No More Learning

The exquisite little mandarin ducks, an unvarying symbol of conjugal
fidelity. Li T'ai-po often alludes to them and declares that, rather
than be separated, they would "prefer to die ten thousand deaths, and
have their gauze-like wings torn to fragments. "

Wild Geese.

Symbols of direct purpose, their flight being always in a straight line.
As they follow the sun's course, allusions to their departure suggest
Spring, to their arrival, Autumn.

A complete list of the trees and plants endowed with symbolical meanings
would be almost endless. Those most commonly employed in poetry in a
suggestive sense are:

Ch'ang P'u.

A plant growing in the Taoist Paradise and much admired by the
Immortals, who are the only beings able to see its purple blossoms. On
earth, it is known as the sweet flag, and has the peculiarity of never
blossoming. It is hung on the lintels of doors on the fifth day of the
Fifth Month to ward off the evil influences which may be brought by the
_kuei_ on their return to this world during the "hour of the horse. "

Peony.

Riches and prosperity.

Lotus.

Purity. Although it rises from the mud, it is bright and spotless.

Plum-blossom.

Literally "the first," it being the first of the "hundred flowers" to
open. It suggests the beginnings of things, and is also one of the
"three friends" who do not fear the Winter cold, the other two being the
pine and the bamboo.

Lan.

A small epidendrum, translated in this book as "spear-orchid. " It is a
symbol for noble men and beautiful, refined women. Confucius compared
the _Chün Tzŭ_, Princely or Superior Man, to this little orchid with its
delightful scent. In poetry, it is also used in reference to the Women's
Apartments and everything connected with them, suggesting, as it does,
the extreme of refinement.

Chrysanthemum.

Fidelity and constancy. In spite of frost, its flowers continue to
bloom.

Ling Chih.

Longevity. This fungus, which grows at the roots of trees, is very
durable when dried.

Pine.

Longevity, immutability, steadfastness.

Bamboo.

This plant has as many virtues as it has uses, the principal ones are
modesty, protection from defilement, unchangeableness.

Wu-t'ung.

A tree whose botanical name is _sterculia platanifolia_. Its only
English name seems to be "umbrella-tree," which has proved so
unattractive in its context in the poems that we have left it
untranslated. It is a symbol for integrity, high principles, great
sensibility. When "Autumn stands," on August seventh, although it is
still to all intents and purposes Summer, the wu-t'ung tree drops one
leaf. Its wood, which is white, easy to cut, and very light, is the only
kind suitable for making that intimate instrument which quickly betrays
the least emotion of the person playing upon it--the _ch'in_, or
table-lute.

Willow.

A prostitute, or any very frivolous person. Concubines writing to their
lords often refer to themselves under this figure, in the same spirit of
self-depreciation which prompts them to employ the euphemism, "Unworthy
One," instead of the personal pronoun. Because of its lightness and
pliability, it conveys also the idea of extreme vitality.

Peach-blossom.

Beautiful women and ill-success in life. The first suggestion, on
account of the exquisite colour of the flower; the second, because of
its perishability.

Peach-tree.

Longevity. This fruit is supposed to ripen once every three thousand
years on the trees of Paradise, and those who eat of this celestial
species never die.

Mulberry.

Utility. Also suggests a peaceful hamlet. Its wood is used in the making
of bows and the kind of temple-drums called _mo yü_--wooden fish. Its
leaves feed the silk-worms.

Plantain.

Sadness and grief. It is symbolical of a heart which is not "flat" or
"level," as the Chinese say, not open or care-free, but of one which is
"tightly rolled. " The sound of rain on its leaves is very mournful,
therefore an allusion to the plantain always means sorrow. Planted
outside windows already glazed with silk, its heavy green leaves soften
the glaring light of Summer, and it is often used for this purpose.

Nothing has been more of a stumbling-block to translators than the fact
that the Chinese year--which is strictly lunar, with an intercalary
month added at certain intervals--begins a month later than ours; or, to
be more exact, it is calculated from the first new moon after the sun
enters Aquarius, which brings the New Year at varying times from the end
of January to the middle of February. For translation purposes, however,
it is safe to count the Chinese months as always one later by our
calendar than the number given would seem to imply. By this calculation
the "First Month" is February, and so on throughout the year.

The day is divided into twelve periods of two hours each beginning at
eleven P. M. and each of these periods is called by the name of an
animal--horse, deer, snake, bat, etc. As these names are not duplicated,
the use of them tells at once whether the hour is day or night. Ancient
China's method of telling time was by means of slow and evenly burning
sticks made of a composition of clay and sawdust, or by the clepsydra,
or water-clock. Water-clocks are mentioned several times in these poems.

So much for what I have called the backgrounds of Chinese poetry. I must
now speak of that poetry itself, and of Miss Lowell's and my method of
translating it.

