Chapter 2

In early summer, with two or three more That were seeking fame in the city of Ch‘ang-an, Whose low employ gave them less business Than ever they had since first they left their homes,-- With these I wandered deep into the shrine of Tao, For the joy we sought was promised in this place. When we reached the gate, we sent our coaches back; We entered the yard with only cap and stick. Still and clear, the first weeks of May, When trees are green and bushes soft and wet; When the wind has stolen the shadows of new leaves And birds linger on the last boughs that bloom. Towards evening when the sky grew clearer yet And the South-east was still clothed in red, To the western cloister we carried our jar of wine; While we waited for the moon, our cups moved slow. Soon, how soon her golden ghost was born, Swiftly, as though she had waited for us to come. The beams of her light shone in every place, On towers and halls dancing to and fro. Till day broke we sat in her clear light Laughing and singing, and yet never grew tired. In Ch‘ang-an, the place of profit and fame, Such moods as this, how many men know?

[14] SICK LEAVE

[_While Secretary to the Deputy-Assistant-Magistrate of Chou-chih, near Ch‘ang-an, in A.D. 806_]

Propped on pillows, not attending to business; For two days I’ve lain behind locked doors. I begin to think that those who hold office Get no rest, except by falling ill! For restful thoughts one does not need space; The room where I lie is ten foot square. By the western eaves, above the bamboo-twigs, From my couch I see the White Mountain rise. But the clouds that hover on its far-distant peak Bring shame to a face that is buried in the World’s dust.

[15] WATCHING THE REAPERS

[_A.D. 806_]

Tillers of the soil have few idle months; In the fifth month their toil is double-fold. A south-wind visits the fields at night: Suddenly the hill is covered with yellow corn. Wives and daughters shoulder baskets of rice; Youths and boys carry the flasks of wine. Following after they bring a wage of meat, To the strong reapers toiling on the southern hill, Whose feet are burned by the hot earth they tread, Whose backs are scorched by flames of the shining sky. Tired they toil, caring nothing for the heat, Grudging the shortness of the long summer day. A poor woman follows at the reapers’ side With an infant child carried close at her breast. With her right hand she gleans the fallen grain; On her left arm a broken basket hangs. And _I_ to-day ... by virtue of what right Have I never once tended field or tree? My government-pay is three hundred tons; At the year’s end I have still grain in hand. Thinking of this, secretly I grew ashamed; And all day the thought lingered in my head.

[16] GOING ALONE TO SPEND A NIGHT AT THE HSIEN-YU TEMPLE

[_A.D. 806_]

The crane from the shore standing at the top of the steps; The moon on the pool seen at the open door; Where these are, I made my lodging-place And for two nights could not turn away. I am glad I chanced on a place so lonely and still With no companion to drag me early home. Now that I have tasted the joy of being alone I will never again come with a friend at my side.

[17] PLANTING BAMBOOS

[_A.D. 806_]

Unrewarded, my will to serve the State; At my closed door autumn grasses grow. What could I do to ease a rustic heart? I planted bamboos, more than a hundred shoots. When I see their beauty, as they grow by the stream-side, I feel again as though I lived in the hills, And many a time on public holidays Round their railing I walk till night comes. Do not say that their roots are still weak, Do not say that their shade is still small; Already I feel that both in garden and house Day by day a fresher air moves. But most I love, lying near the window-side, To hear in their branches the sound of the autumn-wind.

[18] TO LI CHIEN

[_Part of a Poem_]

[_A.D. 807_]

Worldly matters again draw my steps; Worldly things again seduce my heart. Whenever for long I part from Li Chien Gradually my thoughts grow narrow and covetous. I remember how once I used to visit you; I stopped my horse and tapped at the garden-gate. Often when I came you were still lying in bed; Your little children were sent to let me in. And you, laughing, ran to the front-door With coat-tails flying and cap all awry. On the swept terrace, green patterns of moss; On the dusted bench, clean shadows of leaves. To gaze at the hills we sat in the eastern lodge; To wait for the moon we walked to the southern moor. At your quiet gate only birds spoke; In your distant street few drums were heard. Opposite each other all day we talked, And never once spoke of profit or fame. Since we parted hands, how long has passed? Thrice and again the full moon has shone. For when we parted the last flowers were falling, And to-day I hear new cicadas sing. The scented year suddenly draws to its close, Yet the sorrow of parting is still unsubdued.

