Chapter 3

Wei-chih, Wei-chih! The night I wrote this letter I was sitting at the mountain-window of my thatched hut. I let my brush run as my hand willed and wrote at hazard as my thoughts came. When I folded it and addressed it, I found that dawn had come. I raised my head and saw only a few mountain-priests, some sitting, some sleeping. I heard the mournful cries of mountain apes and the sad twitterings of valley birds. O friend of all my life, parted from me by a thousand leagues, at such times as this “dim thoughts of the World”[8] creep upon me for a while; so, following my ancient custom, I send you these three couplets:

_I remember how once I wrote you a letter sitting in the Palace at night, At the back of the Hall of Golden Bells, when dawn was coming in the sky. This night I fold your letter--in what place? Sitting in a cottage on Lu Shan, by the light of a late lamp. The caged bird and fettered ape are neither of them dead yet; In the world of men face to face will they ever meet again?_

O Wei-chih, Wei-chih! This night, this heart--do you know them or not? Lo-t‘ien bows his head.

[1] Other name of Po Chü-i.

[2] Other name of Yüan Chēn.

[3] The extreme North and South of China.

[4] A poet, several of whose short poems are well-known.

[5] The son of Po Chü-i‘s uncle Po Ch‘i-k‘ang.

[6] A famous mountain near Kiu-kiang.

[7] What followed is omitted in the printed text.

[8] This expression is used by Yüan Chēn in a poem addressed to Po Chü-i. By “the World,” he means their life together at Court.

[34] HEARING THE EARLY ORIOLE

[_Written in exile_]

When the sun rose I was still lying in bed; An early oriole sang on the roof of my house. For a moment I thought of the Royal Park at dawn When the Birds of Spring greeted their Lord from his trees. I remembered the days when I served before the Throne Pencil in hand, on duty at the Ch‘ēng-ming;[1] At the height of spring, when I paused an instant from work, Morning and evening, was _this_ the voice I heard? Now in my exile the oriole sings again In the dreary stillness of Hsün-yang town ... The bird’s note cannot really have changed; All the difference lies in the listener’s heart. If he could but forget that he lives at the World’s end, The bird would sing as it sang in the Palace of old.

[1] Name of a palace at Ch‘ang-an.

[35] DREAMING THAT I WENT WITH LU AND YU TO VISIT YÜAN CHĒN

[_Written in exile_]

At night I dreamt I was back in Ch‘ang-an; I saw again the faces of old friends. And in my dreams, under an April sky, They led me by the hand to wander in the spring winds. Together we came to the village of Peace and Quiet; We stopped our horses at the gate of Yüan Chēn. Yüan Chēn was sitting all alone; When he saw me coming, a smile came to his face. He pointed back at the flowers in the western court; Then opened wine in the northern summer-house. He seemed to be saying that neither of us had changed; He seemed to be regretting that joy will not stay; That our souls had met only for a little while, To part again with hardly time for greeting. I woke up and thought him still at my side; I put out my hand; there was nothing there at all.

[36] THE FIFTEENTH VOLUME

[_Having completed the fifteenth volume of his works, the poet sends it to his friends Yüan Chēn and Li Chien, with a jesting poem._]

[_Written in 818_]

My long poem, the “Eternal Grief,”[1] is a beautiful and moving work; My ten “Songs of Shensi” are models of tunefulness. I cannot prevent Old Yüan from stealing my best rhymes; But I earnestly beg Little Li to respect my ballads and songs. While I am alive riches and honour will never fall to my lot; But well I know that after I am dead the fame of my books will live. This random talk and foolish boasting forgive me, for to-day I have added Volume Fifteen to the row that stands to my name.

[1] See Giles, “Chinese Literature,” p. 169.

[37] INVITATION TO HSIAO CHÜ-SHIH[1]

[_Written when Governor of Chung-Chou_]

Within the Gorges there is no lack of men; They are people one meets, not people one cares for. At my front door guests also arrive; They are people one sits with, not people one knows. When I look up, there are only clouds and trees; When I look down--only my wife and child. I sleep, eat, get up or sit still; Apart from that, nothing happens at all. But beyond the city Hsiao the hermit dwells; And with _him_ at least I find myself at ease. For _he_ can drink a full flagon of wine And is good at reciting long-line poems. Some afternoon, when the clerks have all gone home, At a season when the path by the river bank is dry, I beg you, take up your staff of bamboo-wood And find your way to the parlour of the Government House.

[1] Nos. 37, 38, 39, and 40 were written when the poet was Governor of a remote part of Ssechuan,--in the extreme west of China.