Chinese prosody is a very difficult thing for an Occidental to
understand. Chinese is a monosyllabic language, and this reduces the
word-sounds so considerably that speech would be almost impossible were
it not for the invention of tones by which the same sound can be made to
do the duty of four in the Mandarin dialect, five in the Nankingese,
eight in the Cantonese, etc. , a different tone inflection totally
changing the meaning of a word. Only two chief tones are used in poetry,
the "level" and the "oblique," but the oblique tone is subdivided into
three, which makes four different inflections possible to every sound.
Of course, like English and other languages, the same word may have
several meanings, and in Chinese these meanings are bewilderingly many;
the only possible way of determining which one is correct is by its
context. These tones constitute, at the outset, the principal difference
which divides the technique of Chinese poetry from our own. Another is
to be found in the fact that nothing approaching our metrical foot is
possible in a tongue which knows only single syllables. Rhyme does
exist, but there are only a little over a hundred rhymes, as tone
inflection does not change a word in that particular. Such a paucity of
rhyme would seriously affect the richness of any poetry, if again the
Chinese had not overcome this lingual defect by the employment of a
juxtaposing pattern made up of their four poetic tones. And these tones
come to the rescue once more when we consider the question of rhythm.
Monosyllables in themselves always produce a staccato effect, which
tends to make all rhythm composed of them monotonous, if, indeed, it
does not destroy it altogether. The tones cause what I may call a
psychological change in the time-length of these monosyllables, which
change not only makes true rhythm possible, but allows marked varieties
of the basic beat.

One of the chief differences between poetry and prose is that poetry
must have a more evident pattern. The pattern of Chinese poetry is
formed out of three elements: line, rhyme, and tone.

The Chinese attitude toward line is almost identical with that of the
French. French prosody counts every syllable as a foot, and a line is
made up of so many counted feet. If any of my readers has ever read
French alexandrines aloud to a Frenchman, read them as we should read
English poetry, seeking to bring out the musical stress, he will
remember the look of sad surprise which crept over his hearer's face.
Not so was this verse constructed; not so is it to be read. The number
of syllables to a line is counted, that is the secret of French classic
poetry; the number of syllables is counted in Chinese. But--and we come
to a divergence--this method of counting does, in French practice, often
do away with the rhythm so delightful to an English ear; in Chinese, no
such violence occurs, as each syllable is a word and no collection of
such words can fall into a metric pulse as French words can, and, in
their _Chansons_, are permitted to do.

The Chinese line pattern is, then, one of counted words, and these
counted words are never less than three, nor more than seven, in regular
verse; irregular is a different matter, as I shall explain shortly. Five
and seven word lines are cut by a cæsura, which comes after the second
word in a five-word line, and after the fourth in a seven-word line.

Rhyme is used exactly as we use it, at the ends of lines. Internal
rhyming is common, however, in a type of poem called a "_fu_," which I
shall deal with when I come to the particular kinds of verse.

Tone is everywhere, obviously, and is employed, not arbitrarily, but
woven into a pattern of its own which again is in a more or less loose
relation to rhyme. By itself, the tone-pattern alternates in a peculiar
manner in each line, the last line of a stanza conforming to the order
of tones in the first, the intervening lines varying methodically. I
have before me a poem in which the tone-pattern is alike in lines one,
four, and eight, of an eight-line stanza, as are lines two and six, and
lines three and seven, while line five is the exact opposite of lines
two and six. In the second stanza of the same poem, the pattern is kept,
but adversely; the tones do not follow the same order, but conform in
similarity of grouping. I use this example merely to show what is meant
by tone-pattern. It will serve to illustrate how much diversity and
richness this tone-chiming is capable of bringing to Chinese poetry.

Words which rhyme must be in the same tone in regular verse, and
unrhymed lines must end on an oblique tone if the rhyme-tone is level,
and _vice versa_. The level tone is preferred for rhyme.

In the early Chinese poetry, called _Ku-shih_ (Old Poems), the tones
were practically disregarded. But in the _Lü-shih_ (Regulated Poems) the
rules regarding them are very strict. The _lü-shih_ are supposed to date
from the beginning of the T'ang Dynasty. A _lü-shih_ poem proper should
be of eight lines, though this is often extended to sixteen, but it must
be in either the five-word line, or the seven-word line, metre. The
poets of the T'ang Dynasty, however, were by no means the slaves of
_lü-shih_; they went their own way, as good poets always do, conforming
when it pleased them and disregarding when they chose. It depended on
the character of the poet. Tu Fu was renowned for his careful
versification; Li T'ai-po, on the other hand, not infrequently rebelled
and made his own rules. In his "Drinking Song," which is in seven-word
lines, he suddenly dashes in two three-word lines, a proceeding which
must have been greatly upsetting to the purists. It is amusing to note
that his "Taking Leave of Tu Fu" is in the strictest possible form,
which is at once a tribute and a poking of fun at his great friend and
contemporary.

Regular poems of more than sixteen lines are called _p'ai lu_, and these
may run to any length; Tu Fu carried them to forty, eighty, and even to
two hundred lines. Another form, always translated as "short-stop," cuts
the eight-line poem in two. In theory, the short-stop holds the same
relation to the eight-line poem that the Japanese _hokku_ does to the
_tanka_, although of course it preceded the _hokku_ by many centuries.
It is supposed to suggest rather than to state, being considered as an
eight-line poem with its end in the air. In suggestion, however, the
later Japanese form far outdoes it.

So called "irregular verse" follows the writer's inclination within the
natural limits of all Chinese prosody.

A _tzŭ_ may be taken to mean a lyric, if we use that term, not in its
dictionary sense, but as all modern poets employ it. It may vary its
line length, but must keep the same variation in all the stanzas.

Perhaps the most interesting form to modern students is the _fu_, in
which the construction is almost identical with that of "polyphonic
prose. " The lines are so irregular in length that the poem might be
mistaken for prose, had we not a corresponding form to guide us. The
rhymes appear when and where they will, in the middle of the lines or at
the end, and sometimes there are two or more together. I have been told
that Persia has, or had, an analogous form, and if so modern an
invention as "polyphonic prose" derives, however unconsciously, from two
such ancient countries as China and Persia, the fact is, at least,
interesting.