[19] AT THE END OF SPRING

_To Yüan Chēn._[1] [_A.D. 810_]

The flower of the pear-tree gathers and turns to fruit; The swallows’ eggs have hatched into young birds. When the Seasons’ changes thus confront the mind What comfort can the Doctrine of Tao give? It will teach me to watch the days and months fly Without grieving that Youth slips away; If the Fleeting World is but a long dream, It does not matter whether one is young or old. But ever since the day that my friend left my side And has lived an exile in the City of Chiang-ling, There is one wish I cannot quite destroy: That from time to time we may chance to meet again.

[1] Po Chü-i’s great friend. See Nos. 63 and 64.

[20] THE POEM ON THE WALL

[_A.D. 810_]

[_Yüan Chēn wrote that on his way to exile he had discovered a poem inscribed by Po Chü-i, on the wall of the Lo-k‘ou Inn._]

My clumsy poem on the inn-wall none cared to see. With bird-droppings and moss’s growth the letters were blotched away. There came a guest with heart so full, that though a page to the Throne, He did not grudge with his broidered coat to wipe off the dust, and read.

[21] CHU CH‘ĒN VILLAGE

[_A.D. 811_]

In Hsü-chou, in the District of Ku-fēng There lies a village whose name is Chu-ch‘ēn-- A hundred miles away from the county-town, Amid fields of hemp and green of mulberry-trees. Click, click goes the sound of the spinning-wheel; Mules and oxen pack the village-streets. The girls go drawing the water from the brook; The men go gathering fire-wood on the hill. So far from the town Government affairs are few; So deep in the hills, man’s ways are simple. Though they have wealth, they do not traffic with it; Though they reach the age, they do not enter the Army. Each family keeps to its village trade; Grey-headed, they have never left the gates.

Alive, they are the people of Ch‘ēn Village; Dead, they become the dust of Ch‘ēn Village. Out in the fields old men and young Gaze gladly, each in the other’s face. In the whole village there are only two clans; Age after age Chus have married Ch‘ēns. Near or distant, they have kinsmen in every house; Young or old, they have friends wherever they go. On white wine and roasted fowl they fare At joyful meetings more than “once a week.” While they are alive, they have no distant partings; To choose a wife they go to a neighbour’s house. When they are dead,--no distant burial; Round the village graves lie thick. They are not troubled either about life or death; They have no anguish either of body or soul. And so it happens that they live to a ripe age And great-great-grandsons are often seen.

_I_ was born in the Realms of Etiquette; In early years, unprotected and poor. Alone, I learnt to distinguish between Evil and Good; Untutored, I toiled at bitter tasks. The World’s Law honours Learning and Fame; Scholars prize marriages and Caps. With these fetters I gyved my own hands; Truly I became a much-deceived man. At ten years old I learnt to read books; At fifteen, I knew how to write prose. At twenty I was made a Bachelor of Arts; At thirty I became a Censor at the Court. Above, the duty I owe to Prince and parents; Below, the ties that bind me to wife and child. The support of my family, the service of my country-- For these tasks my nature is not apt. I reckon the time that I first left my home; From then till now,--fifteen Springs! My lonely boat has thrice sailed to Ch‘u; Four times through Ch‘in my lean horse has passed. I have walked in the morning with hunger in my face; I have lain at night with a soul that could not rest. East and West I have wandered without pause, Hither and thither like a cloud astray in the sky. In the civil-war my old home was destroyed; Of my flesh and blood many are scattered and lost. North of the River, and South of the River-- In both lands are the friends of all my life; Life-friends whom I never see at all,-- Whose deaths I hear of only after the lapse of years. Sad at morning, I lie on my bed till dusk; Weeping at night, I sit and wait for dawn. The fire of sorrow has burnt my heart’s core; The frost of trouble has seized my hair’s roots. In such anguish has my whole life passed; Long I have envied the people of Ch‘ēn Village.

