer would go out of his way to invent. Wherefore the
reader must look upon the _Lieh Kuo_ as a genuine history, and not as a
mere novel.”
The following extract refers to a bogus exhibition, planned by the
scheming State of Ch‘in, nominally to make a collection of valuables
and hand them over as respectful tribute to the sovereign House of
Chou, but really with a view to a general massacre of the rival nobles
who stood in the way between the Ch‘ins and their treasonable designs:--
“Duke Ai of Ch‘in now proceeded with his various officers of State to
prepare a place for the proposed exhibition, at the same time setting
a number of armed men in ambuscade, with a view to carry out his
ambitious designs; and when he heard that the other nobles had arrived,
he went out and invited them to come in. The usual ceremonies over, and
the nobles having taken their seats according to precedence, Duke Ai
addressed the meeting as follows:--
“‘I, having reverently received the commission of the Son of Heaven,
do hereby open this assembly for the exhibition of such valuables as
may be brought together from all parts of the empire, the same to be
subsequently packed together, and forwarded as tribute to our Imperial
master. And since you nobles are now all collected here in this place,
it is fitting that our several exhibits be forthwith produced and
submitted for adjudication.’
“Sounds of assent from the nobles were heard at the conclusion of this
speech, but the Prime Minister of the Ch‘i State, conscious that the
atmosphere was heavily laden with the vapour of death, as if from
treacherous ambush, stepped forward and said:--
“‘Of old, when the nobles were wont to assemble, it was customary to
appoint one just and upright member to act as arbiter or judge of
the meeting; and now that we have thus met for the purposes of this
exhibition, I propose, in the interest of public harmony, that some one
of us be nominated arbiter in a similar way.’
“Duke Ai readily agreed to the above proposition, and immediately
demanded of the assembled nobles who among them would venture to accept
the office indicated. These words were scarcely out of his mouth when
up rose Pien Chuang, generalissimo of the forces of Chêng, and declared
that he was ready to undertake the post. Duke Ai then asked him upon
what grounds, as to personal ability, he based his claim; to which Pien
Chuang replied, ‘Of ability I have little indeed, but I have slain a
tiger with one blow of my fist, and in martial prowess I am second to
none. Upon this I base my claim.’
“Accordingly, Duke Ai called for a golden tablet, and was on the point
of investing him as arbiter of the exhibition, when a voice was heard
from among the retainers of the Wu State, loudly urging, ‘The slayer of
a tiger need be possessed only of physical courage; but how is that a
sufficient recommendation for this office? Delay awhile, I pray, until
I come and take the tablet myself.’
“By this time Duke Ai had seen that the speaker was K‘uai Hui, son of
the Duke of Wei, and forthwith inquired of him what his particular
claim to the post might be. ‘I cut the head off a deadly dragon, and
for that feat I claim this post.’ Duke Ai thereupon ordered Pien Chuang
to transfer to him the golden tablet; but this he refused to do,
arguing that the slaughter of a dragon was simply a magician’s trick,
and not at all to the present purpose. He added that if the tablet was
to be taken from him, it would necessitate an appeal to force between
himself and his rival. The contest continued thus for some time,
until at length the Prime Minister of Ch‘i rose again, and solved the
difficulty in the following terms:--
“‘The slaughter of a tiger involves physical courage, and the slaughter
of a dragon is a magician’s trick; hence, neither of these acts
embraces that combination of mental and physical power which we desire
in the arbiter of this meeting. Now, in front of the palace there
stands a sacrificial vessel which weighs about a thousand pounds.
Let Duke Ai give out a theme; and then let him who replies thereto
with most clearness and accuracy, and who can, moreover, seize the
aforesaid vessel, and carry it round the platform on which the eighteen
representative nobles are seated, be nominated to the post of arbiter
and receive the golden tablet.’
“To this plan Duke Ai assented; and writing down a theme, bade his
attendants exhibit it among the heroes of the assembled States. The
theme was in rhyme, and contained these eight lines:--
‘_Say what supports the sky; say what supports the earth;
What is the mystic number which to the universe gave birth?
Whence come the eddying waves of the river’s rolling might?
Where shall we seek the primal germ of the mountain’s towering height?
By which of the elements five is the work of Nature done?
And of all the ten thousand things that are, say which is the
wondrous ~one~?
Such are the questions seven which I now propound to you;
And he who can answer them straight and well is the trusty man
and true._’
“The theme had hardly been uttered, when up started Chi Nien,
generalissimo of the Ch‘in State, and cried out, ‘This is but a
question of natural philosophy; what difficulty is there in it?’ He
thereupon advanced to the front, and, having obtained permission to
compete, seized a stylus and wrote down the following reply:--
‘_Nothing supports the sky; nothing supports the earth;
How can we guess at the number which to the universe gave birth?
From the reaches above come the eddying waves of the river’s
rolling might:
How can we tell where to look for the germ of the mountain’s towering
height?
By every one of the elements five is the work of Nature done;
And of all the ten thousand things that are there is no particular
~one~.
There you have my replies to the questions set by you;
And the arbiter’s post I hereby claim as the trusty man and true._’
“Chi Nien, having delivered this answer, proceeded to tuck up his
robe, and, passing to the front of the palace, seized with both hands
the sacrificial vessel, and raised it some two feet from the ground,
his whole face becoming suffused with colour under the effort. At
the same time there arose a great noise of drums and horns, and all
the assembled nobles applauded loudly; whereupon Duke Ai personally
invested him with the golden tablet and proclaimed him arbiter of
the exhibition, for which Chi Nien was just about to return thanks,
when suddenly up jumped Wu Yüan, generalissimo of the Ch‘u State, and
coming forward, declared in an angry tone that Chi Nien’s answer did
not dispose of the theme in a proper and final manner; that he had not
removed the sacrificial vessel from its place, and that consequently he
had not earned the appointment which Wu Yüan now contended should be
bestowed upon himself. Duke Ai, in view of his scheme for seizing the
persons of the various nobles, was naturally anxious that the post of
arbiter should fall to one of his own officers, and was much displeased
at this attempt on the part of Wu Yüan; however, he replied that if
the latter could dispose of the theme and carry round the sacrificial
vessel, the office of arbiter would be his. Wu Yüan thereupon took a
stylus and indited the following lines:--
‘_The earth supports the sky; the sky supports the earth.
~Five~ is the mystic number which to the universe gave birth.
Down from the sky come the eddying waves of the river’s rolling might.
In the K‘un-lun range we must seek the germ of the mountain’s towering
height.
By ~truth~, of the elements five, can most good work be done;
And of all the ten thousand things that are, ~man~ is the wondrous one.
There you have my replies to the questions set this day;
The answers are clear and straight to the point, and given without
delay._’
“As soon as he had finished writing, he handed his reply to Duke Ai,
who at once saw that he had in every way disposed of the theme with
far greater skill than Chi Nien, and accordingly now bade him show
his strength upon the sacrificial vessel. Wu Yüan immediately stepped
forward, and, holding up his robe with his left hand, seized the vessel
with his right, raising it up and bearing it round the platform before
the assembled nobles, and finally depositing it in its original place,
without so much as changing colour. The nobles gazed at each other in
astonishment at this feat, and with one accord declared him to be the
hero of the day; so that Duke Ai had no alternative but to invest him
with the golden tablet and announce his appointment to the post of
arbiter.”
[Sidenote: THE CHING HUA YÜAN]
The _Ching Hua Yüan_ is a less pretentious work than the preceding, but
of an infinitely more interesting character. Dealing with the reign
of the Empress Wu, who in A.D. 684 set aside the rightful
heir and placed herself upon the throne, which she occupied for
twenty years, this work describes how a young graduate, named T‘ang,
disgusted with the establishment of examinations and degrees for women,
set out with a small party on a voyage of exploration. Among all the
strange places which they visited, the most curious was the Country of
Gentlemen, where they landed and proceeded at once to the capital city.
“There, over the city gate, T‘ang and his companions read the following
legend:--
‘_Virtue is man’s only jewel!_’
“They then entered the city, which they found to be a busy and
prosperous mart, the inhabitants all talking the Chinese language.
Accordingly, T‘ang accosted one of the passers-by, and asked him how it
was his nation had become so famous for politeness and consideration of
others; but, to his great astonishment, the man did not understand the
meaning of his question. T‘ang then asked him why this land was called
the ‘Country of Gentlemen,’ to which he likewise replied that he did
not know. Several other persons of whom they inquired giving similar
answers, the venerable To remarked that the term had undoubtedly been
adopted by the inhabitants of adjacent countries, in consequence of
the polite manners and considerate behaviour of these people. ‘For,’
said he, ‘the very labourers in the fields and foot-passengers in the
streets step aside to make room for one another. High and low, rich and
poor, mutually respect each other’s feelings without reference to the
wealth or social status of either; and this is, after all, the essence
of what constitutes the true gentleman.’
“‘In that case,’ cried T‘ang, ‘let us not hurry on, but rather improve
ourselves by observing the ways and customs of this people.’
“By and by they arrived at the market-place, where they saw an official
runner standing at a stall engaged in making purchases. He was holding
in his hand the articles he wished to buy, and was saying to the owner
of the stall, ‘Just reflect a moment, sir, how impossible it would be
for me to take these excellent goods at the absurdly low price you are
asking. If you will oblige me by doubling the amount, I shall do myself
the honour of accepting them; otherwise, I cannot but feel that you are
unwilling to do business with me to-day.’
“‘How very funny!’ whispered T‘ang to his friends. ‘Here, now, is quite
a different custom from ours, where the buyer invariably tries to beat
down the seller, and the seller to run up the price of his goods as
high as possible. This certainly looks like the ‘consideration for
others’ of which we spoke just now.’
“The man at the stall here replied, ‘Your wish, sir, should be law to
me, I know; but the fact is, I am already overwhelmed with shame at
the high price I have ventured to name. Besides, I do not profess to
adhere rigidly to ‘marked prices,’ which is a mere trick of the trade,
and consequently it should be the aim of every purchaser to make me
lower my terms to the very smallest figure; you, on the contrary,
are trying to raise the price to an exorbitant figure; and although
I fully appreciate your kindness in that respect, I must really ask
you to seek what you require at some other establishment. It is quite
impossible for me to execute your commands.’
“T‘ang was again expressing his astonishment at this extraordinary
reversal of the platitudes of trade, when the would-be purchaser
replied, ‘For you, sir, to ask such a low sum for these first-class
goods, and then to turn round and accuse me of over-considering your
interests, is indeed a sad breach of etiquette. Trade could not be
carried on at all if all the advantages were on one side and the losses
on the other; neither am I more devoid of brains than the ordinary run
of people that I should fail to understand this principle and let you
catch me in a trap.’
“So they went on wrangling and jangling, the stall-keeper refusing to
charge any more and the runner insisting on paying his own price, until
the latter made a show of yielding and put down the full sum demanded
on the counter, but took only half the amount of goods. Of course
the stall-keeper would not consent to this, and they would both have
fallen back upon their original positions had not two old gentlemen who
happened to be passing stepped aside and arranged the matter for them,
by deciding that the runner was to pay the full price but to receive
only four-fifths of the goods.
“T‘ang and his companions walked on in silence, meditating upon the
strange scene they had just witnessed; but they had not gone many steps
when they came across a soldier similarly engaged in buying things at
an open shop-window. He was saying, ‘When I asked the price of these
goods, you, sir, begged me to take them at my own valuation; but now
that I am willing to do so, you complain of the large sum I offer,
whereas the truth is that it is actually very much below their real
value. Do not treat me thus unfairly.’
“‘It is not for me, sir,’ replied the shopkeeper, ‘to demand a price
for my own goods; my duty is to leave that entirely to you. But the
fact is, that these goods are old stock, and are not even the best of
their kind; you would do much better at another shop. However, let us
say half what you are good enough to offer; even then I feel I shall be
taking a great deal too much. I could not think, sir, of parting with
my goods at your price.’
“‘What is that you are saying, sir?’ cried the soldier. ‘Although not
in the trade myself, I can tell superior from inferior articles, and
am not likely to mistake one for the other. And to pay a low price for
a good article is simply another way of taking money out of a man’s
pocket.’
“‘Sir,’ retorted the shopkeeper, ‘if you are such a stickler for
justice as all that, let us say half the price you first mentioned, and
the goods are yours. If you object to that, I must ask you to take your
custom elsewhere. You will then find that I am not imposing on you.’
“The soldier at first stuck to his text, but seeing that the shopkeeper
was not inclined to give way, he laid down the sum named and began
to take his goods, picking out the very worst he could find. Here,
however, the shopkeeper interposed, saying, ‘Excuse me, sir, but you
are taking all the bad ones. It is doubtless very kind of you to leave
the best for me, but if all men were like you there would be a general
collapse of trade.’
“‘Sir,’ replied the soldier, ‘as you insist on accepting only half
the value of the goods, there is no course open to me but to choose
inferior articles. Besides, as a matter of fact, the best kind will
not answer my purpose so well as the second or third best; and although
I fully recognise your good intentions, I must really ask to be allowed
to please myself.’
“‘There is no objection, sir,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘to your pleasing
yourself, but low-class goods are sold at a low price, and do not
command the same rates as superior articles.’
“Thus they went on bandying arguments for a long time without coming to
any definite agreement, until at last the soldier picked up the things
he had chosen and tried to make off with them. The bystanders, however,
all cried shame upon him and said he was a downright cheat, so that he
was ultimately obliged to take some of the best kind and some of the
inferior kind and put an end to the altercation.