[38] TO LI CHIEN

[_A.D. 818_]

The province I govern is humble and remote; Yet our festivals follow the Courtly Calendar. At rise of day we sacrificed to the Wind God, When darkly, darkly, dawn glimmered in the sky. Officers followed, horsemen led the way; They brought us out to the wastes beyond the town, Where river mists fall heavier than rain, And the fires on the hill leap higher than the stars.

Suddenly I remembered the early levees at Court When you and I galloped to the Purple Yard. As we walked our horses up Dragon Tail Street We turned our heads and gazed at the Southern Hills. Since we parted, both of us have been growing old; And our minds have been vexed by many anxious cares. Yet even now I fancy my ears are full Of the sound of jade tinkling on your bridle-straps.

[39] THE SPRING RIVER

[_A.D. 820_]

Heat and cold, dusk and dawn have crowded one upon the other; Suddenly I find it is two years since I came to Chung-chou. Through my closed doors I hear nothing but the morning and evening drum; From my upper windows all I see is the ships that come and go.[1] In vain the orioles tempt me with their song to stray beneath the flowering trees; In vain the grasses lure me by their colour to sit beside the pond. There is one thing and one alone I never tire of watching-- The spring river as it trickles over the stones and babbles past the rocks.

[1] “The Emperor Saga of Japan [reigned A.D. 810-23] one day quoted to his Minister, Ono no Takamura, the couplet:

‘Through my closed doors I hear nothing but the morning and evening drum; From my upper windows in the distance I see ships that come and go.’

Takamura, thinking these were the Emperor’s own verses, said: ‘If I may venture to criticize an august composition, I would suggest that the phrase “in the distance” be altered.’ The Emperor was delighted, for he had purposely changed ‘all I see’ to ‘in the distance I see.’ At that time there was only one copy of Po Chü-i’s poems in Japan and the Emperor, to whom it belonged, had allowed no one to see it.”--From the _Kōdanshō_ [twelfth century].

[40] AFTER COLLECTING THE AUTUMN TAXES

From my high castle I look at the town below Where the natives of Pa cluster like a swarm of flies. How can I govern these people and lead them aright? I cannot even understand what they say. But at least I am glad, now that the taxes are in, To learn that in my province there is no discontent. I fear its prosperity is not due to me And was only caused by the year’s abundant crops, The papers that lie on my desk are simple and few; My house by the moat is leisurely and still. In the autumn rain the berries fall from the eaves; At the evening bell the birds return to the wood. A broken sunlight quavers over the southern porch Where I lie on my couch abandoned to idleness.

[41] LODGING WITH THE OLD MAN OF THE STREAM

[_A.D. 820_]

Men’s hearts love gold and jade; Men’s mouths covet wine and flesh. Not so the old man of the stream; He drinks from his gourd and asks nothing more. South of the stream he cuts firewood and grass; North of the stream he has built wall and roof. Yearly he sows a single acre of land; In spring he drives two yellow calves. In these things he finds great repose; Beyond these he has no wish or care. By chance I met him walking by the water-side; He took me home and lodged me in his thatched hut. When I parted from him, to seek market and Court, This old man asked my rank and pay. Doubting my tale, he laughed loud and long: “Privy Councillors do not sleep in barns.”

[42] TO HIS BROTHER HSING-CHIEN

[_A.D. 820_]

Can the single cup of wine We drank this morning have made my heart so glad? This is a joy that comes only from within, Which those who witness will never understand. I have but two brothers And bitterly grieved that both were far away; This Spring, back through the Gorges of Pa, I have come to them safely, ten thousand leagues. Two sisters I had Who had put up their hair, but not twined the sash;[1] Yesterday both were married and taken away By good husbands in whom I may well trust. I am freed at last from the thoughts that made me grieve, As though a sword had cut a rope from my neck. And limbs grow light when the heart sheds its care: Suddenly I seem to be flying up to the sky!

* * * * *

Hsing-chien, drink your cup of wine Then set it down and listen to what I say. Do not sigh that your home is far away; Do not mind if your salary is small. Only pray that as long as life lasts, You and I may never be forced to part.

[1] I.e., got married.