The earliest examples of Chinese poetry which have come down to us are a
collection of rhymed ballads in various metres, of which the most usual
is four words to a line. They are simple, straightforward pieces, often
of a strange poignance, and always reflecting the quiet, peaceful habits
of a people engaged in agriculture. The oldest were probably composed
about 2000 B. C. and the others at varying times from then until the
Sixth Century B. C. , when Confucius gathered them into the volume known
as the "Book of Odes. " Two of these odes are translated in this book.
The next epoch in the advance of poetry-making was introduced by Ch'ü
Yüan (312-295 B. C. ), a famous statesman and poet, who wrote an
excitable, irregular style in which the primitive technical rules were
disregarded, their place being taken by exigencies of emotion and idea.
We are wont to regard a poetical technique determined by feeling alone
as a very modern innovation, and it is interesting to note that the
method is, on the contrary, as old as the hills. These rhapsodical
allegories culminated in a poem entitled "Li Sao," or "Falling into
Trouble," which is one of the most famous of ancient Chinese poems. A
further development took place under the Western Han (206 B. C. -A. D. 25),
when Su Wu invented the five-character poem, _ku fêng_; these poems were
in Old Style, but had five words to a line. It is during this same
period that poems with seven words to a line appeared. Legend has it
that they were first composed by the Emperor Wu of Han, and that he hit
upon the form on an occasion when he and his Ministers were drinking
wine and capping verses at a feast on the White Beam Terrace. Finally,
under the Empress Wu Hou, early in the T'ang Dynasty, the _lü-shih_, or
"poems according to law," became the standard. It will be seen that the
_lü-shih_ found the five and seven word lines already in being and had
merely to standardize them. The important gift which the _lü-shih_
brought to Chinese prosody was its insistence on tone.

The great period of Chinese poetry was during the T'ang Dynasty. Then
lived the three famous poets, Li T'ai-po, Tu Fu, and Po Chü-i. Space
forbids me to give the biographies of all the poets whose work is
included in this volume, but as Li T'ai-po and Tu Fu, between them, take
up more than half the book, a short account of the principal events of
their lives seems necessary. I shall take them in the order of the
number of their poems printed in this collection, which also, as a
matter of fact, happens to be chronological.

I have already stated in the first part of this Introduction the reasons
which determined me to give so large a space to Li T'ai-po. English
writers on Chinese literature are fond of announcing that Li T'ai-po is
China's greatest poet; the Chinese themselves, however, award this place
to Tu Fu. We may put it that Li T'ai-po was the people's poet, and Tu Fu
the poet of scholars. As Po Chü-i is represented here by only one poem,
no account of his life has been given. A short biography of him may be
found in Mr. Waley's "A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems. "

It is permitted to very few to live in the hearts of their countrymen as
Li T'ai-po has lived in the hearts of the Chinese. To-day, twelve
hundred and twenty years after his birth, his memory and his fame are
fresh, his poems are universally recited, his personality is familiar on
the stage: in fact, to use the words of a Chinese scholar, "It may be
said that there is no one in the People's Country who does not know the
name of Li T'ai-po. " Many legends are told of his birth, his life, his
death, and he is now numbered among the _Hsien_ (Immortals) who inhabit
the Western Paradise.

Li T'ai-po was born A. D. 701, of well-to-do parents named Li, who lived
in the Village of the Green Lotus in Szechwan. He is reported to have
been far more brilliant than ordinary children. When he was only five
years old, he read books that other boys read at ten; at ten, he could
recite the "Classics" aloud and had read the "Book of the Hundred
Sages. " Doubtless this precocity was due to the fact that his birth was
presided over by the "Metal Star," which we know as Venus. His mother
dreamt that she had conceived him under the influence of this luminary,
and called him T'ai-po, "Great Whiteness," a popular name for the
planet.

In spite of his learning, he was no _Shu Tai Tzŭ_ (Book Idiot) as the
Chinese say, but, on the contrary, grew up a strong young fellow,
impetuous to a fault, with a lively, enthusiastic nature. He was
extremely fond of sword-play, and constantly made use of his skill in it
to right the wrongs of his friends. However worthy his causes may have
been, this propensity got him into a serious scrape. In the excitement
of one of these encounters, he killed several people, and was forthwith
obliged to fly from his native village. The situation was an awkward
one, but the young man disguised himself as a servant and entered the
employ of a minor official. This gentleman was possessed of literary
ambitions and a somewhat halting talent; still we can hardly wonder that
he was not pleased when his servant ended a poem in which he was
hopelessly floundering with lines far better than he could make. After
this, and one or two similar experiences, Li T'ai-po found it advisable
to relinquish his job and depart from his master's house.

His next step was to join a scholar who disguised his real name under
the pseudonym of "Stern Son of the East. " The couple travelled together
to the beautiful Min Mountains, where they lived in retirement for five
years as teacher and pupil. This period, passed in reading, writing,
discussing literature, and soaking in the really marvellous scenery,
greatly influenced the poet's future life, and imbued him with that
passionate love for nature so apparent in his work.

