Part 6

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

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

The second section of the book, "Written Pictures," consists of illustrations, or half illustrations, of an art which the Chinese consider the most perfect medium in which a man can express himself. These _Tzŭ Hua_, "Hanging-on-the-Wall Poems," are less known and understood than any other form of Oriental art. A beautiful thought perpetuated in beautiful handwriting and hung upon the wall to suggest a mental picture--that is what it amounts to.

In China, the arts of poetry and calligraphy are united in the ideographs which form the written language. There are several different styles in which these ideographs, or characters, may be written. The earliest are pictograms known as the "ancient pictorial script," they were superseded in the Eighth Century B.C. by the "great seal" characters and later by the "lesser seal." These, which had been executed with the "knife pen," were practically given up when the invention of the writing-brush, which is usually translated as "pencil," revolutionized calligraphy (_circa_ 215 B.C.). Their place was taken by a type of character known as "_li_" or "official script," a simplified form of the "seal," and this, being an improvement upon all previous styles, soon became popular. It created almost a new character in which the pictorial element had largely disappeared, and, with certain modifications, holds good to-day. The "model hand," the "running hand," and the famous "grass hand," so popular with poets and painters, are merely adaptations of the _li_; all three of these, together with the _li_ itself, are used in the composition of written pictures.

The written pictures here translated were formerly in the possession of a Chinese gentleman of keenly æsthetic taste, and are excellent examples of the art. A photograph of one of the originals will be found opposite the translation made from it on page 170. The names which follow the poems are not those of the authors, but of the calligraphists. In the case of two poems, the authors' names are also given. These written pictures had no titles, those given here were added simply for convenience; but the titles to the poems in the body of the book are those of the poets themselves, except in one or two instances where the Chinese title conveyed so little to an Occidental mind that its meaning had to be paraphrased.

The Notes at the end of the book are intended for the general reader. For which reason, I have purposely excluded the type of note which consists in cataloguing literary cross-allusions. To know that certain lines in a poem are quoted from some earlier author, is one of a class of facts which deeply interest scholars, but are of no importance whatever to the rest of the world.

A word as to the title of this book: There lived at Ch'êng-tu, the capital of Szechwan, early in the Ninth Century, a courtesan named Hsieh T'ao, who was famous for her wit and verse-writing. Hsieh T'ao made a paper of ten colours, which she dipped in a stream, and on it wrote her poems. Now, some years before, a woman had taken the stole of a Buddhist priest to this stream in order to wash it. No sooner had the stole touched the water than the stream became filled with flowers. In an old Chinese book, "The Treasury of Pleasant Records," it is told that, later in life, Hsieh T'ao gave up the "fir-flower tablets" and made paper of a smaller size. Presumably this fir-flower paper was the paper of ten colours. The mountain stream which ran near Hsieh T'ao's house is called the "Hundred Flower Stream."

I cannot close this Introduction without expressing my gratitude to my teacher, Mr. Nung Chu. It is his unflagging interest and never-failing patience that have kept me spurred on to my task. Speaking no word of English, Mr. Nung must often have found my explanations of what would, and what would not, be comprehensible to Occidental readers very difficult to understand, and my only regret is that he cannot read the book now that it is done.

FIR-FLOWER TABLETS

SONGS OF THE MARCHES

BY LI T'AI-PO

I

It is the Fifth Month, But still the Heaven-high hills Shine with snow. There are no flowers For the heart of the earth is yet too chilly. From the centre of the camp Comes the sound of a flute Playing "The Snapped Willow." No colour mists the trees, Not yet have their leaves broken. At dawn, there is the shock and shouting of battle, Following the drums and the loud metal gongs. At night, the soldiers sleep, clasping the pommels of their jade-ornamented saddles. They sleep lightly, With their two-edged swords girt below their loins, So that they may be able in an instant to rush upon the Barbarians And destroy them.

II

Horses! Horses! Swift as the three dogs' wind! Whips stinging the clear air like the sharp calling of birds, They ride across the camel-back bridge Over the river Wei. They bend the bows, Curving them away from the moon which shines behind them Over their own country of Han. They fasten feathers on their arrows To destroy the immense arrogance of the foe. Now the regiments are divided And scattered like the five-pointed stars, Sea mist envelops the deserted camp, The task is accomplished, And the portrait of Ho P'iao Yao Hangs magnificently in the Lin Pavilion.

