Part 3
The sea’s colour moves at the dawn And the princes still stand in rows, about the throne, And the moon falls over the portals of Sei-go-yo, And clings to the walls and the gate-top. With head gear glittering against the cloud and sun, The lords go forth from the court, and into far borders. They ride upon dragon-like horses, Upon horses with head-trappings of yellow metal, And the streets make way for their passage. Haughty their passing, Haughty their steps as they go into great banquets, To high halls and curious food, To the perfumed air and girls dancing, To clear flutes and clear singing; To the dance of the seventy couples; To the mad chase through the gardens. Night and day are given over to pleasure And they think it will last a thousand autumns, Unwearying autumns. For them the yellow dogs howl portents in vain, And what are they compared to the lady Riokushu, That was cause of hate! Who among them is a man like Han-rei Who departed alone with his mistress, With her hair unbound, and he his own skiffsman!
_By Rihaku._
Lament of the Frontier Guard
By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand, Lonely from the beginning of time until now! Trees fall, the grass goes yellow with autumn. I climb the towers and towers to watch out the barbarous land: Desolate castle, the sky, the wide desert. There is no wall left to this village. Bones white with a thousand frosts, High heaps, covered with trees and grass; Who brought this to pass? Who has brought the flaming imperial anger? Who has brought the army with drums and with kettle-drums? Barbarous kings. A gracious spring, turned to blood-ravenous autumn, A turmoil of wars-men, spread over the middle kingdom, Three hundred and sixty thousand, And sorrow, sorrow like rain. Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning, Desolate, desolate fields, And no children of warfare upon them, No longer the men for offence and defence. Ah, how shall you know the dreary sorrow at the North Gate, With Rihoku’s name forgotten, And we guardsmen fed to the tigers.
_By Rihaku._
Exile’s Letter
To So-Kin of Rakuyo, ancient friend, Chancellor of Gen. Now I remember that you built me a special tavern By the south side of the bridge at Ten-Shin. With yellow gold and white jewels, we paid for songs and laughter And we were drunk for month on month, forgetting the kings and princes. Intelligent men came drifting in from the sea and from the west border, And with them, and with you especially There was nothing at cross purpose, And they made nothing of sea-crossing or of mountain crossing, If only they could be of that fellowship, And we all spoke out our hearts and minds, and without regret.
And then I was sent off to South Wei, smothered in laurel groves, And you to the north of Raku-hoku, Till we had nothing but thoughts and memories in common. And then, when separation had come to its worst, We met, and travelled into Sen-Go, Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning and twisting waters, Into a valley of the thousand bright flowers, That was the first valley; And into ten thousand valleys full of voices and pine-winds. And with silver harness and reins of gold, Out come the East of Kan foreman and his company. And there came also the “True man” of Shi-yo to meet me, Playing on a jewelled mouth-organ. In the storied houses of San-Ko they gave us more Sennin music, Many instruments, like the sound of young phoenix broods. The foreman of Kan Chu, drunk, danced because his long sleeves wouldn’t keep still With that music playing. And I, wrapped in brocade, went to sleep with my head on his lap, And my spirit so high it was all over the heavens, And before the end of the day we were scattered like stars, or rain. I had to be off to So, far away over the waters, You back to your river-bridge.
And your father, who was brave as a leopard, Was governor in Hei Shu, and put down the barbarian rabble. And one May he had you send for me, despite the long distance. And what with broken wheels and so on, I won’t say it wasn’t hard going, Over roads twisted like sheep’s guts. And I was still going, late in the year, in the cutting wind from the North, And thinking how little you cared for the cost, and you caring enough to pay it. And what a reception: Red jade cups, food well set on a blue jewelled table, And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning. And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the castle, To the dynastic temple, with water about it clear as blue jade, With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums, With ripples like dragon-scales, going grass green on the water, Pleasure lasting, with courtezans, going and coming without hindrance, With the willow flakes falling like snow, And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset, And the water a hundred feet deep reflecting green eyebrows --Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight, Gracefully painted-- And the girls singing back at each other, Dancing in transparent brocade, And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it, Tossing it up under the clouds. And all this comes to an end. And is not again to be met with. I went up to the court for examination, Tried Layu’s luck, offered the Choyo song, And got no promotion, and went back to the East Mountains white-headed. And once again, later, we met at the South bridge-head. And then the crowd broke up, you went north to San palace, And if you ask how I regret that parting: It is like the flowers falling at Spring’s end Confused, whirled in a tangle. What is the use of talking, and there is no end of talking, There is no end of things in the heart. I call in the boy, Have him sit on his knees here To seal this, And send it a thousand miles, thinking.