“A little farther on our travellers saw a countryman who had just
paid the price of some purchases he had succeeded in making, and was
hurrying away with them, when the shopkeeper called after him, ‘Sir!
sir! you have paid me by mistake in finer silver than we are accustomed
to use here, and I have to allow you a considerable discount in
consequence. Of course this is a mere trifle to a gentleman of your
rank and position, but still for my own sake I must ask leave to make
it all right with you.’
“‘Pray don’t mention such a small matter,’ replied the countryman, ‘but
oblige me by putting the amount to my credit for use at a future date
when I come again to buy some more of your excellent wares.’
“‘No, no,’ answered the shopkeeper, ‘you don’t catch old birds with
chaff. That trick was played upon me last year by another gentleman,
and to this day I have never set eyes upon him again, though I have
made every endeavour to find out his whereabouts. As it is, I can now
only look forward to repaying him in the next life; but if I let you
take me in in the same way, why, when the next life comes and I am
changed, maybe into a horse or a donkey, I shall have quite enough to
do to find him, and your debt will go dragging on till the life after
that. No, no, there is no time like the present; hereafter I might very
likely forget what was the exact sum I owed you.’
“They continued to argue the point until the countryman consented to
accept a trifle as a set-off against the fineness of his silver, and
went away with his goods, the shopkeeper bawling after him as long
as he was in sight that he had sold him inferior articles at a high
rate, and was positively defrauding him of his money. The countryman,
however, got clear away, and the shopkeeper returned to his grumbling
at the iniquity of the age. Just then a beggar happened to pass, and so
in anger at having been compelled to take more than his due he handed
him the difference. ‘Who knows,’ said he, ‘but that the present misery
of this poor fellow may be retribution for overcharging people in a
former life?’
“‘Ah,’ said T‘ang, when he had witnessed the finale of this little
drama, ‘truly this is the behaviour of gentlemen!’
“Our travellers then fell into conversation with two
respectable-looking old men who said they were brothers, and accepted
their invitation to go and take a cup of tea together. Their hosts
talked eagerly about China, and wished to hear many particulars of ‘the
first nation in the world.’ Yet, while expressing their admiration
for the high literary culture of its inhabitants and their unqualified
successes in the arts and sciences, they did not hesitate to stigmatise
as unworthy a great people certain usages which appeared to them
deserving of the utmost censure. They laughed at the superstitions of
Fêng-Shui, and wondered how intelligent men could be imposed upon year
after year by the mountebank professors of such baseless nonsense. ‘If
it is true,’ said one of them, ‘that the selection of an auspicious day
and a fitting spot for the burial of one’s father or mother is certain
to bring prosperity to the survivors, how can you account for the fact
that the geomancers themselves are always a low, poverty-stricken
lot? Surely they would begin by appropriating the very best positions
themselves, and so secure whatever good fortune might happen to be in
want of an owner.’
“Then again with regard to bandaging women’s feet in order to reduce
their size. ‘We can see no beauty,’ said they, ‘in such monstrosities
as the feet of your ladies. Small noses are usually considered more
attractive than large ones; but what would be said of a man who sliced
a piece off his own nose in order to reduce it within proper limits?’
“And thus the hours slipped pleasantly away until it was time to bid
adieu to their new friends and regain their ship.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: P‘ING SHAN LÊNG YEN]
The _Chin Ku Ch‘i Kuan_, or Marvellous Tales, Ancient and Modern, is a
great favourite with the romance-reading Chinaman. It is a collection
of forty stories said to have been written towards the close of
the Ming dynasty by the members of a society who held meetings for
that purpose. Translations of many, if not all, of these have been
published. The style is easy, very unlike that of the _P‘ing Shan Lêng
Yen_, a well-known novel in what would be called a high-class literary
style, being largely made up of stilted dialogue and over-elaborated
verse composed at the slightest provocation by the various characters
in the story. These were P‘ing and Yen, two young students in love
with Shan and Lêng, two young poetesses who charmed even more by their
literary talent than by their fascinating beauty. On one occasion a
pretended poet, named Sung, who was a suitor for the hand of Miss Lêng,
had been entertained by her uncle, and after dinner the party wandered
about in the garden. Miss Lêng was summoned, and when writing materials
had been produced, as usual on such occasions, Mr. Sung was asked to
favour the company with a sonnet. “Excuse me,” he replied, “but I have
taken rather too much wine for verse-making just now.” “Why,” rejoined
Miss Lêng, “it was after a gallon of wine that Li Po dashed off a
hundred sonnets, and so gained a name which will live for a thousand
generations.” “Of course I could compose,” said Mr. Sung, “even after
drinking, but I might become coarse. It is better to be fasting, and
to feel quite clear in the head. Then the style is more finished, and
the verse more pleasing.” “Ts‘ao Chih,” retorted Miss Lêng, “composed a
sonnet while taking only seven steps, and his fame will be remembered
for ever. Surely occasion has nothing to do with the matter.” In the
midst of Mr. Sung’s confusion, the uncle proposed that the former
should set a theme for Miss Lêng instead, to which he consented, and on
looking about him caught sight through the open window of a paper kite,
which he forthwith suggested, hoping in his heart to completely puzzle
the sarcastic young lady. However, in the time that it takes to drink a
cup of tea, she had thrown off the following lines:--
“_Cunningly made to look like a bird,
It cheats fools and little children.
It has a body of bamboo, light and thin,
And flowers painted on it, as though something wonderful.
Blown by the wind it swaggers in the sky,
Bound by a string it is unable to move.
Do not laugh at its sham feet,
If it fell, you would see only a dry and empty frame._”
All this was intended in ridicule of Mr. Sung himself and of his
personal appearance, and is a fair sample of what the reader may expect
throughout.
* * * * *
The _Erh Tou Mei_, or “Twice Flowering Plum-trees,” belongs to the
sixteenth or seventeenth century, and is by an unknown author. It is
a novel with a purpose, being apparently designed to illustrate the
beauty of filial piety, the claims of friendship, and duty to one’s
neighbour in general. Written in a simple style, with no wealth of
classical allusion to soothe the feelings of the pedant, it contains
several dramatic scenes, and altogether forms a good panorama of
Chinese everyday life. Two heroes are each in love with two heroines,
and just as in the _Yü Chiao Li_, each hero marries both. There is a
slender thread of fact running through the tale, the action of which
is placed in the eighth century, and several of the characters are
actually historical. One of the four lovely heroines, in order to
keep peace between China and the Tartar tribes which are continually
harrying the borders, decides to sacrifice herself on the altar of
patriotism and become the bride of the Khan. The parting at the
frontier is touchingly described; but the climax is reached when,
on arrival at her destination, she flings herself headlong over a
frightful precipice, rather than pass into the power of the hated
barbarian, a waiting-maid being dressed up in her clothes and handed
over to the unsuspecting Khan. She herself does not die. Caught upon
a purple cloud, she is escorted back to her own country by a bevy of
admiring angels.
There is also an effective scene, from which the title of the book
is derived, when the plum trees, whose flowers had been scattered by
a storm of wind and rain, gave themselves up to fervent prayer. “The
Garden Spirit heard their earnest supplications, and announced them
to the Guardian Angel of the town, who straightway flew up to heaven
and laid them at the feet of God.” The trees were then suffered to put
forth new buds, and soon bloomed again, more beautiful than ever.
* * * * *
The production of plays was well sustained through the Ming
dynasty, for the simple reason that the Drama, whether an exotic
or a development within the boundaries of the Middle Kingdom, had
emphatically come to stay. It had caught on, and henceforth forms
the ideal pastime of the cultured, reflective scholar, and of the
laughter-loving masses of the Chinese people.
[Sidenote: KAO TSÊ-CH’ÊNG]
The _P‘i Pa Chi_, or “Story of the Guitar,” stands easily at the head
of the list, being ranked by some admirers as the very finest of all
Chinese plays. It is variously arranged in various editions under
twenty-four or forty-two scenes; and many liberties have been taken
with the text, long passages having been interpolated and many other
changes made. It was first performed in 1704, and was regarded as a
great advance in the dramatic art upon the early plays of the Mongols.
The author’s name was KAO TSÊ-CH’ÊNG, and his hero is said to
have been taken from real life in the person of a friend who actually
rose from poverty to rank and affluence. The following is an outline of
the plot.
A brilliant young graduate and his beautiful wife are living, as is
customary, with the husband’s parents. The father urges the son to go
to the capital and take his final degree. “At fifteen,” says the old
man, “study; at thirty, act.” The mother, however, is opposed to this
plan, and declares that they cannot get along without their son. She
tells a pitiful tale of another youth who went to the capital, and
after infinite suffering was appointed Master of a Workhouse, only to
find that his parents had already preceded him thither in the capacity
of paupers. The young man finally decides to do his duty to the Son of
Heaven, and forthwith sets off, leaving the family to the kind care of
a benevolent friend. He undergoes the examination, which in the play is
turned into ridicule, and comes out in the coveted position of Senior
Classic. The Emperor then instructs one of his Ministers to take the
Senior Classic as a son-in-law; but our hero refuses, on the ground, so
it is whispered, that the lady’s feet are too large. The Minister is
then compelled to put on pressure, and the marriage is solemnised, this
part of the play concluding with an effective scene, in which on being
asked by his new wife to sing, our hero suggests such songs as “Far
from his True Love,” and others in a similar style. Even when he agrees
to sing “The Wind through the Pines,” he drops unwittingly into “Oh for
my home once more;” and then when recalled to his senses, he relapses
again into a song about a deserted wife.
Meanwhile misfortunes have overtaken the family left behind. There
has been a famine, the public granaries have been discovered to be
empty instead of full, and the parents and wife have been reduced to
starvation. The wife exerts herself to the utmost, selling all her
jewels to buy food; and when at length, after her mother-in-law’s
death, her father-in-law dies too, she cuts off her hair and tries
to sell it in order to buy a coffin, being prevented only by the old
friend who has throughout lent what assistance he could. The next thing
is to raise a tumulus over the grave. This she tries to do with her own
hands, but falls asleep from fatigue. The Genius of the Hills sees her
in this state, and touched by her filial devotion, summons the white
monkey of the south and the black tiger of the north, spirits who, with
the aid of their subordinates, complete the tumulus in less than no
time. On awaking, she recognises supernatural intervention, and then
determines to start for the capital in search of her husband, against
whom she entertains very bitter feelings. She first sets to work to
paint the portraits of his deceased parents, and then with these for
exhibition as a means of obtaining alms, and with her guitar, she takes
her departure. Before her arrival the husband has heard by a letter,
forged in order to get a reward, that his father and mother are both
well, and on their way to rejoin him. He therefore goes to a temple
to pray Buddha for a safe conduct, and there picks up the rolled-up
pictures of his father and mother which have been dropped by his wife,
who has also visited the temple to ask for alms. The picture is sent
unopened to his study. And now the wife, in continuing her search,
accidentally gains admission to her husband’s house, and is kindly
received by the second wife. After a few misunderstandings the truth
comes out, and the second wife, who is in full sympathy with the first,
recommends her to step into the study and leave a note for the husband.
This note, in the shape of some uncomplimentary verses, is found by the
latter together with the pictures which have been hung up against the
wall; the second wife introduces the first; there is an explanation;
and the curtain, if there was such a thing in a Chinese theatre, would
fall upon the final happiness of the husband and his two wives.
Of course, in the above sketch of a play, which is about as long as
one of Shakespeare’s, a good many side-touches have been left out. Its
chief beauties, according to Chinese critics, are to be found in the
glorification of duty to the sovereign, of filial piety to a husband’s
parents, and of accommodating behaviour on the part of the second wife
tending so directly to the preservation of peace under complicated
circumstances. The forged letter is looked upon as a weak spot, as
the hero would know his father’s handwriting, and so with other
points which it has been suggested should be cut out. “But because a
stork’s neck is too long,” says an editor, “you can’t very well remedy
the defect by taking a piece off.” On the other hand, the pathetic
character of the play gives it a high value with the Chinese; for, as
we are told in the prologue, “it is much easier to make people laugh
than cry.” And if we can believe all that is said on this score, every
successive generation has duly paid its tribute of tears to the _P‘i Pa
Chi_.
CHAPTER III
POETRY
[Sidenote: HSIEH CHIN]
Though the poetry of the Ming dynasty shows little falling off, in
point of mere volume, there are far fewer great poets to be found
than under the famous Houses of T‘ang and Sung. The name, however,
which stands first in point of chronological sequence, is one which
is widely known. HSIEH CHIN (1369-1415) was born when the
dynasty was but a year old, and took his final degree before he had
passed the age of twenty. His precocity had already gained for him the
reputation of being an Inspired Boy, and, later on, the Emperor took
such a fancy to him, that while Hsieh Chin was engaged in writing, his
Majesty would often deign to hold the ink-slab. He was President of the
Commission which produced the huge encyclopædia already described, but
he is now chiefly known as the author of what appears to be a didactic
poem of about 150 lines, which may be picked up at any bookstall. It
is necessary to say “about 150 lines,” since no two editions give
identically the same number of lines, or even the same text to each
line. It is also very doubtful if Hsieh Chin actually wrote such a
poem. In many editions, lines are boldly stolen from the early Han
poetry and pitchforked in without rhyme or reason, thus making the
transitions even more awkward than they otherwise would be. All
editors seem to be agreed upon the four opening lines, which state
that the Son of Heaven holds heroes in high esteem, that his Majesty
urges all to study diligently, and that everything in this world is
second-class, with the sole exception of book-learning. It is in fact
the old story that
“_Learning is better than house or land;
For when house and land are gone and spent,
Then learning is most excellent._”
Farther on we come to four lines often quoted as enumerating the four
greatest happinesses in life, to wit,
“_A gentle rain after long drought,
Meeting an old friend in a foreign clime,
The joys of the wedding-day,
One’s name on the list of successful candidates._”
The above lines occur _à propos_ of nothing in particular, and are
closely followed in some editions by more precepts on the subject of
earnest application. Then after reading that the Classics are the best
fields to cultivate, we come upon four lines with a dash of real poetry
in them:--
“_Man in his youth-time’s rosy glow,
The pink peach flowering in the glade....