III

When Autumn burns along the hills, The Barbarian hordes mount their horses And pour down from the North. Then, in the country of Han, The Heavenly soldiers arise And depart from their homes. The High General Divides the tiger tally. Fight, Soldiers! Then lie down and rest On the Dragon sand. The frontier moon casts the shadows of bows upon the ground, Swords brush the hoar-frost flowers of the Barbarians' country. The Jade Pass has not yet been forced, Our soldiers hold it strongly. Therefore the young married women May cease their lamentations.

IV

The Heavenly soldiers are returning From the sterile plains of the North. Because the Barbarians desired their horses To drink of the streams of the South, Therefore were our spears held level to the charge In a hundred fights. In straight battle our soldiers fought To gain the supreme gratitude Of the Most High Emperor. They seized the snow of the Inland Sea And devoured it in their terrible hunger. They lay on the sand at the top of the Dragon Mound And slept. All this they bore that the Moon Clan Might be destroyed. Now indeed have they won the right To the soft, high bed of Peace. It is their just portion.

THE BATTLE TO THE SOUTH OF THE CITY

BY LI T'AI-PO

How dim the battle-field, as yellow dusk! The fighting men are like a swarm of ants. The air is thick, the sun a red wheel. Blood dyes the wild chrysanthemums purple. Vultures hold the flesh of men in their mouths, They are heavy with food--they cannot rise to fly. There were men yesterday on the city wall; There are ghosts to-day below the city wall. Colours of flags like a net of stars, Rolling of horse-carried drums--not yet is the killing ended. From the house of the Unworthy One--a husband, sons, All within earshot of the rolling horse-drums.

THE PERILS OF THE SHU ROAD

BY LI T'AI-PO

Alas! Alas! The danger! The steepness! O Affliction! The Shu Road is as perilous and difficult as the way to the Green Heavens. No greater undertaking than this has been since Ts'an Ts'ung and Yü Fu ruled the land. For forty-eight thousand years no man had passed the boundary of Ch'in. Westward, over the Great White Mountain, was a bird-track By which one could cross to the peak of Omei. But the earth of the mountain fell and overwhelmed the Heroes so that they perished. Afterwards, therefore, they made sky-ladders and joined the cliffs with hanging pathways. Above, the soaring tips of the high mountains hold back the six dragons of the sun; Below, in the ravines, the flowing waters break into whirlpools and swirl back against the current. Yellow geese flying toward the peaks cannot pass over them; The gibbons climb and climb, despairingly pulling themselves up higher and higher, but even their endurance fails. How the road coils and coils through the Green Mud Pass! With nine turns to a hundred steps, it winds round the ledges of the mountain crests. Clutching at Orion, passing the Well Star, I look up and gasp. I sit long with my hand pressed to my heart and groan. I ask my Lord how long this Westward wandering will last, when we shall return. It is impossible to climb the terrible road along the edges of the precipices. Among the ancient trees, one sees only cruel, mournful, black birds. Male birds, followed by females, fly to and fro through the woods. Sometimes one hears a nightingale in the melancholy moonlight of the lonely mountain. The Shu Road is as perilous and difficult as the way to the Green Heavens. The ruddy faces of those who hear the story of it turn pale. There is not a cubit's space between the mountain tops and the sky. Dead and uprooted pine-trees hang over sheer cliffs. Flying waterfalls and rolling torrents outdo one another in clamour and confusion; They dash against the perpendicular walls, whirl round ten thousand rocks, and boom like thunder along the ravines. This is what the Two-Edged Sword Mountains are like! Alas! How endless a road for man to undertake! How came he to attempt it! The Terraced Road of the Two-Edged Sword twists between glittering and rocky summits. One man alone could hold it against a thousand and mow them down like grass. If the guardian of the Pass were doubtful whether those who came were enemies of his kinsmen, He could fall upon them as a ravening wolf. At dawn, one flees the fierce tigers; In the evening, one flees the long snakes Who sharpen their fangs and suck blood, Destroying men like hemp. Even though the delights of the Embroidered City are as reported, Nothing could equal the joy of going home at once. The Shu Road is as perilous and difficult as the way to the Green Heavens. I turn toward the West, and, gazing long, I sigh.