_By Rihaku._
_From Rihaku_
FOUR POEMS OF DEPARTURE
_Light rain is on the light dust The willows of the inn-yard Will be going greener and greener, But you, Sir, had better take wine ere your departure, For you will have no friends about you When you come to the gates of Go._
Separation on the River Kiang
Ko-jin goes west from Ko-kaku-ro, The smoke-flowers are blurred over the river. His lone sail blots the far sky. And now I see only the river, The long Kiang, reaching heaven.
Taking Leave of a Friend
Blue mountains to the north of the walls, White river winding about them; Here we must make separation And go out through a thousand miles of dead grass. Mind like a floating wide cloud. Sunset like the parting of old acquaintances Who bow over their clasped hands at a distance. Our horses neigh to each other as we are departing.
Leave-taking near Shoku
RIGHT “_Sanso, King of Shoku, built roads._”
They say the roads of Sanso are steep, Sheer as the mountains. The walls rise in a man’s face, Clouds grow out of the hill at his horse’s bridle. Sweet trees are on the paved way of the Shin, Their trunks burst through the paving, And freshets are bursting their ice in the midst of Shoku, a proud city.
Men’s fates are already set, There is no need of asking diviners.
The City of Choan
The phœnix are at play on their terrace. The phœnix are gone, the river flows on alone. Flowers and grass Cover over the dark path where lay the dynastic house of the Go. The bright cloths and bright caps of Shin Are now the base of old hills.
The Three Mountains fall through the far heaven, The isle of White Heron splits the two streams apart. Now the high clouds cover the sun And I can not see Choan afar And I am sad.
South-Folk in Cold Country
The Dai horse neighs against the bleak wind of Etsu, The birds of Etsu have no love for En, in the north, Emotion is born out of habit. Yesterday we went out of the Wild-Goose gate, To-day from the Dragon-Pen.[B] Surprised. Desert turmoil. Sea sun. Flying snow bewilders the barbarian heaven. Lice swarm like ants over our accoutrements. Mind and spirit drive on the feathery banners. Hard fight gets no reward. Loyalty is hard to explain. Who will be sorry for General Rishogu, the swift moving, Whose white head is lost for this province?
[B] _I.e._, we have been warring from one end of the empire to the other, now east, now west, on each border.
Sennin Poem by Kakuhaku
The red and green kingfishers flash between the orchids and clover, One bird casts its gleam on another.
Green vines hang through the high forest, They weave a whole roof to the mountain, The lone man sits with shut speech, He purrs and pats the clear strings.
He throws his heart up through the sky, He bites through the flower pistil and brings up a fine fountain. The red-pine-tree god looks on him and wonders. He rides through the purple smoke to visit the sennin, He takes “Floating Hill”[C] by the sleeve, He claps his hand on the back of the great water sennin.
But you, you dam’d crowd of gnats, Can you even tell the age of a turtle?
[C] Name of a sennin.
A Ballad of the Mulberry Road
RIGHT (_Fenollosa MSS., very early._)
The sun rises in south east corner of things To look on the tall house of the Shin For they have a daughter named Rafu, (pretty girl) She made the name for herself: “Gauze Veil,” For she feeds mulberries to silkworms, She gets them by the south wall of the town.
With green strings she makes the warp of her basket, She makes the shoulder-straps of her basket from the boughs of Katsura, And she piles her hair up on the left side of her head-piece.
Her earrings are made of pearl, Her underskirt is of green pattern-silk, Her overskirt is the same silk dyed in purple, And when men going by look on Rafu They set down their burdens, They stand and twirl their moustaches.
Old Idea of Choan by Rosoriu
I.
The narrow streets cut into the wide highway at Choan, Dark oxen, white horses, drag on the seven coaches with outriders. The coaches are perfumed wood, The jewelled chair is held up at the crossway, Before the royal lodge a glitter of golden saddles, awaiting the princess, They eddy before the gate of the barons. The canopy embroidered with dragons drinks in and casts back the sun.
Evening comes. The trappings are bordered with mist. The hundred cords of mist are spread through and double the trees, Night birds, and night women, spread out their sounds through the gardens.
II.
Birds with flowery wing, hovering butterflies crowd over the thousand gates, Trees that glitter like jade, terraces tinged with silver, The seed of a myriad hues, A net-work of arbours and passages and covered ways, Double towers, winged roofs, border the net-work of ways: A place of felicitous meeting. Riu’s house stands out on the sky, with glitter of colour As Butei of Kan had made the high golden lotus to gather his dews, Before it another house which I do not know: How shall we know all the friends whom we meet on strange roadways?
To-Em-Mei’s “The Unmoving Cloud”
“Wet springtime,” says To-em-mei, “Wet spring in the garden.”
I.
The clouds have gathered, and gathered, and the rain falls and falls, The eight ply of the heavens are all folded into one darkness, And the wide, flat road stretches out. I stop in my room toward the East, quiet, quiet, I pat my new cask of wine. My friends are estranged, or far distant, I bow my head and stand still.