[43] THE PINE-TREES IN THE COURTYARD

[_A.D. 820_]

Below the hall The pine-trees grow in front of the steps, Irregularly scattered,--not in ordered lines. Some are tall and some are low: The tallest of them is six roods high; The lowest but ten feet. They are like wild things And no one knows who planted them. They touch the walls of my blue-tiled house; Their roots are sunk in the terrace of white sand. Morning and evening they are visited by the wind and moon; Rain or fine,--they are free from dust and mud. In the gales of autumn they whisper a vague tune; From the suns of summer they yield a cool shade. At the height of spring the fine evening rain Fills their leaves with a load of hanging pearls. At the year’s end the time of great snow Stamps their branches with a fret of glittering jade. Of the Four Seasons each has its own mood; Among all the trees none is like another. Last year, when they heard I had bought this house, Neighbours mocked and the World called me mad-- That a whole family of twice ten souls Should move house for the sake of a few pines! Now that I have come to them, what have they given me? They have only loosened the buckles of my care. Yet even so, they are “profitable friends,”[1] And fill my need of “converse with wise men.” Yet when I consider how, still a man of the world, In belt and cap I scurry through dirt and dust, From time to time my heart twinges with shame That I am not fit to be master of my pines!

[1] See “Analects of Confucius” 4 and 5, where three kinds of “profitable friends” and three kinds of “profitable pleasures” are described; the third of the latter being “plenty of intelligent companions.”

[44] SLEEPING ON HORSEBACK

[_A.D. 822_]

We had rode long and were still far from the inn; My eyes grew dim; for a moment I fell asleep. Under my right arm the whip still dangled; In my left hand the reins for an instant slackened. Suddenly I woke and turned to question my groom: “We have gone a hundred paces since you fell asleep.” Body and spirit for a while had exchanged place; Swift and slow had turned to their contraries. For these few steps that my horse had carried me Had taken in my dream countless aeons of time! True indeed is that saying of Wise Men “A hundred years are but a moment of sleep.”

[45] PARTING FROM THE WINTER STOVE

[_A.D. 822_]

On the fifth day after the rise of Spring, Everywhere the season’s gracious altitudes! The white sun gradually lengthening its course, The blue-grey clouds hanging as though they would fall; The last icicle breaking into splinters of jade; The new stems marshalling red sprouts. The things I meet are all full of gladness; It is not only _I_ who love the Spring. To welcome the flowers I stand in the back garden; To enjoy the sunlight I sit under the front eaves. Yet still in my heart there lingers one regret; Soon I shall part with the flame of my red stove!

[46] GOOD-BYE TO THE PEOPLE OF HANGCHOW

[_A.D. 824_]

Elders and officers line the returning road; Wine and soup load the parting table. I have not ruled you with the wisdom of Shao Kung;[1] What is the reason your tears should fall so fast? My taxes were heavy, though many of the people were poor; The farmers were hungry, for often their fields were dry. All I did was to dam the water of the Lake[2] And help a little in a year when things were bad.

[1] A legendary ruler who dispensed justice sitting under a wild pear-tree.

[2] Po Chü-i built the dam on the Western Lake which is still known as “Po’s dam.”

[47] WRITTEN WHEN GOVERNOR OF SOOCHOW

[_A.D. 825_]

A Government building, not my own home. A Government garden, not my own trees. But at Lo-yang I have a small house And on Wei River I have built a thatched hut. I am free from the ties of marrying and giving in marriage; If I choose to retire, I have somewhere to end my days. And though I have lingered long beyond my time, To retire now would be better than not at all!

[48] GETTING UP EARLY ON A SPRING MORNING

[_Part of a poem written when Governor of Soochow in 825_]

The early light of the rising sun shines on the beams of my house; The first banging of opened doors echoes like the roll of a drum. The dog lies curled on the stone step, for the earth is wet with dew; The birds come near to the window and chatter, telling that the day is fine. With the lingering fumes of yesterday’s wine my head is still heavy; With new doffing of winter clothes my body has grown light.

[49] LOSING A SLAVE-GIRL

[_Date uncertain_]

Around my garden the little wall is low; In the bailiff’s lodge the lists are seldom checked. I am ashamed to think we were not always kind; I regret your labours, that will never be repaid. The caged bird owes no allegiance; The wind-tossed flower does not cling to the tree.

* * * * *

Where to-night she lies none can give us news; Nor any knows, save the bright watching moon.

[50] THE GRAND HOUSES AT LO-YANG

[_Circa A.D. 829_]

By woods and water, whose houses are these With high gates and wide-stretching lands? From their blue gables gilded fishes hang; By their red pillars carven coursers run. Their spring arbours, warm with caged mist; Their autumn yards with locked moonlight cold. To the stem of the pine-tree amber beads cling; The bamboo-branches ooze ruby-drops. Of lake and terrace who may the masters be? Staff-officers, Councillors-of-State. All their lives they have never come to see, But know their houses only from the bailiff’s map!