[22] FISHING IN THE WEI RIVER

[_A.D. 811_]

In waters still as a burnished mirror’s face, In the depths of Wei, carp and grayling swim. Idly I come with my bamboo fishing-rod And hang my hook by the banks of Wei stream. A gentle wind blows on my fishing-gear Softly shaking my ten feet of line. Though my body sits waiting for fish to come, My heart has wandered to the Land of Nothingness.[1] Long ago a white-headed man[2] Also fished at the same river’s side; A hooker of men, not a hooker of fish, At seventy years, he caught Wēn Wang.[2] But _I_, when I come to cast my hook in the stream, Have no thought either of fish or men. Lacking the skill to capture either prey, I can only bask in the autumn water’s light. When I tire of this, my fishing also stops; I go to my home and drink my cup of wine.

[1] See “Chuang Tzŭ,” chap. i, end.

[2] The Sage T‘ai-kung sat still till he was seventy, apparently fishing, but really waiting for a Prince who would employ him. At last Wēn Wang, Prince of Chou, happened to come that way and at once made him his counsellor.

[23] LAZY MAN’S SONG

[_A.D. 811_]

I have got patronage, but am too lazy to use it; I have got land, but am too lazy to farm it. My house leaks; I am too lazy to mend it. My clothes are torn; I am too lazy to darn them. I have got wine, but am too lazy to drink; So it’s just the same as if my cellar were empty. I have got a harp, but am too lazy to play; So it’s just the same as if it had no strings. My wife tells me there is no more bread in the house; I want to bake, but am too lazy to grind. My friends and relatives write me long letters; I should like to read them, but they’re such a bother to open. I have always been told that Chi Shu-yeh[1] Passed his whole life in absolute idleness. But he played the harp and sometimes transmuted metals, So even _he_ was not so lazy as I.

[1] Also known as Chi K‘ang. A famous Quietist.

[24] ILLNESS AND IDLENESS

[_Circa A.D. 812_]

Illness and idleness give me much leisure. What do I do with my leisure, when it comes? I cannot bring myself to discard inkstone and brush; Now and then I make a new poem. When the poem is made, it is slight and flavourless, A thing of derision to almost every one. Superior people will be pained at the flatness of the metre; Common people will hate the plainness of the words. I sing it to myself, then stop and think about it ...

* * * * *

The Prefects of Soochow and P‘ēng-tsē[1] Would perhaps have praised it, but they died long ago. Who else would care to hear it? No one to-day except Yüan Chēn, And _he_ is banished to the City of Chiang-ling, For three years an usher in the Penal Court. Parted from me by three thousand leagues He will never know even that the poem was made.

[1] Wei Ying-wu, eighth century A.D., and T‘ao Ch‘ien, A.D. 365-427.

[25] WINTER NIGHT

[_Written during his retirement in 812_]

My house is poor; those that I love have left me; My body sick; I cannot join the feast. There is not a living soul before my eyes As I lie alone locked in my cottage room. My broken lamp burns with a feeble flame; My tattered curtains are crooked and do not meet. “Tsek, tsek” on the door-step and window-sill Again I hear the new snow fall. As I grow older, gradually I sleep less; I wake at midnight and sit up straight in bed. If I had not learned the “art of sitting and forgetting,”[1] How could I bear this utter loneliness? Stiff and stark my body cleaves to the earth; Unimpeded my soul yields to Change.[2] So has it been for four hateful years, Through one thousand and three hundred nights!

[1] Yen Hui told Confucius that he had acquired the “art of sitting and forgetting.” Asked what that meant, Yen Hui replied, “I have learnt to discard my body and obliterate my intelligence; to abandon matter and be impervious to sense-perception. By this method I become one with the All-Pervading.”--_Chuang Tzŭ_, chap. vi.

[2] “Change” is the principle of endless mutation which governs the Universe.