Why, yearly, when spring breezes blow,
Does each one flush a deeper shade?_”
More injunctions to burn the midnight oil are again strangely followed
by a suggestion that three cups of wine induce serenity of mind, and
that if a man is but dead drunk, all his cares disappear, which is only
another way of saying that
“_The best of life is but intoxication._”
Altogether, this poem is clearly a patchwork, of which some parts may
have come from Hsieh Chin’s pen. Here is a short poem of his in defence
of official venality, about which there is no doubt:--
“_In vain hands bent on sacrifice
or clasped in prayer we see;
The ways of God are not exactly
what those ways should be.
The swindler and the ruffian
lead pleasant lives enough,
While judgments overtake the good
and many a sharp rebuff.
The swaggering bully stalks along
as blithely as you please,
While those who never miss their prayers
are martyrs to disease.
And if great God Almighty fails
to keep the balance true,
What can we hope that paltry
mortal magistrates will do?_”
The writer came to a tragic end. By supporting the claim of the eldest
prince to be named heir apparent, he made a lasting enemy of another
son, who succeeded in getting him banished on one charge, and then
imprisoned on a further charge. After four years’ confinement he was
made drunk, probably without much difficulty, and was buried under a
heap of snow.
* * * * *
The Emperor who reigned between 1522 and 1566 as the eleventh of his
line was not a very estimable personage, especially in the latter years
of his life, when he spent vast sums over palaces and temples, and
wasted most of his time in seeking after the elixir of life. In 1539
he despatched General Mao to put down a rising in Annam, and gave him
an autograph poem as a send-off. The verses are considered spirited
by Chinese critics, and are frequently given in collections, which
certainly would not be the case if Imperial authorship was their only
claim:--
“_Southward, in all the panoply
of cruel war arrayed,
See, our heroic general points
and waves his glittering blade!
Across the hills and streams
the lizard-drums terrific roll,
While glint of myriad banners
flashes high from pole to pole....
Go, scion of the Unicorn,
and prove thy heavenly birth,
And crush to all eternity
these insects of the earth;
And when thou com’st, a conqueror,
from those wild barbarian lands,
WE will unhitch thy war-cloak
with our own Imperial hands!_”
The courtesans of ancient and mediæval China formed a class which now
seems no longer to exist. Like the _hetairæ_ of Greece, they were often
highly educated, and exercised considerable influence. Biographies of
the most famous of these ladies are in existence, extending back to the
seventh century A.D. The following is an extract from that of
Hsieh Su-su, who flourished in the fourteenth century, and “with whom
but few of the beauties of old could compare”:--
“Su-su’s beauty was of a most refined style, with a captivating
sweetness of voice and grace of movement. She was a skilful artist,
sweeping the paper with a few rapid touches, which produced such
speaking effects that few, even of the first rank, could hope to excel
her work. She was a fine horsewoman, and could shoot from horseback
with a cross-bow. She would fire one pellet, and then a second, which
would catch up the first and smash it to atoms in mid-air. Or she would
throw a pellet on to the ground, and then grasping the cross-bow in her
left hand, with her right hand passed behind her back, she would let
fly and hit it, not missing once in a hundred times. She was also very
particular about her friends, receiving no one unless by his talents he
had made some mark in the world.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: CHAO TS’AI-CHI--CHAO LI-HUA]
The poetical effusions, and even plays, of many of these ladies have
been carefully preserved, and are usually published as a supplement to
any dynastic collection. Here is a specimen by CHAO TS’AI-CHI
(fifteenth century), of whom no biography is extant:--
“_The tide in the river beginning to rise,
Near the sad hour of parting, brings tears to our eyes;
Alas! that these furlongs of willow-strings gay
Cannot hold fast the boat that will soon be away!_”
Another specimen, by a lady named CHAO LI-HUA (sixteenth
century), contains an attempt at a pun, which is rather lamely brought
out in the translation:--
“_Your notes on paper; rare to see,
Two flying joy-birds bear;[34]
Be like the birds and fly to me,
Not like the paper, rare!_”
These examples sufficiently illustrate this small department of
literature, which, if deficient in work of real merit, at any rate
contains nothing of an indelicate character.
A wild harum-scarum young man was FANG SHU-SHAO, who, like
many other Chinese poets, often took more wine than was good for him.
He was famed for his poetry, and also for his calligraphy, specimens of
his art being highly prized by collectors. In 1642, we are told, “he
was ill with his teeth;” and at length got into his coffin, which all
Chinese like to keep handy, and wrote a farewell to the world, resting
his paper on the edge of the coffin as he wrote. On completion of the
piece he laid himself down and died. Here are the lines:--
“_An eternal home awaits me;
shall I hesitate to go?
Or struggle for a few more hours
of fleeting life below?
A home wherein the clash of arms
I can never hear again!
And shall I strive to linger
in this thorny world of pain?
The breeze will soon blow cool o’er me,
and the bright moon shine o’erhead,
When blended with the gems of earth
I lie in my last bed.
My Pen and ink shall go with me
inside my funeral hearse,
So that if I’ve leisure ‘over there’
I may soothe my soul with verse._”
FOOTNOTE:
[34] Chinese note-paper is ornamented with all kinds of pictures, which
sometimes cover the whole sheet.
BOOK THE EIGHTH
_THE MANCHU DYNASTY_ (A.D. 1644-1900)
CHAPTER I
THE “LIAO CHAI”--THE “HUNG LOU MÊNG”
By 1644 the glories of the great Ming dynasty had departed.
Misgovernment, referred by Chinese writers to the ascendency of
eunuchs, had resulted in rebellion, and the rebel chief with a large
army was pressing upon the capital. On the 9th April Peking fell.
During the previous night the Emperor, who had refused to flee, slew
the eldest Princess, commanded the Empress to commit suicide, and sent
his three sons into hiding. At dawn the bell was struck for the Court
to assemble; but no one came. His Majesty then ascended the Wan Sui
Hill in the palace grounds, and wrote on the lapel of his robe a last
decree:--“We, poor in virtue and of contemptible personality, have
incurred the wrath of God on high. My Ministers have deceived me. I am
ashamed to meet my ancestors; and therefore I myself take off my crown,
and, with my hair covering my face, await dismemberment at the hands
of the rebels. Do not hurt a single one of my people!” He then hanged
himself, as did one faithful eunuch. At this juncture the Chinese
commander-in-chief made overtures to the Manchu Tartars, who had long
been consolidating their forces, and were already a serious menace to
China. An agreement was hurriedly entered into, and Peking was retaken.
The Manchus took possession definitively of the throne, which they had
openly claimed since 1635, and imposed the “pigtail” upon the Chinese
people.
Here then was the great empire of China, bounded by the Four Seas,
and stretching to the confines of the habitable earth, except for a
few barbarian islands scattered on its fringe, with its refined and
scholarly people, heirs to a glorious literature more than twenty
centuries old, in the power of a wild race of herdsmen, whose title
had been established by skill in archery and horsemanship. Not much
was to be expected on behalf of the “humanities” from a people whose
own written language had been composed to order so late as 1599, and
whose literary instincts had still to be developed. Yet it may be said
without fear of contradiction that no age ever witnessed anything like
the extensive encouragement of literature and patronage of literary men
exhibited under the reigns of two Emperors of this dynasty. Of this,
however, in the next chapter.
The literature of this dynasty may be said to begin with a writer who
was after all but a mere storyteller. It has already been stated that
novels and plays are not included by the Chinese in the domain of pure
literature. Such is the rule, to which there is in practice, if not in
theory, one very notable exception.
[Sidenote: P‘U SUNG-LING]
P‘U SUNG-LING, author of the _Liao Chai Chih I_, which may
be conveniently rendered by “Strange Stories,” was born in 1622, and
took his first degree in 1641. Though an excellent scholar and a most
polished writer, he failed, as many other good men have done, to take
the higher degrees by which he had hoped to enter upon an official
career. It is generally understood that this failure was due to neglect
of the beaten track of academic study. At any rate, his disappointment
was overwhelming. All else that we have on record of P‘u Sung-ling,
besides the fact that he lived in close companionship with several
eminent scholars of the day, is gathered from his own words, written
when, in 1679, he laid down his pen upon the completion of a task
which was to raise him within a short period to a foremost rank in the
Chinese world of letters. The following are extracts from this record:--
“Clad in wistaria, girdled with ivy,[35]--thus sang Ch‘ü Yüan in
his _Li Sao_. Of ox-headed devils and serpent gods, he of the long
nails[36] never wearied to tell. Each interprets in his own way the
music of heaven; and whether it be discord or not, depends upon
antecedent causes. As for me, I cannot, with my poor autumn firefly’s
light, match myself against the hobgoblins of the age.[37] I am but
the dust in the sunbeam, a fit laughing-stock for devils.[38] For my
talents are not those of Yü Pao,[39] elegant explorer of the records of
the gods; I am rather animated by the spirit of Su Tung-p‘o, who loved
to hear men speak of the supernatural. I get people to commit what
they tell me to writing, and subsequently I dress it up in the form of
a story; and thus in the lapse of time my friends from all quarters
have supplied me with quantities of material, which, from my habit of
collecting, has grown into a vast pile.
“When the bow[40] was hung at my father’s door, he dreamed that a
sickly-looking Buddhist priest, but half-covered by his stole, entered
the chamber. On one of his breasts was a round piece of plaster like a
_cash_; and my father, waking from sleep, found that I, just born, had
a similar black patch on my body. As a child, I was thin and constantly
ailing, and unable to hold my own in the battle of life. Our home was
chill and desolate as a monastery; and working there for my livelihood
with my pen, I was as poor as a priest with his alms-bowl. Often and
often I put my hand to my head and exclaimed, ‘Surely he who sat with
his face to the wall[41] was myself in a previous state of existence;’
and thus I referred my non-success in this life to the influence of a
destiny surviving from the last. I have been tossed hither and thither
in the direction of the ruling wind, like a flower falling in filthy
places; but the six paths[42] of transmigration are inscrutable indeed,
and I have no right to complain. As it is, midnight finds me with an
expiring lamp, while the wind whistles mournfully without; and over my
cheerless table I piece together my tales, vainly hoping to produce
a sequel to the _Infernal Regions_.[43] With a bumper I stimulate my
pen, yet I only succeed thereby in ‘venting my excited feelings,’ and
as I thus commit my thoughts to writing, truly I am an object worthy
of commiseration. Alas! I am but the bird that, dreading the winter
frost, finds no shelter in the tree, the autumn insect that chirps to
the moon and hugs the door for warmth. For where are they who know me?
They are ‘in the bosky grove and at the frontier pass’[44]--wrapped in
an impenetrable gloom!”
For many years these “Strange Stories” circulated only in manuscript.
P‘u Sung-ling, as we are told in a colophon by his grandson to the
first edition, was too poor to meet the heavy expense of block-cutting;
and it was not until so late as 1740, when the author must have been
already for some time a denizen of the dark land he so much loved
to describe, that his aforesaid grandson printed and published the
collection now so universally famous. Since then many editions have
been laid before the Chinese public, the best of which is that by Tan
Ming-lun, a Salt Commissioner, who flourished during the reign of Tao
Kuang, and who in 1842 produced, at his own expense, an excellent
edition in sixteen small octavo volumes of about 160 pages each.
Any reader of these stories as transferred into another language might
fairly turn round and ask the why and the wherefore of the profound
admiration--to use a mild term--which is universally accorded to them
by the literati of China. The answer is to be found in the incomparable
style in which even the meanest of them is arrayed. All the elements
of form which make for beauty in Chinese composition are there in
overwhelming force. Terseness is pushed to its extreme limits; each
particle that can be safely dispensed with is scrupulously eliminated,
and every here and there some new and original combination invests
perhaps a single word with a force it could never have possessed
except under the hands of a perfect master of his art. Add to the
above copious allusions and adaptations from a course of reading which
would seem to have been co-extensive with the whole range of Chinese
literature, a wealth of metaphor and an artistic use of figures
generally, to which only the writings of Carlyle form an adequate
parallel, and the result is a work which for purity and beauty of style
is now universally accepted in China as among the best and most perfect
models. Sometimes the story runs plainly and smoothly enough, but the
next moment we may be plunged into pages of abstruse text, the meaning
of which is so involved in quotations from and allusions to the poetry
or history of the past three thousand years as to be recoverable only
after diligent perusal of the commentary, and much searching in other
works of reference.
Premising that, according to one editor, the intention of most
of these stories is to “glorify virtue and to censure vice,” the
following story, entitled “The Talking Pupils,” may be taken as a fair
illustration of the extent to which this pledge is redeemed:--
“At Ch‘ang-an there lived a scholar named Fang Tung, who, though by no
means destitute of ability, was a very unprincipled rake, and in the
habit of following and speaking to any woman he might chance to meet.