At the age of twenty-five, he separated from his teacher and left the
mountains, going home to his native village for a time. But the love of
travel was inherent in him, nowhere could hold him for long, and he soon
started off on a sight-seeing trip to all those places in the Empire
famous for their beauty. This time he travelled as the position of his
parents warranted, and even a little beyond it. He had a retinue of
servants, and spent money lavishly. This open-handedness is one of the
fine traits of his character. Needy scholars and men of talent never
appealed to him in vain; during a year at Yangchow, he is reported to
have spent three hundred thousand ounces of silver in charity.

From Yangchow he journeyed to the province of Hupeh ("North of the
Lake") where, in the district of the "Dreary Clouds," he stayed at the
house of a family named Hsü, which visit resulted in his marriage with
one of the daughters. Li T'ai-po lived in Hupeh for some years--he
himself says three--then his hunger for travel reasserted itself and he
was off again. After some years of wandering, while visiting a
magistrate in Shantung, an incident occurred which had far-reaching
consequences. A prisoner was about to be flogged. Li T'ai-po, who was
passing, glanced at the man, and, happening to be possessed of a shrewd
insight into character, realized at once that here was an unusual
person. He secured the man's release, and twenty-five years later this
action bore fruit as the sequel will show. The freed prisoner was Kuo
Tzŭ-i, who became one of China's most powerful generals and the saviour
of the T'ang Dynasty.

It will be noticed that nothing has been said of the poet taking any
examinations, and for the excellent reason that he never thought it
worth while to present himself as a candidate. The simple fact appears
to be that geniuses often do not seem to find necessary what other men
consider of supreme importance. Presumably, also, he had no particular
desire for an official life. The gifts of Heaven go by favour and the
gifts of man are strangely apt to do the same thing, in spite of the
excellent rules devised to order them. Li T'ai-po's career owed nothing
to either the lack of official degrees or official interest. What he
achieved, he owed to himself; what he failed in came from the same
source.

About this time, the poet and a few congenial friends formed the coterie
of "The Six Idlers of the Bamboo Brook. " They retired to the Ch'u Lai
Mountain and spent their time in drinking, reciting poems, writing
beautiful characters, and playing on the table-lute. It must be admitted
that Li T'ai-po was an inveterate and inordinate drinker, and far more
often than was wise in the state called by his countrymen "great drunk. "
To this propensity he was indebted for all his ill fortune, as it was to
his poetic genius that he owed all his good.

So the years passed until, when he was forty-two, he met the Taoist
priest, Wu Yün.
They immediately became intimate, and on Wu Yün's being
called to the capital, Li T'ai-po accompanied him. Wu Yün took occasion
to tell the Emperor of his friend's extraordinary talent. The Emperor
was interested, the poet was sent for, and, introduced by Ho Chih-chang,
was received by the Son of Heaven in the Golden Bells Hall.

The native accounts of this meeting state that "in his discourses upon
the affairs of the Empire, the words rushed from his mouth like a
mountain torrent. " Ming Huang, who was enchanted, ordered food to be
brought and helped the poet himself.

So Li T'ai-po became attached to the Court and was made an honorary
member of the "Forest of Pencils. " He was practically the Emperor's
secretary and wrote the Emperor's edicts, but this was by the way--his
real duty was simply to write what he chose and when, and recite these
poems at any moment that it pleased the Emperor to call upon him to do
so.

Li T'ai-po, with his love of wine and good-fellowship, was well suited
for the life of the gay and dissipated Court of Ming Huang, then
completely under the influence of the beautiful concubine, Yang
Kuei-fei. Conspicuous among the Emperor's entourage was Ho Chih-chang, a
famous statesman, poet, and calligraphist, who, on reading Li T'ai-po's
poetry, is said to have sighed deeply and exclaimed: "This is not the
work of a human being, but of a _Tsê Hsien_ (Banished Immortal). " To
understand fully the significance of this epithet, it must be realized
that mortals who have already attained Immortality, but who have
committed some fault, may be banished from Paradise to expiate their sin
on earth.

For about two years, Li T'ai-po led the life of supreme favourite in the
most brilliant Court in the world. The fact that when sent for to
compose or recite verses he was not unapt to be drunk was of no
particular importance since, after being summarily revived with a dash
of cold water, he could always write or chant with his accustomed verve
and dexterity. His influence over the Emperor became so great that it
roused the jealousy, and eventually the hatred, of Kao Li-shih, the
Chief Eunuch, who, until then, had virtually ruled his Imperial master.
On one occasion, when Li T'ai-po was more than usually incapacitated,
the Emperor ordered Kao to take off the poet's shoes. This was too much,
and from that moment the eunuch's malignity became an active intriguing
to bring about his rival's downfall. He found the opportunity he needed
in the vanity of Yang Kuei-fei. Persuading this lady that Li T'ai-po's
"Songs to the Peonies" contained a veiled insult directed at her, he
enlisted her anger against the poet and so gained an important ally to
his cause. On three separate occasions when Ming Huang wished to confer
official rank upon the poet, Yang Kuei-fei interfered and persuaded the
Emperor to forego his intention. Li T'ai-po was of too independent a
character, and too little of a courtier, to lift a finger to placate his
enemies. But the situation became so acute that at last he begged leave
to retire from the Court altogether. His request granted, he immediately
formed a new group of seven congenial souls and with them departed once
more to the mountains. This new association called itself "The Eight
Immortals of the Wine-cup. "

Although Li T'ai-po had asked for his own dismissal, he had really been
forced to ask it, and his banishment from the "Imperial Sun," with all
that "Sun" implied, was a blow from which he never recovered. His later
poems are full of more or less veiled allusions to his unhappy state.