[26] THE CHRYSANTHEMUMS IN THE EASTERN GARDEN

[_A.D. 812_]

The days of my youth left me long ago; And now in their turn dwindle my years of prime. With what thoughts of sadness and loneliness I walk again in this cold, deserted place! In the midst of the garden long I stand alone; The sunshine, faint; the wind and dew chill. The autumn lettuce is tangled and turned to seed; The fair trees are blighted and withered away. All that is left are a few chrysanthemum-flowers That have newly opened beneath the wattled fence. I had brought wine and meant to fill my cup, When the sight of these made me stay my hand. I remember, when I was young, How easily my mood changed from sad to gay. If I saw wine, no matter at what season, Before I drank it, my heart was already glad. But now that age comes, A moment of joy is harder and harder to get. And always I fear that when I am quite old The strongest liquor will leave me comfortless. Therefore I ask you, late chrysanthemum-flower At this sad season why do you bloom alone? Though well I know that it was not for my sake, Taught by you, for a while I will open my face.

[27] POEMS IN DEPRESSION, AT WEI VILLAGE

[_A.D. 812_]

[1]

I hug my pillow and do not speak a word; In my empty room no sound stirs. Who knows that, all day a-bed, I am not ill and am not even asleep?

[2]

Turned to jade are the boy’s rosy cheeks; To his sick temples the frost of winter clings.... Do not wonder that my body sinks to decay; Though my limbs are old, my heart is older yet.

[28] TO HIS BROTHER HSING-CHIEN, WHO WAS SERVING IN TUNG-CH‘UAN

[_A.D. 815_]

Sullen, sullen, my brows are ever knit; Silent, silent, my lips will not move. It is not indeed that I choose to sorrow thus; If I lift my eyes, who would share my joy? Last Spring _you_ were called to the West To carry arms in the lands of Pa and Shu; And this Spring _I_ was banished to the South To nurse my sickness on the River’s oozy banks. You are parted from me by six thousand leagues; In another world, under another sky. Of ten letters, nine do not reach; What can I do to open my sad face? Thirsty men often dream of drink; Hungry men often dream of food. Since Spring came, where do my dreams lodge? Ere my eyes are closed, I have travelled to Tung-ch‘uan.

[29] STARTING EARLY FROM THE CH‘U-CH‘ĒNG INN

[_A.D. 815_]

Washed by the rain, dust and grime are laid; Skirting the river, the road’s course is flat. The moon has risen on the last remnants of night; The travellers’ speed profits by the early cold. In the great silence I whisper a faint song; In the black darkness are bred sombre thoughts. On the lotus-banks hovers a dewy breeze; Through the rice-furrows trickles a singing stream. At the noise of our bells a sleeping dog stirs; At the sight of our torches a roosting bird wakes. Dawn glimmers through the shapes of misty trees ... For ten miles, till day at last breaks.

[30] RAIN

[_A.D. 815_]

Since I lived a stranger in the City of Hsün-yang Hour by hour bitter rain has poured. On few days has the dark sky cleared; In listless sleep I have spent much time. The lake has widened till it almost joins the sky; The clouds sink till they touch the water’s face. Beyond my hedge I hear the boatmen’s talk; At the street-end I hear the fisher’s song. Misty birds are lost in yellow air; Windy sails kick the white waves. In front of my gate the horse and carriage-way In a single night has turned into a river-bed.

[31] THE BEGINNING OF SUMMER

[_A.D. 815_]

At the rise of summer a hundred beasts and trees Join in gladness that the Season bids them thrive. Stags and does frolic in the deep woods; Snakes and insects are pleased by the rank grass. Wingèd birds love the thick leaves; Scaly fish enjoy the fresh weeds. But to one place Summer forgot to come; I alone am left like a withered straw ... Banished to the world’s end; Flesh and bone all in distant ways. From my native-place no tidings come; Rebel troops flood the land with war. Sullen grief, in the end, what will it bring? I am only wearing my own heart away. Better far to let both body and mind Blindly yield to the fate that Heaven made. Hsün-yang abounds in good wine; I will fill my cup and never let it be dry. On Pēn River fish are cheap as mud; Early and late I will eat them, boiled and fried. With morning rice at the temple under the hill, And evening wine at the island in the lake ... Why should my thoughts turn to my native land? For in this place one could well end one’s age.