The day before the spring festival of Clear Weather he was strolling
about outside the city when he saw a small carriage with red curtains
and an embroidered awning, followed by a crowd of waiting-maids on
horseback, one of whom was exceedingly pretty and riding on a small
palfrey. Going closer to get a better view, Mr. Fang noticed that the
carriage curtain was partly open, and inside he beheld a beautifully
dressed girl of about sixteen, lovely beyond anything he had ever
seen. Dazzled by the sight, he could not take his eyes off her, and
now before, now behind, he followed the carriage for many a mile. By
and by he heard the young lady call out to her maid, and, when the
latter came alongside, say to her, ‘Let down the screen for me. Who is
this rude fellow that keeps on staring so?’ The maid accordingly let
down the screen, and looking angrily at Mr. Fang, said to him, ‘This
is the bride of the Seventh Prince in the City of Immortals going
home to see her parents, and no village girl that you should stare
at her thus.’ Then taking a handful of dust she threw it at him and
blinded him. He rubbed his eyes and looked round, but the carriage and
horses were gone. This frightened him, and he went off home, feeling
very uncomfortable about the eyes. He sent for a doctor to examine
them, and on the pupils was found a small film, which had increased
by next morning, the eyes watering incessantly all the time. The film
went on growing, and in a few days was as thick as a _cash_. On the
right pupil there came a kind of spiral, and as no medicine was of any
avail, the sufferer gave himself up to grief and wished for death. He
then bethought himself of repenting of his misdeeds, and hearing that
the _Kuang-ming sûtra_ could relieve misery, he got a copy and hired
a man to teach it to him. At first it was very tedious work, but by
degrees he became more composed, and spent every evening in a posture
of devotion, telling his beads. At the end of a year he had arrived at
a state of perfect calm, when one day he heard a small voice, about as
loud as a fly’s, calling out from his left eye, ‘It’s horridly dark
in here.’ To this he heard a reply from the right eye, saying, ‘Let
us go out for a stroll, and cheer ourselves up a bit.’ Then he felt
a wriggling in his nose which made it itch, just as if something was
going out of each of his nostrils, and after a while he felt it again
as if going the other way. Afterwards he heard a voice from one eye
say, ‘I hadn’t seen the garden for a long time; the epidendrums are all
withered and dead.’ Now Mr. Fang was very fond of these epidendrums,
of which he had planted a great number, and had been accustomed to
water them himself, but since the loss of his sight he had never even
alluded to them. Hearing, however, these words, he at once asked his
wife why she had let the epidendrums die. She inquired how he knew
they were dead, and when he told her, she went out to see, and found
them actually withered away. They were both very much astonished at
this, and his wife proceeded to conceal herself in the room. She then
observed two tiny people, no bigger than a bean, come down from her
husband’s nose and run out of the door, where she lost sight of them.
In a little while they came back and flew up to his face, like bees
or beetles seeking their nests. This went on for some days until Mr.
Fang heard from the left eye, ‘This roundabout road is not at all
convenient. It would be as well for us to make a door.’ To this the
right eye answered, ‘My wall is too thick; it wouldn’t be at all an
easy job.’ ‘I’ll try and open mine,’ said the left eye, ‘and then it
will do for both of us.’ Whereupon Mr. Fang felt a pain in his left
eye as if something was being split, and in a moment he found he could
see the tables and chairs in the room. He was delighted at this, and
told his wife, who examined his eye and discovered an opening in the
film, through which she could see the black pupil shining out beneath,
the eyeball itself looking like a cracked peppercorn. By next morning
the film had disappeared, and when his eye was closely examined it was
observed to contain two pupils. The spiral on the right eye remained as
before, and then they knew that the two pupils had taken up their abode
in one eye. Further, although Mr. Fang was still blind of one eye, the
sight of the other was better than that of the two together. From this
time he was more careful of his behaviour, and acquired in his part of
the country the reputation of a virtuous man.”
* * * * *
To take another specimen, this time with a dash of humour in it. A
certain man, named Wang (_anglicè_ Smith), decided to study Tao--in
other words, the black art--at a temple of the Taoist persuasion. The
priest, who seems to have had a touch of Squeers in his composition,
warned Wang that he would probably not be able to stand the training;
but on the latter insisting, the priest allowed him to join the other
novices, and then sent him to chop wood. He was kept at this task so
long that, although he managed to witness several extraordinary feats
of magical skill performed by the priest, he scarcely felt that he was
making progress himself.
“After a time he could not stand it any longer; and as the priest
taught him no magical arts, he determined not to wait, but went to
him and said, ‘Sir, I travelled many long miles for the benefit of
your instruction. If you will not teach me the secret of immortality,
let me, at any rate, learn some trifling trick, and thus soothe my
cravings for a knowledge of your art. I have now been here two or three
months, doing nothing but chop firewood, out in the morning and back
at night, work to which I was never accustomed in my own home.’ ‘Did I
not tell you,’ replied the priest, ‘that you would never support the
fatigue? To-morrow I will start you on your way home.’ ‘Sir,’ said
Wang, ‘I have worked for you a long time. Teach me some small art, that
my coming here may not have been wholly in vain.’ ‘What art?’ asked
the priest. ‘Well,’ answered Wang, ‘I have noticed that whenever you
walk about anywhere, walls and so on are no obstacle to you. Teach
me this, and I’ll be satisfied.’ The priest laughingly assented, and
taught Wang a formula which he bade him recite. When he had done so
he told him to walk through the wall; but Wang, seeing the wall in
front of him, didn’t like to walk at it. As, however, the priest bade
him try, he walked quietly up to it and was there stopped. The priest
here called out, ‘Don’t go so slowly. Put your head down and rush at
it.’ So Wang stepped back a few paces and went at it full speed; and
the wall yielding to him as he passed, in a moment he found himself
outside. Delighted at this, he went in to thank the priest, who told
him to be careful in the use of his power, or otherwise there would
be no response, handing him at the same time some money for his
expenses on the way. When Wang got home, he went about bragging of his
Taoist friends and his contempt for walls in general; but as his wife
disbelieved his story, he set about going through the performance as
before. Stepping back from the wall, he rushed at it full speed with
his head down; but coming in contact with the hard bricks, finished
up in a heap on the floor. His wife picked him up and found he had a
bump on his forehead as big as a large egg, at which she roared with
laughter; but Wang was overwhelmed with rage and shame, and cursed the
old priest for his base ingratitude.”
* * * * *
Episodes with a familiar ring about them are often to be found embedded
in this collection. For instance:--
“She then became a dense column of smoke curling up from the ground,
when the priest took an uncorked gourd and threw it right into the
midst of the smoke. A sucking noise was heard, and the whole column was
drawn into the gourd; after which the priest corked it up closely and
put it in his pouch.”
Of such points the following story contains another good example:--
“A countryman was one day selling his pears in the market. They were
unusually sweet and fine flavoured, and the price he asked was high.
A Taoist priest in rags and tatters stopped at the barrow and begged
one of them. The countryman told him to go away, but as he did not do
so, he began to curse and swear at him. The priest said, ‘You have
several hundred pears on your barrow; I ask for a single one, the loss
of which, sir, you would not feel. Why then get angry?’ The lookers-on
told the countryman to give him an inferior one and let him go; but
this he obstinately refused to do. Thereupon the beadle of the place,
finding the commotion too great, purchased a pear and handed it to the
priest. The latter received it with a bow, and turning to the crowd
said, ‘We who have left our homes and given up all that is dear to us,
are at a loss to understand selfish, niggardly conduct in others. Now
I have some exquisite pears which I shall do myself the honour to put
before you.’ Here somebody asked, ‘Since you have pears yourself why
don’t you eat those?’ ‘Because,’ replied the priest, ‘I wanted one of
these pips to grow them from.’ So saying he munched up the pear; and
when he had finished took a pip in his hand, unstrapped a pick from
his back, and proceeded to make a hole in the ground several inches
deep, wherein he deposited the pip, filling in the earth as before. He
then asked the bystanders for a little hot water to water it with, and
one among them who loved a joke fetched him some boiling water from a
neighbouring shop. The priest poured this over the place where he had
made the hole, and every eye was fixed upon him when sprouts were seen
shooting up, and gradually growing larger and larger. By and by there
was a tree with branches sparsely covered with leaves; then flowers,
and last of all fine, large, sweet-smelling pears hanging in great
profusion. These the priest picked and handed round to the assembled
crowd until all were gone, when he took his pick and hacked away for
a long time at the tree, finally cutting it down. This he shouldered,
leaves and all, and sauntered quietly away. Now from the very beginning
our friend the countryman had been amongst the crowd, straining his
neck to see what was going on, and forgetting all about his business.
At the departure of the priest he turned round and discovered that
every one of his pears was gone. He then knew that those the old fellow
had been giving away so freely were really his own pears. Looking
more closely at the barrow, he also found that one of the handles was
missing, evidently having been newly cut off. Boiling with rage, he set
out in pursuit of the priest, and just as he turned the corner he saw
the lost barrow-handle lying under the wall, being, in fact, the very
pear-tree that the priest had cut down. But there were no traces of the
priest, much to the amusement of the crowd in the market-place.”
* * * * *
Here again is a scene, the latter part of which would almost justify
the belief that Mr. W. S. Gilbert was a student of Chinese, and had
borrowed some of his best points in “Sweethearts” from the author of
the _Liao Chai_:--
“Next day Wang strolled into the garden, which was of moderate size,
with a well-kept lawn and plenty of trees and flowers. There was also
an arbour consisting of three posts with a thatched roof, quite shut in
on all sides by the luxuriant vegetation. Pushing his way among the
flowers, Wang heard a noise from one of the trees, and looking up saw
Ying-ning, who at once burst out laughing and nearly fell down. ‘Don’t!
don’t!’ cried Wang, ‘you’ll fall!’ Then Ying-ning came down, giggling
all the time, until, when she was near the ground, she missed her hold
and tumbled down with a run. This stopped her merriment, and Wang
picked her up, gently squeezing her hand as he did so. Ying-ning began
laughing again, and was obliged to lean against a tree for support,
it being some time before she was able to stop. Wang waited till she
had finished, and then drew the flower out of his sleeve and handed
it to her. ‘It’s dead,’ said she; ‘why do you keep it?’ ‘You dropped
it, cousin, at the Feast of Lanterns,’ replied Wang, ‘and so I kept
it.’ She then asked him what was his object in keeping it, to which he
answered, ‘To show my love, and that I have not forgotten you. Since
that day when we met I have been very ill from thinking so much of you,
and am quite changed from what I was. But now that it is my unexpected
good fortune to meet you, I pray you have pity on me.’ ‘You needn’t
make such a fuss about a trifle,’ replied she, ‘and with your own
relatives too. I’ll give orders to supply you with a whole basketful of
flowers when you go away.’ Wang told her she did not understand, and
when she asked what it was she didn’t understand, he said, ‘I didn’t
care for the flower itself; it was the person who picked the flower.’
‘Of course,’ answered she, ‘everybody cares for their relations;
you needn’t have told me that.’ ‘I wasn’t talking about ordinary
relations,’ said Wang, ‘but about husbands and wives.’ ‘What’s the
difference?’ asked Ying-ning. ‘Why,’ replied Wang, ‘husband and wife
are always together.’ ‘Just what I shouldn’t like,’ cried she, ‘to be
always with anybody.’”
The pair were ultimately united, and lived happily ever afterwards,
in spite of the fact that the young lady subsequently confessed that
she was the daughter of a fox, and exhibited supernatural powers. On
one occasion these powers stood her in good stead. Being very fond of
flowers, she went so far as to pick from a neighbour’s tree.
“One day the owner saw her, and gazed at her some time in rapt
astonishment; however, she didn’t move, deigning only to laugh. The
gentleman was much smitten with her; and when she smilingly descended
the wall on her own side, pointing all the time with her finger to a
spot hard by, he thought she was making an assignation. So he presented
himself at nightfall at the same place, and sure enough Ying-ning was
there. Seizing her hand to tell his passion, he found that he was
grasping only a log of wood which stood against the wall; and the
next thing he knew was that a scorpion had stung him violently on the
finger. There was an end of his romance, except that he died of the
wound during the night.”
* * * * *
In one of the stories a visitor at a temple is much struck by a fresco
painting containing the picture of a lovely girl picking flowers,
and stands in rapt admiration before it. Then he feels himself borne
gently into the painted wall, _à la_ “Alice through the Looking-glass,”
and in the region beyond plays a part in a domestic drama, finally
marrying the heroine of the picture. But the presence of a mortal being
suspected by “a man in golden armour with a face as black as jet,” he
was glad to make his way back again; and when he rejoined a friend who
had been waiting for him, they noticed that the girl in the picture now
wore her hair done up as a married woman.
There is a Rip van Winkle story, with the pathetic return of the hero
to find, as the Chinese poet says--
“_City and suburb as of old,
But hearts that loved us long since cold._”
There is a sea-serpent story, and a story of a big bird or rukh; also a
story about a Jonah, who, in obedience to an order flashed by lightning
on the sky when their junk was about to be swamped in a storm, was
transferred by his fellow-passengers to a small boat and cut adrift. So
soon as the unfortunate victim had collected his senses and could look
about him, he found that the junk had capsized and that every soul had
been drowned.