LOOKING AT THE MOON AFTER RAIN

BY LI T'AI-PO

The heavy clouds are broken and blowing, And once more I can see the wide common stretching beyond the four sides of the city. Open the door. Half of the moon-toad is already up, The glimmer of it is like smooth hoar-frost spreading over ten thousand _li_. The river is a flat, shining chain. The moon, rising, is a white eye to the hills; After it has risen, it is the bright heart of the sea. Because I love it--so--round as a fan, I hum songs until the dawn.

THE LONELY WIFE

BY LI T'AI-PO

The mist is thick. On the wide river, the water-plants float smoothly. No letters come; none go. There is only the moon, shining through the clouds of a hard, jade-green sky, Looking down at us so far divided, so anxiously apart. All day, going about my affairs, I suffer and grieve, and press the thought of you closely to my heart. My eyebrows are locked in sorrow, I cannot separate them. Nightly, nightly, I keep ready half the quilt, And wait for the return of that divine dream which is my Lord.

Beneath the quilt of the Fire-Bird, on the bed of the Silver-Crested Love-Pheasant, Nightly, nightly, I drowse alone. The red candles in the silver candlesticks melt, and the wax runs from them, As the tears of your so Unworthy One escape and continue constantly to flow. A flower face endures but a short season, Yet still he drifts along the river Hsiao and the river Hsiang. As I toss on my pillow, I hear the cold, nostalgic sound of the water-clock: Shêng! Shêng! it drips, cutting my heart in two.

I rise at dawn. In the Hall of Pictures They come and tell me that the snow-flowers are falling. The reed-blind is rolled high, and I gaze at the beautiful, glittering, primeval snow, Whitening the distance, confusing the stone steps and the courtyard. The air is filled with its shining, it blows far out like the smoke of a furnace. The grass-blades are cold and white, like jade girdle pendants. Surely the Immortals in Heaven must be crazy with wine to cause such disorder, Seizing the white clouds, crumpling them up, destroying them.

THE PLEASURES WITHIN THE PALACE

BY LI T'AI-PO

From little, little girls, they have lived in the Golden House. They are lovely, lovely, in the Purple Hall. They dress their hair with hill flowers, And rock-bamboos are embroidered on their dresses of open-work silk gauze. When they go out from the retired Women's Apartments, They often follow the Palace chairs. Their only sorrow, that the songs and wu dances are over, Changed into the five-coloured clouds and flown away.

THE YOUNG GIRLS OF YÜEH

BY LI T'AI-PO

I

Young girls are gathering lotus-seeds on the pond of Ya. Seeing a man on the bank, they turn and row away singing. Laughing, they hide among the lotus-flowers, And, in a pretence of bashfulness, will not come out.

II

Many of the young girls of Wu are white, dazzlingly white. They like to amuse themselves by floating in little boats on the water. Peeping out of the corners of their eyes, they spurn the Springtime heart. Gathering flowers, they ridicule the passer-by.

WRITTEN IN THE CHARACTER OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN GRIEVING BEFORE HER MIRROR

BY LI T'AI-PO

I

Bright, bright, the gilded magpie mirror, Absolutely perfect in front of me on the jade dressing-stand. Wiped, rubbed, splendid as the Winter moon; Its light and brilliance, how clear and round! The rose-red face is older than it was yesterday, The hair is whiter than it was last year. The white-lead powder is neglected, It is useless to look into the mirror. I am utterly miserable.

II

When my Lord went away, he gave me this precious mirror coiled with dragons That I might gaze at my golden-threaded dress of silken gauze. Again and again I take my red sleeve and polish the bright moon. Because I love to see its splendour lighting up everything. In its centre is my reflection, and the golden magpie which does not fly away. I sit at my dressing-stand, and I am like the green Fire-Bird who, thinking of its mate, died alone. My husband is parted from me as an arrow from the bowstring. I know the day he left; I do not know the year when he will return. The cruel wind blows--truly the heart of the Unworthy One is cut to pieces. My tears, like white jade chop-sticks, fall in a single piece before the water-chestnut mirror.

SONGS TO THE PEONIES SUNG TO THE AIR: "PEACEFUL BRIGHTNESS"

BY LI T'AI-PO

I

The many-coloured clouds make me think of her upper garments, of her lower garments; Flowers make me think of her face. The Spring wind brushes the blossoms against the balustrade, In the heavy dew they are bright and tinted diversely. If it were not on the Heaped Jade Mountain that I saw her, I must have met her at the Green Jasper Terrace, or encountered her by accident in the moon.