[32] VISITING THE HSI-LIN TEMPLE

[_Written during his exile_]

I dismount from my horse at the Hsi-lin Temple; I throw the porter my slender riding-whip. In the morning I work at a Government office-desk; In the evening I become a dweller in the Sacred Hills. In the second month to the north of Kuang-lu The ice breaks and the snow begins to melt. On the southern plantation the tea-plant thrusts its sprouts; Through the northern sluice the veins of the spring ooze.

* * * * *

This year there is war in An-hui, In every place soldiers are rushing to arms. Men of learning have been summoned to the Council Board; Men of action are marching to the battle-line. Only I, who have no talents at all, Am left in the mountains to play with the pebbles of the stream.

[33] PROSE LETTER TO YÜAN CHĒN

[_A.D. 818_]

Night of the tenth day of the fourth month. Lo-t‘ien[1] says: O Wei-chih,[2] Wei-chih, it is three years since I saw your face and almost two years since I had a letter from you. Is man’s life so long that he can afford such partings? Much less should hearts joined by glue be set in bodies remote as Hu and Yüeh.[3] In promotion we could not be together; and in failure we cannot forget each other. Snatched and wrenched apart, separately each of us grows grey. O Wei-chih, what is to be done? But this is the work of Heaven and there is no use in speaking of it.

When I first arrived at Hsün-yang, Hsiung Ju-tēng[4] came with the letter which you had written the year before, when you were so ill. First you told me of the progress of your illness, next of your feelings while you were ill and last you spoke of all our meetings and partings, and of the occasion of your own difficulties and dangers. You had no time to write more, but sent a bundle of your writings with a note attached, which said, “Later on I will send a message by Po Min-chung.[5] Ask him for news and that will do instead of a letter.” Alas! Is it thus that Wei-chih treats me? But again, I read the poem you wrote when you heard I had been banished:

_The lamp had almost spent its light: shadows filled the room, The night I heard that Lo-t‘ien was banished to Kiu-kiang. And I that had lain sick to death sat up suddenly in bed; A dark wind blowing rain entered at the cold window._

If even strangers’ hearts are touched by these lines, much more must mine be; so that to this day I cannot recite them without pain. Of this matter I will say no more, but tell you briefly what has passed of late.

It is more than three years since I came to Kiu-kiang. All this time my body has been strong and my heart much at peace. There has been no sickness in my household, even among the servants. Last summer my elder brother arrived from Hsü-chou, leading by the hand six or seven little brothers and sisters, orphans of various households. So that I have under my eyes all those who at present demand my care. They share with me cold and heat, hunger and satiety. This is my first consolation.

The climate of the River Province is somewhat cool, so that fevers and epidemics are rare. And while snakes and mosquitoes are few, the fish in the Pēn are remarkably fat, the River wine is exceedingly good, and indeed for the most part the food is like that of the North Country. Although the mouths within my doors are many and the salary of a Sub-Prefect is small, by a thrifty application of my means, I am yet able to provide for my household without seeking any man’s assistance to clothe their backs or fill their bellies. This is my second consolation.

In the autumn of last year I visited Lu Shan[6] for the first time. Reaching a point between the Eastern Forest and Western Forest Temples, beneath the Incense-Burner Peak, I was enamoured by the unequalled prospect of cloud-girt waters and spray-clad rocks. Unable to leave this place, I built a cottage here. Before it stand ten tall pines and a thousand tapering bamboos. With green creepers I fenced my garden; with white stones I made bridge and path. Flowing waters encircle my home; flying spray falls between the eaves. Red pomegranate and white lotus cluster on the steps of the pond. All is after this pattern, though I cannot here name each delight. Whenever I come here alone, I am moved to prolong my stay to ten days; for of the things that have all my life most pleased me, not one is missing. So that not only do I forget to go back, but would gladly end my days here. This is my third consolation.

Remembering that not having had news of me for so long, you might be in some anxiety with regard to me, I have hastened to set your mind at rest by recording these three consolations. What else I have to tell shall be set out in due order, as follows....[7]