* * * * *
The following is an extract from a story in which a young student named
Liu falls in love with a girl named Fêng-hsien, who was the daughter
of a fox, and therefore possessed of the miraculous powers which the
Chinese associate with that animal:--
“‘But if you would really like to have something that has belonged to
me,’ said she, ‘you shall.’ Whereupon she took out a mirror and gave
it to him, saying, ‘Whenever you want to see me, you must look for
me in your books; otherwise I shall not be visible;’ and in a moment
she had vanished. Liu went home very melancholy at heart; but when he
looked in the mirror, there was Fêng-hsien standing with her back to
him, gazing, as it were, at some one who was going away, and about a
hundred paces from her. He then bethought himself of her injunctions,
and settled down to his studies, refusing to receive any visitors; and
a few days subsequently, when he happened to look in the mirror, there
was Fêng-hsien, with her face turned towards him, and smiling in every
feature. After this, he was always taking out the mirror to look at
her. However, in about a month his good resolutions began to disappear,
and he once more went out to enjoy himself and waste his time as
before. When he returned home and looked in the mirror, Fêng-hsien
seemed to be crying bitterly; and the day after, when he looked at her
again, she had her back turned towards him as on the day he received
the mirror. He now knew that it was because he had neglected his
studies, and forthwith set to work again with all diligence, until in
a month’s time she had turned round once again. Henceforward, whenever
anything interrupted his progress, Fêng-hsien’s countenance became
sad; but whenever he was getting on well her sadness was changed to
smiles. Night and morning Liu would look at the mirror, regarding it
quite in the light of a revered preceptor, and in three years’ time
he took his degree in triumph. ‘Now,’ cried he, ‘I shall be able to
look Fêng-hsien in the face.’ And there sure enough she was, with
her delicately-pencilled arched eyebrows, and her teeth just showing
between her lips, as happy-looking as she could be, when, all of a
sudden, she seemed to speak, and Liu heard her say, ‘A pretty pair we
make, I must allow,’ and the next moment Fêng-hsien stood by his side.”
* * * * *
Here is a story of the nether world, a favourite theme with P‘u
Sung-ling. It illustrates the popular belief that at death a man’s
soul is summoned to Purgatory by spiritual lictors, who are even liable
to make mistakes. Cataleptic fits or trances give rise to many similar
tales about persons visiting the realms below and being afterwards
restored to life.
“A man named Chang died suddenly, and was escorted at once by
devil-lictors into the presence of the King of Purgatory. His Majesty
turned to Chang’s record of good and evil, and then, in great anger,
told the lictors they had brought the wrong man, and bade them take
him back again. As they left the judgment-hall, Chang persuaded his
escort to let him have a look at Purgatory, and accordingly the devils
conducted him through the nine sections, pointing out to him the Knife
Hill, the Sword Tree, and other objects of interest. By and by they
reached a place where there was a Buddhist priest hanging suspended in
the air, head downwards, by a rope through a hole in his leg. He was
shrieking with pain and longing for death; and when Chang approached,
lo! he saw that it was his own brother. In great distress, he asked
his guides the reason of this punishment, and they informed him that
the priest was suffering thus for collecting subscriptions on behalf
of his order, and then privately squandering the proceeds in gambling
and debauchery. ‘Nor,’ added they, ‘will he escape this torment unless
he repents him of his misdeeds.’ When Chang came round, he thought his
brother was already dead, and hurried off to the Hsing-fu monastery, to
which the latter belonged. As he went in at the door he heard a loud
shrieking, and on proceeding to his brother’s room, he found him laid
up with a very bad abscess in his leg, the leg itself being tied up
above him to the wall, this being, as his brother informed him, the
only bearable position in which he could lie. Chang now told him what
he had seen in Purgatory, at which the priest was so terrified that he
at once gave up taking wine and meat, and devoted himself entirely to
religious exercises. In a fortnight he was well, and was known ever
afterwards as a most exemplary priest.”
Snatches of verse are to be found scattered about the pages of these
stories, enough to give a taste of the writer’s quality without too
much boring the reader. These lines are much admired:--
“_With wine and flowers we chase the hours
In one eternal spring;
No moon, no light, to cheer the night--
Thyself that ray must bring._”
But we have seen perhaps enough of P‘u Sung-ling. “If,” as Han
Yü exclaimed, “there is knowledge after death,” the profound and
widespread esteem in which this work is held by the literati of China
must indeed prove a soothing balm to the wounded spirit of the Last of
the Immortals.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: THE HUNG LOU MÊNG]
The _Hung Lou Mêng_, conveniently but erroneously known as “The Dream
of the Red Chamber,” is the work referred to already as touching the
highest point of development reached by the Chinese novel. It was
probably composed during the latter half of the seventeenth century.
The name of its author is unknown. It is usually published in 24 vols.
octavo, containing 120 chapters, which average at the least 30 pages
each, making a grand total of about 4000 pages. No fewer than 400
personages of more or less importance are introduced first and last
into the story, the plot of which is worked out with a completeness
worthy of Fielding, while the delineation of character--of so many
characters--recalls the best efforts of the greatest novelists of the
West. As a panorama of Chinese social life, in which almost every
imaginable feature is submitted in turn to the reader, the _Hung Lou
Mêng_ is altogether without a rival. Reduced to its simplest terms,
it is an original and effective love story, written for the most part
in an easy, almost colloquial, style, full of humorous and pathetic
episodes of everyday human life, and interspersed with short poems of
high literary finish. The opening chapters, which are intended to form
a link between the world of spirits and the world of mortals, belong to
the supernatural; after that the story runs smoothly along upon earthly
lines, always, however, overshadowed by the near presence of spiritual
influences. Some idea of the novel as a whole may perhaps be gathered
from the following abstract.
Four thousand six hundred and twenty-three years ago the heavens were
out of repair. So the Goddess of Works set to and prepared 36,501
blocks of precious jade, each 240 feet square by 120 feet in depth.
Of these, however, she only used 36,500, and cast aside the single
remaining block upon one of the celestial peaks.
This stone, under the process of preparation, had become as it were
spiritualised. It could expand or contract. It could move. It was
conscious of the existence of an external world, and it was hurt at not
having been called upon to accomplish its divine mission.
One day a Buddhist and a Taoist priest, who happened to be passing
that way, sat down for a while to rest, and forthwith noticed the
disconsolate stone which lay there, no bigger than the pendant of a
lady’s fan. “Indeed, my friend, you are not wanting in spirituality,”
said the Buddhist priest to the stone, as he picked it up and
laughingly held it forth upon the palm of his hand. “But we cannot be
certain that you will ever prove to be of any real use; and, moreover,
you lack an inscription, without which your destiny must necessarily
remain unfulfilled.” Thereupon he put the stone in his sleeve and rose
to proceed on his journey.
“And what, if I may ask,” inquired his companion, “do you intend to do
with the stone you are thus carrying away?”
“I mean,” replied the other, “to send it down to earth, to play its
allotted part in the fortunes of a certain family now anxiously
expecting its arrival. You see, when the Goddess of Works rejected
this stone, it used to fill up its time by roaming about the heavens,
until chance brought it alongside of a lovely crimson flower. Being
struck with the great beauty of this flower, the stone remained there
for some time, tending its _protégée_ with the most loving care, and
daily moistening its roots with the choicest nectar of the sky, until
at length, yielding to the influence of disinterested love, the flower
changed its form and became a most beautiful girl.
“‘Dear stone,’ cried the girl, in her new-found ecstasy of life, ‘the
moisture thou hast bestowed upon me here I will repay thee in our
future state with my tears!’”
Ages afterwards, another priest, in search of light, saw this self-same
stone lying in its old place, but with a record inscribed upon it--a
record of how it had not been used to repair the heavens, and how
it subsequently went down into the world of mortals, with a full
description of all it did, and saw, and heard while in that state.
“Brother Stone,” said the priest, “your record is not one that deals
with the deeds of heroes among men. It does not stir us with stories
either of virtuous statesmen or of deathless patriots. It seems to be
but a simple tale of the loves of maidens and youths, hardly important
enough to attract the attention of the great busy world.”
“Sir Priest,” replied the stone, “what you say is indeed true; and
what is more, my poor story is adorned by no rhetorical flourish nor
literary art. Still, the world of mortals being what it is, and its
complexion so far determined by the play of human passion, I cannot but
think that the tale here inscribed may be of some use, if only to throw
a further charm around the banquet hour, or to aid in dispelling those
morning clouds which gather over last night’s excess.”
Thereupon the priest looked once more at the stone, and saw that it
bore a plain unvarnished tale of--
“_Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand
The downward slope to death_,”
telling how a woman’s artless love had developed into deep, destroying
passion; and how from the thrall of a lost love one soul had been
raised to a sublimer, if not a purer conception of man’s mission upon
earth. He therefore copied it out from beginning to end. Here it is:--
Under a dynasty which the author leaves unnamed, two brothers had
greatly distinguished themselves by efficient service to the State. In
return, they had been loaded with marks of Imperial favour. They had
been created nobles of the highest rank. They had amassed wealth. The
palaces assigned to them were near together in Peking, and there their
immediate descendants were enjoying the fruits of ancestral success
when this story opens. The brothers had each a son and heir; but at the
date at which we are now, fathers and sons had all four passed away.
The wife of one of the sons only was still alive, a hale and hearty old
lady of about eighty years of age. Of her children, one was a daughter.
She had married and gone away south, and _her_ daughter, Tai-yü, is the
heroine of this tale. The son of the old lady’s second son and first
cousin to Tai-yü is the hero, living with his grandmother. His name is
Pao-yü.
The two noble families were now at the very zenith of wealth and power.
Their palatial establishments were replete with every luxury. Feasting
and theatricals were the order of the day, and, to crown all, Pao-yü’s
sister had been chosen to be one of the seventy-two wives allotted to
the Emperor of China. No one stopped to think that human events are
governed by an inevitable law of change. He who is mighty to-day shall
be lowly to-morrow: the rich shall be made poor, and the poor rich.
Or if any one, more thoughtful than the rest, did pause awhile in
knowledge of the appointments of Heaven, he was fain to hope that the
crash would not come, at any rate, in his own day.
Things were in this state when Tai-yü’s mother died, and her father
decided to place his motherless daughter under the care of her
grandmother at Peking. Accompanied by her governess, the young lady set
out at once for the capital, and reached her destination in safety. It
is not necessary to dwell upon her beauty nor upon her genius, though
both are minutely described in the original text. Suffice it to say
that during the years which have elapsed since she first became known
to the public, many brave men are said to have died for love of this
entrancing heroine of fiction.
Tai-yü was received most kindly by all. Especially so by her
grandmother, who shed bitter tears of sorrow over the premature death
of Tai-yü’s mother, her lost and favourite child. She was introduced
to her aunts and cousins, and cousins and aunts, in such numbers that
the poor girl must have wondered how ever she should remember all
their names. Then they sat down and talked. They asked her all about
her mother, and how she fell ill, and what medicine she took, and how
she died and was buried, until the old grandmother wept again. “And
what medicine do you take, my dear?” asked the old lady, seeing that
Tai-yü herself seemed very delicate, and carried on her clear cheek a
suspicious-looking flush.
“Oh, I have done nothing ever since I could eat,” replied Tai-yü, “but
take medicine of some kind or other. I have also seen all the best
doctors, but they have not done me any particular good. When I was only
three years of age, a nasty old priest came and wanted my parents to
let me be a nun. He said it was the only way to save me.”
“Oh, we will soon cure you here,” said her grandmother, smiling. “We
will make you well in no time.”
Tai-yü was then taken to see more of her relatives, including her aunt,
the mother of Pao-yü, who warned her against his peculiar temper, which
she said was very uncertain and variable. “What! the one with the
jade?” asked Tai-yü. “But we shall not be together,” she immediately
added, somewhat surprised at this rather unusual warning. “Oh yes, you
will,” said her aunt. “He is dreadfully spoilt by his grandmother, who
allows him to have his own way in everything. Instead of being hard at
work, as he ought to be by now, he idles away his time with the girls,
thinking only how he can enjoy himself, without any idea of making a
career or adding fresh lustre to the family name. Beware of him, I tell
you.”
The dinner-hour had now arrived, and after the meal Tai-yü was
questioned as to the progress she had made in her studies. She was
already deep in the mysteries of the Four Books, and it was agreed on
all sides that she was far ahead of her cousins, when suddenly a noise
was heard outside, and in came a most elegantly dressed youth about a
year older than Tai-yü, wearing a cap lavishly adorned with pearls. His
face was like the full autumn moon. His complexion like morning flowers
in spring. Pencilled eyebrows, a well-cut shapely nose, and eyes
like rippling waves were among the details which went to make up an
unquestionably handsome exterior. Around his neck hung a curious piece
of jade; and as soon as Tai-yü became fully conscious of his presence,
a thrill passed through her delicate frame. She felt that somewhere or
other she had looked upon that face before.
Pao-yü--for it was he--saluted his grandmother with great respect, and
then went off to see his mother; and while he is absent it may be as
well to say a few words about the young gentleman’s early days.
Pao-yü, a name which means Precious Jade, was so called because he was
born, to the great astonishment of everybody, with a small tablet of
jade in his mouth--a beautifully bright mirror-like tablet, bearing a
legend inscribed in the quaint old style of several thousand years ago.
A family consultation resulted in a decision that this stone was some
divine talisman, the purpose of which was not for the moment clear, but
was doubtless to be revealed by and by. One thing was certain. As this
tablet had come into the world with the child, so it should accompany
him through life; and accordingly Pao-yü was accustomed to wear it
suspended around his neck. The news of this singular phenomenon spread
far and wide. Even Tai-yü had heard of it long before she came to take
up her abode with the family.
And so Pao-yü grew up, a wilful, wayward boy. He was a bright, clever
fellow and full of fun, but very averse to books. He declared, in fact,
that he could not read at all unless he had as fellow-students a young
lady on each side of him, to keep his brain clear! And when his father
beat him, as was frequently the case, he would cry out, “Dear girl!
dear girl!” all the time, in order, as he afterwards explained to his
cousins, to take away the pain. Women, he argued, are made of water,
with pellucid mobile minds, while men are mostly made of mud, mere
lumps of uninformed clay.