II.
Rain, rain, and the clouds have gathered, The eight ply of the heavens are darkness, The flat land is turned into river. “Wine, wine, here is wine!” I drink by my eastern window. I think of talking and man, And no boat, no carriage, approaches.
III.
The trees in my east-looking garden are bursting out with new twigs, They try to stir new affection,
And men say the sun and moon keep on moving because they can’t find a soft seat.
The birds flutter to rest in my tree, and I think I have heard them saying, “It is not that there are no other men But we like this fellow the best, But however we long to speak He can not know of our sorrow.”
_T’ao Yuan Ming._ _A.D. 365-427._
END OF CATHAY
Near Perigord
RIGHT _A Perigord, pres del muralh_ _Tan que i puosch ’om gitar ab malh._
You’d have men’s hearts up from the dust And tell their secrets, Messire Cino, Right enough? Then read between the lines of Uc St. Cire, Solve me the riddle, for you know the tale.
Bertrans, En Bertrans, left a fine canzone: “Maent, I love you, you have turned me out. The voice at Montfort, Lady Agnes’ hair, Bel Miral’s stature, the vicountess’ throat, Set all together, are not worthy of you ...” And all the while you sing out that canzone, Think you that Maent lived at Montaignac, One at Chalais, another at Malemort Hard over Brive--for every lady a castle, Each place strong.
Oh, _is_ it easy enough? Tairiran held hall in Montaignac, His brother-in-law was all there was of power In Perigord, and this good union Gobbled all the land, and held it later for some hundreds years. And our En Bertrans was in Altafort, Hub of the wheel, the stirrer-up of strife, As caught by Dante in the last wallow of hell-- The headless trunk “that made its head a lamp.” For separation wrought out separation, And he who set the strife between brother and brother And had his way with the old English king, Viced in such torture for the “counterpass.”
How would you live, with neighbours set about you-- Poictiers and Brive, untaken Rochechouart, Spread like the finger-tips of one frail hand; And you on that great mountain of a palm-- Not a neat ledge, not Foix between its streams, But one huge back half-covered up with pine, Worked for and snatched from the string-purse of Born-- The four round towers, four brothers--mostly fools: What could he do but play the desperate chess, And stir old grudges? “Pawn your castles, lords! Let the Jews pay.” And the great scene-- (That, maybe, never happened!) Beaten at last, Before the hard old king: “Your son, ah, since he died My wit and worth are cobwebs brushed aside In the full flare of grief. Do what you will.”
Take the whole man, and ravel out the story. He loved this lady in castle Montaignac? The castle flanked him--he had need of it. You read to-day, how long the overlords of Perigord, The Talleyrands, have held the place, it was no transient fiction. And Maent failed him? Or saw through the scheme?
And all his net-like thought of new alliance? Chalais is high, a-level with the poplars. Its lowest stones just meet the valley tips Where the low Dronne is filled with water-lilies. And Rochechouart can match it, stronger yet, The very spur’s end, built on sheerest cliff, And Malemort keeps its close hold on Brive, While Born his own close purse, his rabbit warren, His subterranean chamber with a dozen doors, A-bristle with antennae to feel roads, To sniff the traffic into Perigord. And that hard phalanx, that unbroken line, The ten good miles from thence to Maent’s castle, All of his flank--how could he do without her? And all the road to Cahors, to Toulouse? What would he do without her?
“Papiol, Go forthright singing--Anhes, Cembelins. There is a throat; ah, there are two white hands; There is a trellis full of early roses, And all my heart is bound about with love. Where am I come with compound flatteries-- What doors are open to fine compliment?” And every one half jealous of Maent? He wrote the catch to pit their jealousies Against her, give her pride in them?
Take his own speech, make what you will of it-- And still the knot, the first knot, of Maent?
Is it a love poem? Did he sing of war? Is it an intrigue to run subtly out, Born of a jongleur’s tongue, freely to pass Up and about and in and out the land, Mark him a craftsman and a strategist? (St. Leider had done as much at Polhonac, Singing a different stave, as closely hidden.) Oh, there is precedent, legal tradition, To sing one thing when your song means another, “_Et albirar ab lor bordon_--” Foix’ count knew that. What is Sir Bertrans’ singing?
Maent, Maent, and yet again Maent, Or war and broken heaumes and politics?
II
End fact. Try fiction, Let us say we see En Bertrans, a tower-room at Hautefort, Sunset, the ribbon-like road lies, in red cross-light, South toward Montaignac, and he bends at a table Scribbling, swearing between his teeth, by his left hand Lie little strips of parchment covered over, Scratched and erased with _al_ and _ochaisos_. Testing his list of rhymes, a lean man? Bilious? With a red straggling beard? And the green cat’s-eye lifts toward Montaignac.