The next ten years were spent in his favourite occupation of travelling,
especially in the provinces of Szechwan, Hunan, and Hupeh.

Meanwhile, political conditions were growing steadily worse. Popular
discontent at the excesses of Yang Kuei-fei and her satellite An Lu-shan
were increasing, and finally, in A. D. 755, rebellion broke out. I have
dealt with this rebellion earlier in this Introduction, and a more
detailed account is given in the Notes; I shall, therefore, do no more
than mention it here. Sometime during the preceding unrest, Li T'ai-po,
weary of moving from place to place, had taken the position of adviser
to Li Ling, Prince of Yung. In the wide-spread disorder caused by the
rebellion, Li Ling conceived the bold idea of establishing himself South
of the Yangtze as Emperor on his own account. Pursuing his purpose, he
started at the head of his troops for Nanking. Li T'ai-po strongly
disapproved of the Prince's course, a disapproval which affected that
headstrong person not at all, and the poet was forced to accompany his
master on the march to Nanking.

At Nanking, the Prince's army was defeated by the Imperial troops, and
immediately after the disaster Li T'ai-po fled, but was caught,
imprisoned, and condemned to death. Now came the sequel to the incident
which had taken place long before at Shantung. The Commander of the
Imperial forces was no other than Kuo Tzŭ-i, the former prisoner whose
life Li T'ai-po had saved. On learning the sentence passed upon the
poet, Kuo Tzŭ-i intervened and threatened to resign his command unless
his benefactor were spared. Accordingly Li T'ai-po's sentence was
changed to exile and he was released, charged to depart immediately for
some great distance where he could do no harm. He set out for Yeh Lang,
a desolate spot beyond the "Five Streams," in Kueichow. This was the
country of the _yao kuai_, the man-eating demons; and whether he
believed in them or not, the thought of existence in such a gloomy
solitude must have filled him with desperation.

He had not gone far, luckily, when a general amnesty was declared, and
he was permitted to return and live with his friend and disciple, Lu
Yang-ping, in the Lu Mountains near Kiukiang, a place which he dearly
loved. Here, in A. D. 762, at the age of sixty-one, he died, bequeathing
all his manuscripts to Lu Yang-ping.

The tale of his drowning, repeated by Giles and others, is pure legend,
as an authoritative statement of Lu Yang-ping proves. The manuscripts
left to his care, and all others he could collect from friends, Lu
Yang-ping published in an edition of ten volumes. This edition appeared
in the year of the poet's death, and contained the following preface by
Lu Yang-ping:

Since the three dynasties of antiquity,
Since the style of the 'Kuo Fêng' and the 'Li Sao,'
During these thousand years and more, of those who walked the
"lonely path,"
There has been only you, you are the Solitary Man, you are without
rival.

Li T'ai-po's poetry is full of dash and surprise. At his best, there is
an extraordinary exhilaration in his work; at his worst, he is merely
repetitive. Chinese critics have complained that his subjects are all
too apt to be trivial, and that his range is narrow. This is quite true;
poems of farewell, deserted ladies sighing for their absent lords,
officials consumed by homesickness, pæans of praise for wine--in the
aggregate there are too many of these. But how fine they often are! "The
Lonely Wife," "Poignant Grief During a Sunny Spring," "After being
Separated for a Long Time," such poems are the truth of emotion. Take
again his inimitable humour in the two "Drinking Alone in the Moonlight"
poems, or "Statement of Resolutions after being Drunk on a Spring Day. "
Then there are the poems of hyperbolical description such as "The Perils
of the Shu Road," "The Northern Flight," and "The Terraced Road of the
Two-Edged Sword Mountains. " Mountains seem to be in his very blood. Of
the sea, on the other hand, he has no such intimate knowledge; he sees
it afar, from some height, but always as a thing apart, a distant view.
The sea he gazes at; the mountains he treads under foot, their creepers
scratch his face, the jutting rocks beside the path bruise his hands. He
knows the straight-up, cutting-into-the-sky look of mountain peaks just
above him, and feels, almost bodily, the sheer drop into the angry river
tearing its way through a narrow gully below, a river he can see only by
leaning dangerously far over the cliff upon which he is standing. There
is a curious sense of perpendicularity about these mountain rhapsodies.
The vision is strained up for miles, and shot suddenly down for hundreds
of feet. The tactile effect of them is astounding; they are not to be
read, but experienced. And yet I am loth to say that Li T'ai-po is at
his greatest in description, with poems so full of human passion and
longing as "The Lonely Wife," and "Poignant Grief During a Sunny
Spring," before me. There is no doubt at all that in Li T'ai-po we have
one of the world's greatest lyrists.

Great though he was, it cannot be denied that he had serious weaknesses.
One was his tendency to write when the mood was not there, and at these
moments he was not ashamed to repeat a fancy conceived before on some
other occasion. Much of his style he crystallized into a convention, and
brought it out unblushingly whenever he was at a loss for something to
say. Sustained effort evidently wearied him. He will begin a poem with
the utmost spirit, but his energy is apt to flag and lead to a close so
weak as to annoy the reader. His short poems are always admirably built,
the endings complete and unexpected; the architectonics of his long
poems leave much to be desired. He seems to be ridden by his own
emotion, but without the power to draw it up and up to a climax; it
bursts upon us in the first line, sustains itself at the same level for
a series of lines, and then seems to faint exhausted, reducing the poet
to the necessity of stopping as quickly as he can and with as little jar
as possible. Illustrations of this tendency to a weak ending can be seen
in "The Lonely Wife," "The Perils of the Shu Road," and "The Terraced
Road of the Two-Edged Sword Mountains," but that he could keep his
inspiration to the end on occasion, "The Northern Flight" proves.