By this time he had returned from seeing his mother and was formally
introduced to Tai-yü. “Ha!” cried he, “I have seen her before
somewhere. What makes her eyes so red? Indeed, cousin Tai-yü, we shall
have to call you Cry-baby if you cry so much.” Here some reference was
made to his jade tablet, and this put him into an angry mood at once.
None of his cousins had any, he said, and he was not going to wear his
any more. A family scene ensued, during which Tai-yü went off to bed
and cried herself to sleep.
Shortly after this, Pao-yü’s mother’s sister was compelled by
circumstances to seek a residence in the capital. She brought with her
a daughter, Pao-ch‘ai, another cousin to Pao-yü, but about a year
older than he was; and besides receiving a warm welcome, the two were
invited to settle themselves comfortably down in the capacious family
mansion of their relatives. Thus it was that destiny brought Pao-yü and
his two cousins together under the same roof.
The three soon became fast friends. Pao-ch‘ai had been carefully
educated by her father, and was able to hold her own even against the
accomplished Tai-yü. Pao-yü loved the society of either or both. He
was always happy so long as he had a pretty girl by his side, and was,
moreover, fascinated by the wit of these two young ladies in particular.
He had, however, occasional fits of moody depression, varied by
discontent with his superfluous worldly surroundings. “In what am I
better,” he would say, “than a wallowing hog? Why was I born and bred
amid this splendid magnificence of wealth, instead of in some coldly
furnished household where I could have enjoyed the pure communion of
friends? These silks and satins, these rich meats and choice wines, of
what avail are they to this perishable body of mine? O wealth! O power!
I curse you both, ye cankerworms of my earthly career.”
All these morbid thoughts, however, were speedily dispelled by the
presence of his fair cousins, with whom, in fact, Pao-yü spent most of
the time he ought to have devoted to his books. He was always running
across to see either one or other of these young ladies, or meeting
both of them in general assembly at his grandmother’s. It was at a
_tête-à-tête_ with Pao-ch‘ai that she made him show her his marvellous
piece of jade, with the inscription, which she read as follows:--
“_Lose me not, forget me not,
Eternal life shall be thy lot._”
The indiscretion of a slave-girl here let Pao-yü become aware that
Pao-ch‘ai herself possessed a wonderful gold amulet, upon which also
were certain words inscribed; and of course Pao-yü insisted on seeing
it at once. On it was written--
“_Let not this token wander from thy side,
And youth perennial shall with thee abide._”
In the middle of this interesting scene, Tai-yü walks in, and seeing
how intimately the two are engaged, “hopes she doesn’t intrude.” But
even in those early days the ring of her voice betrayed symptoms of
that jealousy to which later on she succumbed. Meanwhile she almost
monopolises the society of Pao-yü, and he, on his side, finds himself
daily more and more attracted by the sprightly mischievous humour of
the beautiful Tai-yü, as compared with the quieter and more orthodox
loveliness of Pao-ch‘ai. Pao-ch‘ai does not know what jealousy
means. She too loves to bandy words, exchange verses, or puzzle over
conundrums with her mercurial cousin; but she never allows her thoughts
to wander towards him otherwise than is consistent with the strictest
maidenly reserve.
Not so Tai-yü. She had been already for some time Pao-yü’s chief
companion when they were joined by Pao-ch‘ai. She had come to regard
the handsome boy almost as a part of herself, though not conscious of
the fact until called upon to share his society with another. And so
it was that although Pao-yü showed an open preference for herself, she
still grudged the lesser attentions he paid to Pao-ch‘ai. As often as
not these same attentions originated in an irresistible impulse to
tease. Pao-yü and Tai-yü were already lovers in so far that they were
always quarrelling; the more so, that their quarrels invariably ended,
as they should end, in the renewal of love. As a rule, Tai-yü fell back
upon the _ultima ratio_ of all women--tears; and of course Pao-yü, who
was not by any means wanting in chivalry, had no alternative but to
wipe them away. On one particular occasion, Tai-yü declared that she
would die; upon which Pao-yü said that in that case he would become a
monk and devote his life to Buddha; but in this instance it was he who
shed the tears and she who had to wipe them away.
All this time Tai-yü and Pao-ch‘ai were on terms of scrupulous
courtesy. Tai-yü’s father had recently died, and her fortunes now
seemed to be bound up more closely than ever with those of the family
in which she lived. She had a handsome gold ornament given her to
match Pao-ch‘ai’s amulet, and the three young people spent their days
together, thinking only how to get most enjoyment out of every passing
hour. Sometimes, however, a shade of serious thought would darken
Tai-yü’s moments of enforced solitude; and one day Pao-yü surprised her
in a secluded part of the garden, engaged in burying flowers which had
been blown down by the wind, while singing the following lines:--
“_Flowers fade and fly,
and flying fill the sky;
Their bloom departs, their perfume gone,
yet who stands pitying by?
And wandering threads of gossamer
on the summer-house are seen,
And falling catkins lightly dew-steeped
strike the embroidered screen.
A girl within the inner rooms,
I mourn that spring is done,
A skein of sorrow binds my heart,
and solace there is none.
I pass into the garden,
and I turn to use my hoe,
Treading o’er fallen glories
as I lightly come and go.
There are willow-sprays and flowers of elm,
and these have scent enow,
I care not if the peach and plum
are stripped from every bough.
The peach-tree and the plum-tree too
next year may bloom again,
But next year, in the inner rooms,
tell me, shall I remain?
By the third moon new fragrant nests
shall see the light of day,
New swallows flit among the beams,
each on its thoughtless way.
Next year once more they’ll seek their food
among the painted flowers,
But I may go, and beams may go,
and with them swallow bowers.
Three hundred days and sixty make
a year, and therein lurk
Daggers of wind and swords of frost
to do their cruel work.
How long will last the fair fresh flower
which bright and brighter glows?
One morn its petals float away,
but whither no one knows.
Gay blooming buds attract the eye,
faded they’re lost to sight;
Oh, let me sadly bury them
beside these steps to-night!
Alone, unseen, I seize my hoe,
with many a bitter tear;
They fall upon the naked stem
and stains of blood appear.
The night-jar now has ceased to mourn,
the dawn comes on apace,
I seize my hoe and close the gates,
leaving the burying-place;
But not till sunbeams fleck the wall
does slumber soothe my care,
The cold rain pattering on the pane
as I lie shivering there.
You wonder that with flowing tears
my youthful cheek is wet;
They partly rise from angry thoughts,
and partly from regret.
Regret--that spring comes suddenly;
anger--it cannot last,
No sound to herald its approach,
or warn us that ’tis past.
Last night within the garden
sad songs were faintly heard,
Sung, as I knew, by spirits,
spirits of flower and bird.
We cannot keep them here with us,
these much-loved birds and flowers,
They sing but for a season’s space,
and bloom a few short hours.
Ah! would that I on feathered wing
might soar aloft and fly,
With flower spirits I would seek
the confines of the sky.
But high in air
What grave is there?[45]
No, give me an embroidered bag
wherein to lay their charms,
And Mother Earth, pure Mother Earth,
shall hide them in her arms.
Thus those sweet forms which spotless came
shall spotless go again,
Nor pass besmirched with mud and filth
along some noisome drain.
Farewell, dear flowers, for ever now,
thus buried as ’twas best,
I have not yet divined when I
with you shall sink to rest.
I who can bury flowers like this
a laughing-stock shall be;
I cannot say in days to come
what hands shall bury me.
See how when spring begins to fail
each opening flow’ret fades;
So too there is a time of age
and death for beauteous maids;
And when the fleeting spring is gone,
and days of beauty o’er,
Flowers fall, and lovely maidens die,
and both are known no more._”
Meanwhile, Pao-yü’s father had received an appointment which took him
away to a distance, the consequence being that life went on at home in
a giddier round than usual. Nothing the old grandmother liked better
than a picnic or a banquet--feasting, in fact, of some kind, with
plenty of wine and mirth. But now, somehow or other, little things
were always going wrong. In every pot of ointment the traditional fly
was sure to make its appearance; in every sparkling goblet a bitter
something would always bubble up. Money was not so plentiful as it
had been, and there seemed to be always occurring some unforeseen
drain upon the family resources. Various members of one or other
of the two grand establishments get into serious trouble with the
authorities. Murder, suicide, and robbery happen upon the premises.
The climax of prosperity had been reached and the hour of decadence
had arrived. Still all went merry as a marriage-bell, and Pao-yü and
Tai-yü continued the agreeable pastime of love-making. In this they
were further favoured by circumstances. Pao-ch‘ai’s mother gave up
the apartments which had been assigned to her, and went to live in
lodgings in the city, of course taking Pao-ch‘ai with her. Some time
previous to this, a slave-girl had casually remarked to Pao-yü that her
young mistress, Tai-yü, was about to leave and go back again to the
south. Pao-yü fainted on the spot, and was straightway carried off and
put to bed. He bore the departure of Pao-ch‘ai with composure. He could
not even hear of separation from his beloved Tai-yü.
And she was already deeply in love with him. Long, long ago her
faithful slave-girl had whispered into her ear the soft possibility
of union with her cousin. Day and night she thought about Pao-yü, and
bitterly regretted that she had now neither father nor mother on whom
she could rely to effect the object that lay nearest to her heart.
One evening, tired out under the ravages of the great passion, she
flung herself down, without undressing, upon a couch to sleep. But
she had hardly closed her eyes ere her grandmother and a whole bevy
of aunts and cousins walked in to offer, as they said, their hearty
congratulations. Tai-yü was astonished, and asked what on earth their
congratulations meant; upon which it was explained to her that her
father had married again, and that her stepmother had arranged for her
a most eligible match, in consequence of which she was to leave for
home immediately. With floods of tears Tai-yü entreated her grandmother
not to send her away. She did not want to marry, and she would rather
become a slave-girl at her grandmother’s feet than fall in with the
scheme proposed. She exhausted every argument, and even invoked the
spirit of her dead mother to plead her cause; but the old lady was
obdurate, and finally went away, saying that the arrangement would
have to be carried out. Then Tai-yü saw no escape but the one last
resource of all; when at that moment Pao-yü entered, and with a smile
on his face began to offer her _his_ congratulations too.
“Thank you, cousin,” cried she, starting up and seizing him rudely by
the arm. “Now I know you for the false, fickle creature you are!”
“What is the matter, dear girl?” inquired Pao-yü in amazement. “I was
only glad for your sake that you had found a lover at last.”
“And what lover do you think I could ever care to find now?” rejoined
Tai-yü.
“Well,” replied Pao-yü, “I should of course wish it to be myself. I
consider you indeed mine already; and if you think of the way I have
always behaved towards you ...”
“What!” said Tai-yü, partly misunderstanding his words, “can it be you
after all? and do you really wish me to remain with you?”
“You shall see with your own eyes,” answered Pao-yü, “even into the
inmost recesses of my heart, and then perhaps you will believe.”
Thereupon he drew a knife, and plunging it into his body, ripped
himself open so as to expose his heart to view. With a shriek Tai-yü
tried to stay his hand, and felt herself drenched with the flow of
fresh warm blood; when suddenly Pao-yü uttered a loud groan, and crying
out, “Great heaven, my heart is gone!” fell senseless to the ground.
“Help! help!” screamed Tai-yü; “he is dying! he is dying!” “Wake up!
wake up!” said Tai-yü’s maid; “whatever has given you nightmare like
this?”
So Tai-yü waked up and found that she had had a bad dream. But she had
something worse than that. She had a bad illness to follow; and strange
to say, Pao-yü was laid up at the same time. The doctor came and felt
her pulse--both pulses, in fact--and shook his head, and drank a cup of
tea, and said that Tai-yü’s vital principle wanted nourishment, which
it would get out of a prescription he then and there wrote down. As to
Pao-yü, he was simply suffering from a fit of temporary indigestion.
So Tai-yü got better, and Pao-yü recovered his spirits. His father
had returned home, and he was once more obliged to make some show of
work, and consequently had fewer hours to spend in the society of
his cousin. He was now a young man, and the question of his marriage
began to occupy a foremost place in the minds of his parents and
grandmother. Several names were proposed, one especially by his father;
but it was finally agreed that it was unnecessary to go far afield
to secure a fitting bride. It was merely a choice between the two
charming young ladies who had already shared so much in his daily life.
But the difficulty lay precisely there. Where each was perfection it
became invidious to choose. In another famous Chinese novel, already
described, a similar difficulty is got over in this way--the hero
marries both. Here, however, the family elders were distracted by rival
claims. By their gentle, winning manners, Pao-ch‘ai and Tai-yü had
made themselves equally beloved by all the inmates of these two noble
houses, from the venerable grandmother down to the meanest slave-girl.
Their beauty was of different styles, but at the bar of man’s opinion
each would probably have gained an equal number of votes. Tai-yü was
undoubtedly the cleverer of the two, but Pao-ch‘ai had better health;
and in the judgment of those with whom the decision rested, health
carried the day. It was arranged that Pao-yü was to marry Pao-ch‘ai.
This momentous arrangement was naturally made in secret. Various
preliminaries would have to be gone through before a verbal promise
could give place to formal betrothal. And it is a well-ascertained
fact that secrets can only be kept by men, while this one was confided
to at least a dozen women. Consequently, one night when Tai-yü was
ill and alone in her room, yearning for the love that had already
been contracted away to another, she heard two slave-girls outside
whispering confidences, and fancied she caught Pao-yü’s name. She
listened again, and this time without doubt, for she heard them say
that Pao-yü was engaged to marry a lady of good family and many
accomplishments. Just then a parrot called out, “Here’s your mistress:
pour out the tea!” which frightened the slave-girls horribly; and they
forthwith separated, one of them running inside to attend upon Tai-yü
herself. She finds her young mistress in a very agitated state, but
Tai-yü is always ailing now.