Or take his “magnet” singer setting out, Dodging his way past Aubeterre, singing at Chalais
In the vaulted hall, Or, by a lichened tree at Rochechouart Aimlessly watching a hawk above the valleys, Waiting his turn in the mid-summer evening, Thinking of Aelis, whom he loved heart and soul ... To find her half alone, Montfort away, And a brown, placid, hated woman visiting her, Spoiling his visit, with a year before the next one. Little enough? Or carry him forward. “Go through all the courts, My Magnet,” Bertrand had said.
We came to Ventadour In the mid love court, he sings out the canzon, No one hears save Arrimon Luc D’Esparo-- No one hears aught save the gracious sound of compliments. Sir Arrimon counts on his fingers, Montfort, Rochechouart, Chalais, the rest, the tactic, Malemort, guesses beneath, sends word to Cœur de Lion:
The compact, de Born smoked out, trees felled About his castle, cattle driven out! Or no one sees it, and En Bertrans prospered?
And ten years after, or twenty, as you will, Arnaut and Richard lodge beneath Chalus: The dull round towers encroaching on the field, The tents tight drawn, horses at tether Further and out of reach, the purple night, The crackling of small fires, the bannerets, The lazy leopards on the largest banner, Stray gleams on hanging mail, an armourer’s torch-flare Melting on steel.
And in the quietest space They probe old scandals, say de Born is dead; And we’ve the gossip (skipped six hundred years). Richard shall die to-morrow--leave him there Talking of _trobar clus_ with Daniel. And the “best craftsman” sings out his friend’s song, Envies its vigour ... and deplores the technique, Dispraises his own skill?--That’s as you will. And they discuss the dead man, Plantagenet puts the riddle: “Did he love her?” And Arnaut parries: “Did he love your sister? True, he has praised her, but in some opinion He wrote that praise only to show he had The favour of your party, had been well received.”
“You knew the man.” “_You_ knew the man.” “I am an artist, you have tried both métiers.” “You were born near him.” “Do we know our friends?” “Say that he saw the castles, say that he loved Maent!” “Say that he loved her, does it solve the riddle?” End the discussion, Richard goes out next day And gets a quarrel-bolt shot through his vizard, Pardons the bowman, dies,
Ends our discussion. Arnaut ends “In sacred odour”--(that’s apocryphal!) And we can leave the talk till Dante writes: _Surely I saw, and still before my eyes_ _Goes on that headless trunk, that bears for light_ _Its own head swinging, gripped by the dead hair,_ _And like a swinging lamp that says, “Ah me!_ _I severed men, my head and heart_ _Ye see here severed, my life’s counterpart.”_
Or take En Bertrans?
III
RIGHT _Ed eran due in uno, ed uno in due._ Inferno, XXVIII, 125.
“Bewildering spring, and by the Auvezere Poppies and day’s-eyes in the green émail Rose over us; and we knew all that stream, And our two horses had traced out the valleys; Knew the low flooded lands squared out with poplars, In the young days when the deep sky befriended. And great wings beat above us in the twilight, And the great wheels in heaven Bore us together ... surging ... and apart ... Believing we should meet with lips and hands.
High, high and sure ... and then the counter-thrust: ‘Why do you love me? Will you always love me? But I am like the grass, I can not love you.’ Or, ‘Love, and I love and love you, And hate your mind, not _you_, your soul, your hands.’
So to this last estrangement, Tairiran!
There shut up in his castle, Tairiran’s, She who had nor ears nor tongue save in her hands, Gone--ah, gone--untouched, unreachable! She who could never live save through one person, She who could never speak save to one person, And all the rest of her a shifting change, A broken bundle of mirrors ...!”
Villanelle: the Psychological Hour
I had over-prepared the event, that much was ominous. With middle-ageing care I had laid out just the right books. I had almost turned down the pages.
_Beauty is so rare a thing._ _So few drink of my fountain._
So much barren regret, So many hours wasted! And now I watch, from the window, the rain, the wandering busses.
“Their little cosmos is shaken”-- the air is alive with that fact. In their parts of the city they are played on by diverse forces. How do I know? Oh, I know well enough. For them there is something afoot.
As for me: I had over-prepared the event--
_Beauty is so rare a thing._ _So few drink of my fountain._
Two friends: a breath of the forest ... Friends? Are people less friends because one has lust, at least, found them? Twice they promised to come. “_Between the night and morning?_”
_Beauty would drink of my mind._ Youth would awhile forget my youth is gone from me.
II
(“Speak up! You have danced so stiffly? Someone admired your works, And said so frankly.
“Did you talk like a fool, The first night? The second evening?”
“_But_ they promised again: ‘To-morrow at tea-time.’”)
III