Finally, there are his poems of battle: "Songs of the Marches," "Battle
to the South of the City," and "Fighting to the South of the City. "
Nothing can be said of these except that they are superb. If there is a
hint of let-down in the concluding lines of "Fighting to the South of
the City," it is due to the frantic Chinese desire to quote from older
authors, and this is an excellent example of the chief vice of Chinese
poetry, since these two lines are taken from the "Tao Tê Ching," the
sacred book of Taoism; the others, even the long "Songs of the Marches,"
are admirably sustained.

In Mr. Waley's excellent monograph on Li T'ai-po, appears the following
paragraph: "Wang An-shih (A. D. 1021-1086), the great reformer of the
Eleventh Century, observes: 'Li Po's style is swift, yet never careless;
lively, yet never informal. But his intellectual outlook was low and
sordid. In nine poems out of ten he deals with nothing but wine and
women. '" A somewhat splenetic criticism truly, but great reformers have
seldom either the acumen or the sympathy necessary for the judgment of
poetry. Women and wine there are in abundance, but how treated? In no
mean or sordid manner certainly. Li T'ai-po was not a didactic poet, and
we of the Twentieth Century may well thank fortune for that.
Peradventure the Twenty-first will dote again upon the didactic, but we
must follow our particular inclination which is, it must be admitted,
quite counter to anything of the sort. No low or mean attitude indeed,
but a rather restricted one we may, if we please, charge against Li
T'ai-po. He was a sensuous realist, representing the world as he saw it,
with beauty as his guiding star. Conditions to him were static; he
wasted none of his force in speculating on what they should be. A scene
or an emotion _was_, and it was his business to reproduce it, not to
analyze how it had come about or what would best make its recurrence
impossible. Here he is at sharp variance with Tu Fu, who probes to the
roots of events even when he appears to be merely describing them. One
has but to compare the "Songs of the Marches" and "Battle to the South
of the City" with "The Recruiting Officers" and "Crossing the Frontier"
to see the difference.

Tu Fu was born in Tu Ling, in the province of Shensi, in A. D. 713. His
family was extremely poor, but his talent was so marked that at seven
years old he had begun to write poetry; at nine, he could write large
characters; and at fifteen, his essays and poems were the admiration of
his small circle. When he was twenty-four, he went up to Ch'ang An, the
capital, for his first examination--it will be remembered that, in the
T'ang period, all the examinations took place at Ch'ang An. Tu Fu was
perfectly qualified to pass, as every one was very well aware, but the
opinions he expressed in his examination papers were so radical that the
degree was withheld. There was nothing to be done, and Tu Fu took to
wandering about the country, observing and writing, but with little hope
of anything save poverty to come. On one of his journeys, he met Li
T'ai-po on the "Lute Terrace" in Ching Hsien. The two poets, who
sincerely admired each other, became the closest friends. Several poems
in this collection are addressed by one to the other.

When Tu Fu was thirty-six, it happened that the Emperor sent out
invitations to all the scholars in the Empire to come to the capital and
compete in an examination. Tu Fu was, of course, known to the Emperor as
a man who would have been promoted but for the opinions aired in his
papers. Of his learning, there could be no shadow of doubt. So Tu Fu
went to Ch'ang An and waited there as an "expectant official. " He waited
for four years, when it occurred to him to offer three _fu_ to the
Emperor. The event justified his temerity, and the poet was given a post
as one of the officials in the Chih Hsien library. This post he held for
four years, when he was appointed to a slightly better one at
Fêng-hsien. But, a year later, the An Lu-shan rebellion broke out, which
put a summary end to Tu Fu's position, whereupon he left Fêng-hsien and
went to live with a relative at the Village of White Waters. He was
still living there when the Emperor Ming Huang abdicated in favour of
his son, Su Tsung. If the old Emperor had given him an office, perhaps
the new one would; at any rate it was worth an attempt, for Tu Fu was in
dire poverty. Having no money to hire any kind of conveyance, he started
to walk to his destination, but fell in with brigands who captured him.
He stayed with these brigands for over a year, but finally escaped, and
at length reached Fêng Chiang, where the Emperor was in residence.

His appearance on his arrival was miserable in the extreme. Haggard and
thin, his shoulders sticking out of his coat, his rags literally tied
together, he was indeed a spectacle to inspire pity, and the Emperor at
once appointed him to the post of Censor. But this did not last long. He
had the imprudence to remonstrate with the Emperor anent the sentence of
banishment passed upon the general Tan Kuan. Considering that this
clever and extremely learned soldier had so far relaxed the discipline
of his army during one of the Northern campaigns that, one night, when
his troops were all peacefully sleeping in their chariots, the camp was
surrounded and burnt and his forces utterly routed, the punishment seems
deserved. But Tu Fu thought otherwise, and so unwisely urged his opinion
that the Emperor lost patience and ordered an investigation of Tu Fu's
conduct. His friends, however, rallied to his defence and the
investigation was quashed, but he was deprived of the censorship and
sent to a minor position in Shensi. This he chose to regard as a
punishment, as indeed it was. He proceeded to Shensi, but, on arriving
there, dramatically refused to assume his office; having performed which
act of bravado, he joined his family in Kansu. He found them in the
greatest distress from famine, and although he did his best to keep them
alive by going to the hills and gathering fire-wood to sell, and by
digging up roots and various growing things for them to eat, several of
his children died of starvation.