This time she was seriously ill. She ate nothing. She was racked by a
dreadful cough. Even a Chinese doctor could now hardly fail to see that
she was far advanced in a decline. But none knew that the sickness of
her body had originated in sickness of the heart.
One night she grew rapidly worse and worse, and lay to all appearances
dying. A slave-girl ran to summon her grandmother, while several others
remained in the room talking about Pao-yü and his intended marriage.
“It was all off,” said one of them. “His grandmother would not agree
to the young lady chosen by his father. She had already made her
own choice--of another young lady who lives in the family, and of
whom we are all very fond.” The dying girl heard these words, and it
then flashed across her that after all she must herself be the bride
intended for Pao-yü. “For if not I,” argued she, “who can it possibly
be?” Thereupon she rallied as it were by a supreme effort of will, and,
to the great astonishment of all, called for a drink of tea. Those who
had come expecting to see her die were now glad to think that her youth
might ultimately prevail.
So Tai-yü got better once more; but only better, not well. For the
sickness of the soul is not to be cured by drugs. Meanwhile, an event
occurred which for the time being threw everything else into the shade.
_Pao-yü lost his jade tablet._ After changing his clothes, he had
forgotten to put it on, and had left it lying upon his table. But when
he sent to fetch it, it was gone. A search was instituted high and low,
without success. The precious talisman was missing. No one dared tell
his grandmother and face the old lady’s wrath. As to Pao-yü himself,
he treated the matter lightly. Gradually, however, a change came over
his demeanour. He was often absent-minded. At other times his tongue
would run away with him, and he talked nonsense. At length he got so
bad that it became imperative to do something. So his grandmother had
to be told. Of course she was dreadfully upset, but she made a move in
the right direction, and offered an enormous reward for its recovery.
The result was that within a few days the reward was claimed. But
in the interval the tablet seemed to have lost much of its striking
brilliancy; and a closer inspection showed it to be in reality nothing
more than a clever imitation. This was a crushing disappointment
to all. Pao-yü’s illness was increasing day by day. His father had
received another appointment in the provinces, and it was eminently
desirable that Pao-yü’s marriage should take place previous to his
departure. The great objection to hurrying on the ceremony was that
the family were in mourning. Among other calamities which had befallen
of late, the young lady in the palace had died, and her influence at
Court was gone. Still, everything considered, it was deemed advisable
to solemnise the wedding without delay. Pao-yü’s father, little as
he cared for the character of his only son, had been greatly shocked
at the change which he now saw. A worn, haggard face, with sunken,
lack-lustre eyes; rambling, inconsequent talk--this was the heir in
whom the family hopes were centred. The old grandmother, finding that
doctors were of little avail, had even called in a fortune-teller, who
said pretty much what he was wanted to say, viz., that Pao-yü should
marry some one with a golden destiny to help him on.
So the chief actors in the tragedy about to be enacted had to be
consulted at last. They began with Pao-ch‘ai, for various reasons;
and she, like a modest, well-bred maiden, received her mother’s
commands in submissive silence. Further, from that day she ceased
to mention Pao-yü’s name. With Pao-yü, however, it was a different
thing altogether. His love for Tai-yü was a matter of some notoriety,
especially with the slave-girls, one of whom even went so far as to
tell his mother that his heart was set upon marrying her whom the
family had felt obliged to reject. It was therefore hardly doubtful how
he would receive the news of his betrothal to Pao-ch‘ai; and as in his
present state of health the consequences could not be ignored, it was
resolved to have recourse to stratagem. So the altar was prepared, and
naught remained but to draw the bright death across the victim’s throat.
In the short time which intervened, the news was broken to Tai-yü in an
exceptionally cruel manner. She heard by accident in conversation with
a slave-girl in the garden that Pao-yü was to marry Pao-ch‘ai. The poor
girl felt as if a thunderbolt had pierced her brain. Her whole frame
quivered beneath the shock. She turned to go back to her room, but half
unconsciously followed the path that led to Pao-yü’s apartments. Hardly
noticing the servants in attendance, she almost forced her way in, and
stood in the presence of her cousin. He was sitting down, and he looked
up and laughed a foolish laugh when he saw her enter; but he did not
rise, and he did not invite her to be seated. Tai-yü sat down without
being asked, and without a word spoken on either side. And the two
sat there, and stared and leered at each other, until they both broke
out into wild delirious laughter, the senseless crazy laughter of the
madhouse. “What makes you ill, cousin?” asked Tai-yü, when the first
burst of their dreadful merriment had subsided. “I am in love with
Tai-yü,” he replied; and then they both went off into louder screams of
laughter than before.
At this point the slave-girls thought it high time to interfere, and,
after much more laughing and nodding of heads, Tai-yü was persuaded to
go away. She set off to run back to her own room, and sped along with a
newly acquired strength. But just as she was nearing the door, she was
seen to fall, and the terrified slave-girl who rushed to pick her up
found her with her mouth full of blood.
By this time all formalities have been gone through and the wedding day
is fixed. It is not to be a grand wedding, but of course there must be
a trousseau. Pao-ch‘ai sometimes weeps, she scarcely knows why; but
preparations for the great event of her life leave her, fortunately,
very little leisure for reflection. Tai-yü is in bed, and, but for
a faithful slave-girl, alone. Nobody thinks much about her at this
juncture; when the wedding is over she is to receive a double share of
attention.
One morning she makes the slave-girl bring her all her poems and
various other relics of the happy days gone by. She turns them over
and over between her thin and wasted fingers until finally she
commits them all to the flames. The effort is too much for her, and
the slave-girl in despair hurries across to the grandmother’s for
assistance. She finds the whole place deserted, but a moment’s thought
reminds her that the old lady is doubtless with Pao-yü. So thither she
makes her way as fast as her feet can carry her, only, however, to be
still further amazed at finding the rooms shut up, and no one there.
Utterly confused, and not knowing what to make of these unlooked-for
circumstances, she is about to run back to Tai-yü’s room, when to
her great relief she espies a fellow-servant in the distance, who
straightway informs her that it is Pao-yü’s wedding-day, and that he
had moved into another suite of apartments. And so it was. Pao-yü had
joyfully agreed to the proposition that he should marry his cousin, for
he had been skilfully given to understand that the cousin in question
was Tai-yü. And now the much wished-for hour had arrived. The veiled
bride, accompanied by the very slave-girl who had long ago escorted her
from the south, alighted from her sedan-chair at Pao-yü’s door. The
wedding march was played, and the young couple proceeded to the final
ceremony of worship, which made them irrevocably man and wife. Then, as
is customary upon such occasions, Pao-yü raised his bride’s veil. For
a moment he seemed as though suddenly turned into stone, as he stood
there speechless and motionless, with fixed eyes gazing upon a face he
had little expected to behold. Meanwhile, Pao-ch‘ai retired into an
inner apartment; and then, for the first time, Pao-yü found his voice.
“Am I dreaming?” cried he, looking round upon his assembled relatives
and friends.
“No, you are married,” replied several of those nearest to him. “Take
care; your father is outside. He arranged it all.”
“Who was that?” said Pao-yü, with averted head, pointing in the
direction of the door through which Pao-ch‘ai had disappeared.
“It was Pao-ch‘ai, your wife...”
“Tai-yü, you mean; Tai-yü is my wife,” shrieked he, interrupting them;
“I want Tai-yü! I want Tai-yü! Oh, bring us together, and save us
both!” Here he broke down altogether. Thick sobs choked his further
utterance, until relief came in a surging flood of tears.
All this time Tai-yü was dying, dying beyond hope of recall. She knew
that the hour of release was at hand, and she lay there quietly waiting
for death. Every now and again she swallowed a teaspoonful of broth,
but gradually the light faded out of her eyes, and the slave-girl,
faithful to the last, felt that her young mistress’s fingers were
rapidly growing cold. At that moment, Tai-yü’s lips were seen to move,
and she was distinctly heard to say, “O Pao-yü, Pao-yü...” Those words
were her last.
Just then, breaking in upon the hushed moments which succeed
dissolution, sounds of far-off music were borne along upon the breeze.
The slave-girl crept stealthily to the door, and strained her ear to
listen; but she could hear nothing save the soughing of the wind as it
moaned fitfully through the trees.
But the bridegroom himself had already entered the valley of the dark
shadow. Pao-yü was very ill. He raved and raved about Tai-yü, until
at length Pao-ch‘ai, who had heard the news, took upon herself the
painful task of telling him she was already dead. “Dead?” cried Pao-yü,
“dead?” and with a loud groan he fell back upon the bed insensible. A
darkness came before his eyes, and he seemed to be transported into
a region which was unfamiliar to him. Looking about, he saw some one
advancing towards him, and immediately called out to the stranger to be
kind enough to tell him where he was. “You are on the road to the next
world,” replied the man; “but your span of life is not yet complete,
and you have no business here.” Pao-yü explained that he had come in
search of Tai-yü, who had lately died; to which the man replied that
Tai-yü’s soul had already gone back to its home in the pure serene.
“And if you would see her again,” added the man, “return to your duties
upon earth. Fulfil your destiny there, chasten your understanding,
nourish the divinity that is within you, and you may yet hope to meet
her once more.” The man then flung a stone at him and struck him over
the heart, which so frightened Pao-yü that he turned to retrace his
steps. At that moment he heard himself loudly called by name; and
opening his eyes, saw his mother and grandmother standing by the side
of his bed.
They had thought that he was gone, and were overjoyed at seeing him
return to life, even though it was the same life as before, clouded
with the great sorrow of unreason. For now they could always hope; and
when they saw him daily grow stronger and stronger in bodily health,
it seemed that ere long even his mental equilibrium might be restored.
The more so that he had ceased to mention Tai-yü’s name, and treated
Pao-ch‘ai with marked kindness and respect.
All this time the fortunes of the two grand families are sinking from
bad to worse. Pao-yü’s uncle is mixed up in an act of disgraceful
oppression; while his father, at his new post, makes the foolish
endeavour to be an honest incorrupt official. He tries to put his
foot down upon the system of bribery which prevails, but succeeds
only in getting himself recalled and impeached for maladministration
of affairs. The upshot of all this is that an Imperial decree is
issued confiscating the property and depriving the families of their
hereditary rank. Besides this, the lineal representatives are to be
banished; and within the walls which have been so long sacred to mirth
and merrymaking, consternation now reigns supreme. “O high Heaven,”
cries Pao-yü’s father, as his brother and nephew start for their place
of banishment, “that the fortunes of our family should fall like this!”
Of all, perhaps the old grandmother felt the blow most severely.
She had lived for eighty-three years in affluence, accustomed to
the devotion of her children and the adulation of friends. But now
money was scarce, and the voice of flattery unheard. The courtiers of
prosperous days forgot to call, and even the servants deserted at their
posts. And so it came about that the old lady fell ill, and within a
few days was lying upon her death-bed. She spoke a kind word to all,
except to Pao-ch‘ai. For her she had only a sigh, that fate had linked
her with a husband whose heart was buried in the grave. So she died,
and there was a splendid funeral, paid for out of funds raised at the
pawnshop. Pao-ch‘ai appeared in white; and among the flowers which were
gathered around the bier, she was unanimously pronounced to be the
fairest blossom of all.
Then other members of the family die, and Pao-yü relapses into a
condition as critical as ever. He is in fact at the point of death,
when a startling announcement restores him again to consciousness. A
Buddhist priest is at the outer gate, and he has brought back Pao-yü’s
lost tablet of jade. There was, of course, great excitement on all
sides; but the priest refused to part with the jade until he had got
the promised reward. And where now was it possible to raise such a sum
as that, and at a moment’s notice? Still it was felt that the tablet
must be recovered at all costs. Pao-yü’s life depended on it, and he
was the sole hope of the family. So the priest was promised his reward,
and the jade was conveyed into the sick-room. But when Pao-yü clutched
it in his eager hand, he dropped it with a loud cry and fell back
gasping upon the bed.
In a few minutes Pao-yü’s breathing became more and more distressed,
and a servant ran out to call in the priest, in the hope that something
might yet be done. The priest, however, had disappeared, and by this
time Pao-yü had ceased to breathe.
Immediately upon the disunion of body and soul which mortals call
death, the spirit of Pao-yü set off on its journey to the Infinite, led
by a Buddhist priest. Just then a voice called out and said that Tai-yü
was awaiting him, and at that moment many familiar faces crowded round
him, but as he gazed at them in recognition, they changed into grinning
goblins. At length he reached a spot where there was a beautiful
crimson flower in an enclosure, so carefully tended that neither bees
nor butterflies were allowed to settle upon it. It was a flower, he was
told, which had been to fulfil a mission upon earth, and had recently
returned to the Infinite. He was now taken to see Tai-yü. A bamboo
screen which hung before the entrance to a room was raised, and there
before him stood his heart’s idol, his lost Tai-yü. Stretching forth
his hands, he was about to speak to her, when suddenly the screen was
hastily dropped. The priest gave him a shove, and he fell backwards,
awaking as though from a dream.
Once more he had regained a new hold upon life; once more he had
emerged from the very jaws of death. This time he was a changed man.
He devoted himself to reading for the great public examination, in
the hope of securing the much coveted degree of Master of Arts.
Nevertheless, he talks little, and seems to care less, about the
honours and glory of this world; and what is stranger than all, he
appears to have very much lost his taste for the once fascinating
society of women. For a time he seems to be under the spell of a
religious craze, and is always arguing with Pao-ch‘ai upon the
advantages of devoting one’s life to the service of Buddha. But shortly
before the examination he burned all the books he had collected which
treated of immortality and a future state, and concentrated every
thought upon the great object before him.
