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