Another six months of minor officialdom in Hua Chou, and he retired to
Ch'êngtu in Szechwan, where he lived in a grass-roofed house, engaged in
study and the endeavour to make the two ends of nothing meet. At length,
a friend of his arrived in Szechwan as Governor-General, and this friend
appointed him a State Counsellor. But the grass-house was more to his
taste than state councils, and after a year and a half he returned to
it, and the multifarious wanderings which always punctuated his life.

Five years later, when he was fifty-five, he set off on one of his
journeys, but was caught by floods and obliged to take refuge in a
ruined temple at Hu Kuang, where he nearly starved before help could
reach him. After ten days, he was rescued through the efforts of the
local magistrate, but eating again after so long a fast was fatal and he
died within an hour.

Innumerable essays have been written comparing the styles of Li T'ai-po
and Tu Fu. Yüan Chên, a poet of the T'ang period, says that Tu Fu's
poems have perfect balance; that, if he wrote a thousand lines, the last
would have as much vigour as the first and that no one can equal him in
this, his poems make a "perfect circle. " He goes on: "In my opinion, the
great living wave of poetry and song in which Li T'ai-po excelled is
surpassed in Tu Fu's work, he is shoulder higher than Li Po. " Again:
"The poems of Li T'ai-po are like Spring flowers, those of Tu Fu are
like the pine-trees, they are eternal and fear neither snow nor cold. "

Shên Ming-chên says: "Li Po is like the Spring grass, like Autumn waves,
not a person but must love him. Tu Fu is like a great hill, a high peak,
a long river, the broad sea, like fine grass and bright-coloured
flowers, like a pine or an ancient fir, like moving wind and gentle
waves, like heavy hoar-frost, like burning heat--not a quality is
missing. "

Hu Yu-ling uses a metaphor referring to casting dice and says that Li
T'ai-po would owe Tu Fu "an ivory"; and Han Yü, speaking of both Li
T'ai-po and Tu Fu, declares that "the flaming light of their essays
would rise ten thousand feet. "

Poetic as these criticisms are, it is their penetration which is so
astonishing; but I think the most striking comparison made of Tu Fu's
work is that by Tao Kai-yu: "Tu Fu's poems are like pictures, like the
branches of trees reflected in water--the branches of still trees. Like
a large group of houses seen through clouds or mist, they appear and
disappear. "

Sometime ago, in a review of a volume of translations of Chinese poetry
in the London "Times," I came across this remarkable statement: "The
Chinese poet starts talking in the most ordinary language and voices the
most ordinary things, and his poetry seems to happen suddenly out of the
commonplace as if it were some beautiful action happening in the routine
of actual life. "

The critic could have had no knowledge of the Chinese language, as
nothing can be farther from the truth than his observation. It is
largely a fact that the Oriental poet finds his themes in the ordinary
affairs of everyday life, but he describes them in a very special,
carefully chosen, medium. The simplest child's primer is written in a
language never used in speaking, while the most highly educated scholar
would never dream of employing the same phrases in conversation which he
would make use of were he writing an essay, a poem, or a state document.
Each language--the spoken, the poetic, the literary, the
documentary--has its own construction, its own class of characters, and
its own symbolism. A translator must therefore make a special study of
whichever he wishes to render.

Although several great sinologues have written on the subject of Chinese
poetry, none, so far as I am aware, has devoted his exclusive attention
to the poetic style, nor has any translator availed himself of the
assistance, so essential to success, of a poet--that is, one trained in
the art of seizing the poetic values in fine shades of meaning. Without
this power, which amounts to an instinct, no one can hope to reproduce
any poetry in another tongue, and how much truer this is of Chinese
poetry can only be realized by those who have some knowledge of the
language. Such poets, on the other hand, as have been moved to make
beautiful renditions of Chinese originals have been hampered by
inadequate translations. It is impossible to expect that even a scholar
thoroughly versed in the philological aspects of Chinese literature can,
at the same time, be endowed with enough of the poetic _flair_ to
convey, uninjured, the thoughts of one poet to another. A second
personality obtrudes between poet and poet, and the contact, which must
be established between the two minds if any adequate translation is to
result, is broken. How Miss Lowell and I have endeavoured to obviate
this rupture of the poetic current, I shall explain presently. But, to
understand it, another factor in the case must first be understood.

It cannot be too firmly insisted upon that the Chinese character itself
plays a considerable part in Chinese poetic composition. Calligraphy and
poetry are mixed up together in the Chinese mind. How close this
intermingling may be, will appear when we come to speak of the "Written
Pictures," but even without following the interdependence of these arts
to the point where they merge into one, it must not be forgotten that
Chinese is an ideographic, or picture, language. These marvellous
collections of brushstrokes which we call Chinese characters are really
separate pictographic representations of complete thoughts. Complex
characters are not spontaneously composed, but are built up of simple
characters, each having its own peculiar meaning and usage; these, when
used in combination, each play their part in modifying either the sense
or the sound of the complex. Now it must not be thought that these
separate entities make an over-loud noise in the harmony of the whole
character. They are each subdued to the total result, the final meaning,
but they do produce a qualifying effect upon the word itself. Since
Chinese characters are complete ideas, it is convenient to be able to
express the various degrees of these ideas by special characters which
shall have those exact meanings; it is, therefore, clear that to grasp a
poet's full intention in a poem there must be a knowledge of the
analysis of characters.