At length the day comes, and Pao-yü, accompanied by a nephew who
is also a candidate, prepares to enter the arena. His father was
away from home. He had gone southwards to take the remains of the
grandmother and of Tai-yü back to their ancestral burying-ground. So
Pao-yü first goes to take leave of his mother, and she addresses to
him a few parting words, full of encouragement and hope. Then Pao-yü
falls upon his knees, and implores her pardon for all the trouble
he has caused her. “I can only trust,” he added, “that I shall
now be successful, and that you, dear mother, will be happy.” And
then amid tears and good wishes, the two young men set out for the
examination-hall, where, with several thousand other candidates, they
are to remain for some time immured.
The hours and days speed apace, full of arduous effort to those within,
of anxiety to those without. At last the great gates are thrown wide
open, and the vast crowd of worn-out, weary students bursts forth,
to meet the equally vast crowd of eager, expectant friends. In the
crush that ensues, Pao-yü and his nephew lose sight of each other, and
the nephew reaches home first. There the feast of welcome is already
spread, and the wine-kettles are put to the fire. So every now and
again somebody runs out to see if Pao-yü is not yet in sight. But the
time passes and he comes not. Fears as to his personal safety begin
to be aroused, and messengers are sent out in all directions. Pao-yü
is nowhere to be found. The night comes and goes. The next day and
the next day, and still no Pao-yü. He has disappeared without leaving
behind him the faintest clue to his whereabouts. Meanwhile, the list of
successful candidates is published, and Pao-yü’s name stands seventh
on the list. His nephew has the 130th place. What a triumph for the
family, and what rapture would have been theirs, but for the mysterious
absence of Pao-yü.
Thus their joy was shaded by sorrow, until hope, springing eternal,
was unexpectedly revived. Pao-yü’s winning essay had attracted the
attention of the Emperor, and his Majesty issued an order for the
writer to appear at Court. An Imperial order may not be lightly
disregarded; and it was fervently hoped by the family that by these
means Pao-yü might be restored to them. This, in fact, was all that was
wanting now to secure the renewed prosperity of the two ancient houses.
The tide of events had set favourably at last. Those who had been
banished to the frontier had greatly distinguished themselves against
the banditti who ravaged the country round about. There was Pao-yü’s
success and his nephew’s; and above all, the gracious clemency of the
Son of Heaven. Free pardons were granted, confiscated estates were
returned. The two families basked again in the glow of Imperial favour.
Pao-ch‘ai was about to become a mother; the ancestral line might be
continued after all. But Pao-yü, where was he? That remained a mystery
still, against which even the Emperor’s mandate proved to be of no
avail.
It was on his return journey that Pao-yü’s father heard of the success
and disappearance of his son. Torn by conflicting emotions he hurried
on, in his haste to reach home and aid in unravelling the secret of
Pao-yü’s hiding-place. One moonlight night, his boat lay anchored
alongside the shore, which a storm of the previous day had wrapped in
a mantle of snow. He was sitting writing at a table, when suddenly,
through the half-open door, advancing towards him over the bow of the
boat, his silhouette sharply defined against the surrounding snow, he
saw the figure of a shaven-headed Buddhist priest. The priest knelt
down, and struck his head four times upon the ground, and then,
without a word, turned back to join two other priests who were awaiting
him. The three vanished as imperceptibly as they had come; before,
indeed, the astonished father was able to realise that he had been, for
the last time, face to face with Pao-yü!
FOOTNOTES:
[35] Said of the bogies of the hills, in allusion to their _clothes_.
Here quoted with reference to the official classes, in ridicule of the
title under which they hold posts which, from a literary point of view,
they are totally unfit to occupy.
[36] A poet of the T‘ang dynasty, whose eyebrows met, whose nails were
very long, and who could write very fast.
[37] This is another hit at the ruling classes. Hsi K‘ang, the
celebrated poet, musician, and alchemist (A.D. 223-262),
was sitting one night alone, playing upon his lute, when suddenly a
man with a tiny face walked in, and began to stare hard at him, the
stranger’s face enlarging all the time. “I’m not going to match myself
against a devil!” cried the musician after a few moments, and instantly
blew out the light.
[38] When Liu Chüan, Governor of Wu-ling, determined to relieve his
poverty by trade, he saw a devil standing by his side, laughing
and rubbing its hands for glee. “Poverty and wealth are matters of
destiny,” said Liu Chüan, “but to be laughed at by a devil--,” and
accordingly he desisted from his intention.
[39] A writer who flourished in the early part of the fourth century,
and composed a work in thirty books, entitled “Supernatural Researches.”
[40] The birth of a boy was formerly signalled by hanging a bow at the
door; that of a girl, by displaying a small towel--indicative of the
parts that each would hereafter play in the drama of life.
[41] Alluding to the priest Dharma-nandi, who came from India to China,
and tried to convert the Emperor Wu Ting of the Liang dynasty; but
failing in his attempt, he retired full of mortification to a temple
at Sung-shan, where he sat for nine years before a rock, until his own
image was imprinted thereon.
[42] The six _gâti_ or conditions of existence, viz., angels, men,
demons, hungry devils, brute beasts, and tortured sinners.
[43] The work of a well-known writer, named Lin I-ch‘ing, who
flourished during the Sung dynasty.
[44] The great poet Tu Fu dreamt that his greater predecessor, Li
T‘ai-po, appeared to him, “coming when the maple-grove was in darkness,
and returning while the frontier pass was still obscured,”--that is,
at night, when no one could see him; the meaning being that he never
came at all, and that those “who know me (P‘u Sung-ling)” are equally
non-existent.
[45] These two lines are short in the original.
CHAPTER II
THE EMPERORS K‘ANG HSI AND CH’IEN LUNG
The second Emperor of the Manchu dynasty, known to the world by his
year-title K‘ANG HSI, succeeded to the throne in 1662 when he
was only eight years of age, and six years later he took up the reins
of government. Fairly tall and well-proportioned, he loved all manly
exercises and devoted three months annually to hunting. Large bright
eyes lighted up his face, which was pitted with small-pox. Contemporary
observers vie in praising his wit, understanding, and liberality of
mind. Indefatigable in government, he kept a careful watch on his
Ministers, his love for the people leading him to prefer economy to
taxation. He was personally frugal, yet on public works he would lavish
large sums. He patronised the Jesuits, whom he employed in surveying
the empire, in astronomy, and in casting cannon; though latterly he
found it necessary to impose restrictions on their propagandism. In
spite of war and rebellion, which must have encroached seriously upon
his time, he found leisure to initiate and carry out, with the aid
of the leading scholars of the day, several of the greatest literary
enterprises the world has ever seen. The chief of these are (1) the
_K‘ang Hsi Tzŭ Tien_, the great standard dictionary of the Chinese
language; (2) the _P‘ei Wên Yün Fu_, a huge concordance to all
literature, bound up in forty-four large closely-printed volumes;
(3) the _P‘ien Tzŭ Lei P‘ien_, a similar work, with a different
arrangement, bound up in thirty-six large volumes; (4) the _Yüan Chien
Lei Han_, an encyclopædia, bound up in forty-four volumes; and (5)
the _T‘u Shu Chi Ch‘êng_, a profusely illustrated encyclopædia, in
1628 volumes of about 200 pages to each. To the above must be added
a considerable collection of literary remains, in prose and verse,
which, of course, were actually the Emperor’s own work. It cannot be
said that any of these remains are of a high order, or are familiar
to the public at large, with a single and trifling exception. The
so-called Sacred Edict is known from one end of China to the other. It
originally consisted of sixteen moral maxims delivered in 1670 under
the form of an edict by the Emperor K‘ang Hsi. His Majesty himself had
just reached the mature age of sixteen. He had then probably discovered
that men’s morals were no longer what they had been in the days of
“ancient kings,” and with boyish earnestness he made a kindly effort
to do something for the people whose welfare was destined to be for so
many years to come his chief and most absorbing care. The maxims are
commonplace enough, but for the sake of the great Emperor who loved his
“children” more than himself they have been exalted into utterances
almost divine. Here are the first, seventh, and eleventh maxims, as
specimens:
“Pay great attention to filial piety and to brotherly obedience, in
order to give due weight to human relationships.”
“Discard strange doctrines, in order to glorify the orthodox teaching.”
“Educate your sons and younger brothers, in order to hinder them from
doing what is wrong.”
K‘ang Hsi died in 1722, after completing a full cycle of sixty years
as occupant of the Dragon Throne. His son and successor, Yung Chêng,
caused one hundred picked scholars to submit essays enlarging upon the
maxims of his father, and of these the sixteen best were chosen, and in
1724 it was enacted that they should be publicly read to the people on
the 1st and 15th of each month in every city and town in the empire.
This law is still in force. Subsequently, the sixteen essays were
paraphrased into easy colloquial; and now the maxims, the essays, and
the paraphrase, together make up a volume which may be roughly said to
contain the whole duty of man.
[Sidenote: CH’IEN LUNG]
In 1735 the Emperor Yung Chêng died, and was succeeded by his fourth
son, who reigned as CH’IEN LUNG. An able ruler, with an
insatiable thirst for knowledge, and an indefatigable administrator, he
rivals his grandfather’s fame as a sovereign and a patron of letters.
New editions of important historical works and of encyclopædias were
issued by Imperial order, and under the superintendence of the Emperor
himself. In 1772 there was a general search for all literary works
worthy of preservation, and ten years later a voluminous collection of
these was published, embracing many rare books taken from the great
encyclopædia of the Emperor Yung Lo. A descriptive catalogue of the
Imperial Library, containing 3460 works arranged under the four heads
of Classics, History, Philosophy, and General Literature, was drawn
up in 1772-1790. It gives the history of each work, which is also
criticised. The vastness of this catalogue led to the publication of
an abridgment, which omits all works not actually preserved in the
Library. The personal writings of this Emperor are very voluminous.
They consist of a general collection containing a variety of notes on
current or ancient topics, prefaces to books, and the like, and also of
a collection of poems. Of these last, those produced between 1736 and
1783 were published, and reached the almost incredible total of 33,950
separate pieces. It need hardly be added that nearly all are very
short. Even thus the output must be considered a record, apart from the
fact that during the reign there was a plentiful supply both of war
and rebellion. Burmah and Nepaul were forced to pay tribute; Chinese
supremacy was established in Tibet; and Kuldja and Kashgaria were added
to the empire. In 1795, on completing a cycle of sixty years of power,
the Emperor abdicated in favour of his son, and three years later he
died.
His Majesty’s poetry, though artificially correct, was mediocre enough.
The following stanza, “On Hearing the Cicada,” is a good example,
conforming as it does to all the rules of versification, but wanting in
that one feature which makes the “stop-short” what it is, viz., that
“although the words end, the sense still goes on”:--
“_The season is a month behind
in this land of northern breeze,
When first I hear the harsh cicada
shrieking through the trees.
I look, but cannot mark its form
amid the foliage fair,--
Naught but a flash of shadow
which goes flitting here and there._”
Here, instead of being carried away into some suggested train of
thought, the reader is fairly entitled to ask “What then?”
The following is a somewhat more spirited production. It is a song
written by Ch‘ien Lung, to be inserted and sung in a play entitled
“Picking up Gold,” by a beggar who is fortunate enough to stumble
across a large nugget:--
“_A brimless cap of felt stuck on my head;
No coat,--a myriad-patchwork quilt instead;
In my hand a bamboo staff;
Hempen sandals on my feet;
As I slouch along the street,
‘Pity the poor beggar,’ to the passers-by I call,
Hoping to obtain broken food and dregs of wine.
Then when night’s dark shadows fall,
Oh merrily, Oh merrily I laugh,
Drinking myself to sleep, sheltered in some old shrine._
_Black, black, the clouds close round on every side;
White, white, the gossamer flakes fly far and wide.
Ai-yah! is’t jade that sudden decks the eaves?
With silver tiles meseems the streets are laid.
Oh, in what glorious garb Nature’s arrayed,
Displaying fairy features on a lovely face!
But stay! the night is drawing on apace;
Nothing remains my homeward track to guide;
See how the feathered snow weighs down the palm-tree leaves!_
_I wag my head and clap my hands, ha! ha!
I clap my hands and wag my head, ha! ha!
There in the drift a lump half-sunken lies;
The beggar’s luck has turned up trumps at last!
O gold!--for thee dear relatives will part,
Dear friends forget their hours of friendship past,
Husband and wife tear at each other’s heart,
Father and son sever life’s closest ties;
For thee, the ignoble thief all rule and law defies._
_What men of this world most adore is gold;
The devils deep in hell the dross adore;
Where gold is there the gods are in its wake.
Now shall I never more produce the snake;
Stand begging where the cross-roads meet no more;
Or shiver me to sleep in the rush hut, dank and cold;
Or lean against the rich or poor man’s door.
Away my yellow bowl, my earthen jar!
See, thus I rend my pouch and hurl my gourd afar!_
_An official hat and girdle I shall wear,
And this shrunk shank in boots with pipeclayed soles encase;
On fête and holiday how jovial I shall be,
Joining my friends in the tavern or the tea-shop o’er their tea;
Swagger, swagger, swagger, with such an air and grace.
Sometimes a sleek steed my ‘Excellence’ will bear;
Or in a sedan I shall ride at ease,
One servant with my hat-box close behind the chair,
While another on his shoulders carries my valise._”
CHAPTER III
CLASSICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE--POETRY