II

A branch of opulent, beautiful flowers, sweet-scented under frozen dew. No love-night like that on the Sorceress Mountain for these; their bowels ache in vain. Pray may I ask who, in the Palace of Han, is her equal? Even the "Flying Swallow" is to be pitied, since she must rely upon ever new adornments.

III

The renowned flower, and she of a loveliness to overthrow Kingdoms--both give happiness. Each receives a smile from the Prince when he looks at them. The Spring wind alone can understand and explain the boundless jealousy of the flower, Leaning over the railing of the balcony at the North side of the aloe-wood pavilion.

SPRING GRIEF AND RESENTMENT BY LI T'AI-PO

There is a white horse with a gold bridle to the East of the Liao Sea. Bed-curtains of open-work silk--embroidered quilt--I sleep with the Spring wind. The setting moon drops level to the balcony, it spies upon me. The candle is burnt out. A blown flower drifts in through the inner door--it mocks at the empty bed.

THE CAST-OFF PALACE WOMAN OF CH'IN AND THE DRAGON ROBES

BY LI T'AI-PO

At Wei Yang dwells the Son of Heaven. The all Unworthy One attends beside The Dragon-broidered robes. I ponder his regard, not mine the love Enjoyed by those within the Purple Palace. And yet I have attained to brightening The bed of yellow gold. If floods should come, I also would not leave. A bear might come and still I could protect. My inconsiderable body knows the honour Of serving Sun and Moon. I flicker with a little glow of light, A firefly's. I beg my Lord to pluck The trifling mustard plant and melon-flower And not reject them for their hidden roots.

THE POET IS DETAINED IN A NANKING WINE-SHOP ON THE EVE OF STARTING ON A JOURNEY

BY LI T'AI-PO

The wind blows. The inn is filled with the scent of willow-flowers. In the wine-shops of Wu, women are pressing the wine. The sight invites customers to taste. The young men and boys of Nanking have gathered to see me off; I wish to start, but I do not, and we drink many, many horn cups to the bottom. I beg them to look at the water flowing toward the East, And when we separate to let their thoughts follow its example and run constantly in my direction.

FÊNG HUANG T'AI

ASCENDING THE TERRACE OF THE SILVER-CRESTED LOVE-PHEASANTS AT THE CITY OF THE GOLDEN MOUND

BY LI T'AI-PO

The silver-crested love-pheasants strutted upon the Pheasant Terrace. Now the pheasants are gone, the terrace is empty, and the river flows on its old, original way. Gone are the blossoms of the Palace of Wu and overgrown the road to it. Passed the generations of the Chin, with their robes and head-dresses; they lie beneath the ancient mounds.

The three hills are half fallen down from Green Heaven. The White Heron Island cuts the river in two. Here also, drifting clouds may blind the Sun, One cannot see Ch'ang An, City of Eternal Peace. Therefore am I sorrowful.

THE NORTHERN FLIGHT

BY LI T'AI-PO

What hardships are encountered in a Northern flight! We fly Northward, ascending the T'ai Hang Mountains. The mountain road winds round a cliff, and it is very steep and dangerous; The precipice, sheer as though cut with a knife, rises to the great, wide blue of the sky. The horses' feet slip on the slanting ledges; The carriage-wheels are broken on the high ridges; The sand, scuffed into dust, floats in a continuous line to Yo Chou. The smoke of beacon fires connects us with the Country of the North. The spirit of killing is in the spears, in the cruel two-edged swords. The savage wind rips open the upper garments, the lower garments. The rushing whale squeezes the Yellow River; The man-eating beasts with long tusks assemble at Lo Yang.

We press forward with no knowledge of when we shall return; We look back, thinking of our former home; Grieving and lamenting in the midst of ice and snow; Groaning aloud, with our bowels rent asunder. A foot of cloth does not cover the body, Our skins are cracked as the bark of a dead mulberry. The deep gullies prevent us from getting water from the mountain streams, Far away are the slopes where we might gather grass and twigs for our fires, Then, too, the terrible tiger lashes his tail, And his polished teeth glitter like Autumn frosts. Grass and trees cannot be eaten. We famish; we drink the drops of freezing dew. Alas! So we suffer, travelling Northward. I stop my four-horse carriage, overcome by misery. When will our Emperor find a peaceful road? When, before our glad faces, shall we see the Glory of Heaven?

FIGHTING TO THE SOUTH OF THE CITY

BY LI T'AI-PO