This might seem bizarre, were it not for a striking proof to the
contrary. It is a fact that many of the Chinese characters have become
greatly altered during the centuries since they were invented. So long
ago as A. D. 200, a scholar named Hsü Shih, realizing that this
alteration was taking place, wrote the dictionary known as "Shuo Wên
Chieh Tzŭ," or "Speech and Writing: Characters Untied," containing about
ten thousand characters in their primitive and final forms. This work is
on the desk of every scholar in the Far East and is studied with the
greatest reverence. Many editions have appeared since it was written,
and by its aid one can trace the genealogy of characters in the most
complete manner. Other volumes of the same kind have followed in its
wake, showing the importance of the subject in Chinese estimation. While
translators are apt to ignore this matter of character genealogy, it is
ever present to the mind of the Chinese poet or scholar who is familiar
with the original forms; indeed, he may be said to find his overtones in
the actual composition of the character he is using.

All words have their connotations, but this is connotation and more; it
is a pictorial representation of something implied, and, lacking which,
an effect would be lost. It may be objected that poems were heard as
well as read, and that, when heard, the composition of the character
must be lost. But I think this is to misunderstand the situation.
Recollect, for a moment, the literary examinations, and consider that
educated men had these characters literally ground into them. Merely to
pronounce a word must be, in such a case, to see it and realize,
half-unconsciously perhaps, its various parts. Even if half-unconscious,
the _nuances_ of meaning conveyed by them must have hung about the
spoken word and given it a distinct flavour which, without them, would
be absent.

Now what is a translator to do? Shall he render the word in the flat,
dictionary sense, or shall he permit himself to add to it what it
conveys to an educated Chinese? Clearly neither the one nor the other in
all cases; but one _or_ the other, which the context must determine. In
description, for instance, where it is evident that the Chinese poet
used every means at his command to achieve a vivid representation, I
believe the original poem is more nearly reproduced by availing one's
self of a minimum of these "split-ups"; where, on the other hand, the
original carefully confines itself to simple and direct expression, the
word as it is, without overtones, must certainly be preferred. The
"split-ups" in these translations are few, but could our readers compare
the original Chinese with Miss Lowell's rendition of it, in these
instances, I think they would feel with me that in no other way could
the translation have been made really "literal," could the poem be
"brought over" in its entirety. If a translation of a poem is not poetry
in its new tongue, the original has been shorn of its chief reason for
being. Something is always lost in a translation, but that something had
better be the trappings than the essence.

I must, however, make it quite clear how seldom these "split-ups" occur
in the principal parts of the book; in the "Written Pictures," where the
poems were not, most of them, classics, we felt justified in making a
fuller use of these analytical suggestions; but I believe I am correct
in saying that no translations from the Chinese that I have read are so
near to the originals as these. Bear in mind, then, that there are not,
I suppose, more than a baker's dozen of these "split-ups" throughout the
book, and the way they were managed can be seen by this literal
translation of a line in "The Terraced Road of the Two-Edged Sword
Mountains. " The Chinese words are on the left, the English words on the
right, the analyses of the characters enclosed in brackets:

_Shang_ Above

_Tsê_ Then

_Sung_ Pines

_Fêng_ Wind

_Hsiao_ Whistling wind (Grass--meaning the sound of
wind through grass, to whistle; and in awe of,
or to venerate. )

_Sê_ Gusts of wind (Wind; and to stand. )

_Sê_ A psaltery (Two strings of jade-stones which
are sonorous. )

_Yü_ Wind in a gale (Wind; and to speak. )

Miss Lowell's rendering of the line was:

"On their heights, the wind whistles awesomely in the pines; it
booms in great, long gusts; it clashes like the strings of a
jade-stone psaltery; it shouts on the clearness of a gale. "

Can any one doubt that this was just the effect that the Chinese poet
wished to achieve, and did achieve by means of the overtones given in
his characters?

Another, simpler, example is in a case where the Chinese poet speaks of
a rising sun. There are many characters which denote sunrise, and each
has some shade of difference from every other. In one, the analysis is
the sunrise light seen from a boat through mist; in another, it is the
sun just above the horizon; still another is made up of a period of time
and a mortar, meaning that it is dawn, when people begin to work. But
the poet chose none of these; instead, he chose a character which
analyzes into the sun at the height of a helmeted man, and so Miss
Lowell speaks of the sun as "head-high," and we have the very picture
the poet wanted us to see.

Miss Lowell has told in the Preface the manner in which we worked. The
papers sent to Miss Lowell were in exactly the form of the above, and
with them I also sent a paraphrase, and notes such as those at the end
of this book. Far from making the slightest attempt at literary form in
these paraphrases, I deliberately made them as bald as possible, and
strove to keep my personality from intruding between Miss Lowell and the
Chinese poet with whose mood she must be in perfect sympathy. Her
remarkable gift for entering into the feeling of the poet she is
translating was first shown in "Six French Poets," but there she
approached her authors at first hand. It was my object to enable her to
approach these Chinese authors as nearly at first hand as I could. That
my method has been justified by the event, the book shows; not merely
are these translations extraordinarily exact, they are poetry, and would
be so though no Chinese poet had conceived them fourteen hundred years
ago. It is as if I had handed her the warp and the woof, the silver
threads and the gold, and from these she has woven a brocade as nearly
alike in pattern to that designed by the Chinese poet as the differences
in the looms permit.