[51] THE CRANES

[_A.D. 830_]

The western wind has blown but a few days; Yet the first leaf already flies from the bough. On the drying paths I walk in my thin shoes; In the first cold I have donned my quilted coat. Through shallow ditches the floods are clearing away; Through sparse bamboos trickles a slanting light. In the early dusk, down an alley of green moss, The garden-boy is leading the cranes home.

[52] ON HIS BALDNESS

[_A.D. 832_]

At dawn I sighed to see my hairs fall; At dusk I sighed to see my hairs fall. For I dreaded the time when the last lock should go ... They are all gone and I do not mind at all! I have done with that cumbrous washing and getting dry; My tiresome comb for ever is laid aside. Best of all, when the weather is hot and wet, To have no top-knot weighing down on one’s head! I put aside my dusty conical cap; And loose my collar-fringe. In a silver jar I have stored a cold stream; On my bald pate I trickle a ladle-full. Like one baptized with the Water of Buddha’s Law, I sit and receive this cool, cleansing joy. _Now_ I know why the priest who seeks Repose Frees his heart by first shaving his head.

[53] THINKING OF THE PAST

[_A.D. 833_]

In an idle hour I thought of former days; And former friends seemed to be standing in the room. And then I wondered “Where are they now?” Like fallen leaves they have tumbled to the Nether Springs. Han Yü[1] swallowed his sulphur pills, Yet a single illness carried him straight to the grave. Yüan Chēn smelted autumn stone[2] But before he was old, his strength crumbled away. Master Tu possessed the “Secret of Health”: All day long he fasted from meat and spice. The Lord Ts‘ui, trusting a strong drug, Through the whole winter wore his summer coat. Yet some by illness and some by sudden death ... All vanished ere their middle years were passed.

Only I, who have never dieted myself Have thus protracted a tedious span of age, I who in young days Yielded lightly to every lust and greed; Whose palate craved only for the richest meat And knew nothing of bismuth or calomel. When hunger came, I gulped steaming food; When thirst came, I drank from the frozen stream. With verse I served the spirits of my Five Guts;[3] With wine I watered the three Vital Spots. Day by day joining the broken clod I have lived till now almost sound and whole. There is no gap in my two rows of teeth; Limbs and body still serve me well. Already I have opened the seventh book of years; Yet I eat my fill and sleep quietly; I drink, while I may, the wine that lies in my cup, And all else commit to Heaven’s care.

[1] The famous poet, d. 824 A.D.

[2] Carbamide crystals.

[3] Heart, liver, stomach, lungs and kidney.

[54] A MAD POEM ADDRESSED TO MY NEPHEWS AND NIECES

[_A.D. 835_]

The World cheats those who cannot read; _I_, happily, have mastered script and pen. The World cheats those who hold no office; _I_ am blessed with high official rank. The old are often ill; _I_, at this day have not an ache or pain. They are often burdened with ties; But _I_ have finished with marriage and giving in marriage. No changes happen to disturb the quiet of my mind; No business comes to impair the vigour of my limbs. Hence it is that now for ten years Body and soul have rested in hermit peace. And all the more, in the last lingering years What I shall need are very few things. A single rug to warm me through the winter; One meal to last me the whole day. It does not matter that my house is rather small; One cannot sleep in more than one room! It does not matter that I have not many horses; One cannot ride in two coaches at once! As fortunate as me among the people of the world Possibly one would find seven out of ten. As contented as me among a hundred men Look as you may, you will not find one. In the affairs of others even fools are wise; In their own business even sages err. To no one else would I dare to speak my heart, So my wild words are addressed to my nephews and nieces.

[55] OLD AGE

[_Addressed to Liu Yü-hsi, who was born in the same year_]

[_A.D. 835_]

We are growing old together, you and I, Let us ask ourselves, what is age like? The dull eye is closed ere night comes; The idle head, still uncombed at noon. Propped on a staff, sometimes a walk abroad; Or all day sitting with closed doors. One dares not look in the mirror’s polished face; One cannot read small-letter books. Deeper and deeper, one’s love of old friends; Fewer and fewer, one’s dealings with young men. One thing only, the pleasure of idle talk, Is great as ever, when you and I meet.

[56] TO A TALKATIVE GUEST

[_A.D. 836_]

The town visitor’s easy talk flows in an endless stream; The country host’s quiet thoughts ramble timidly on. “I beg you, Sir, do not tell me about things at Ch‘ang-an; For you entered just when my harp was tuned and lying balanced on my knees.”

[57] TO LIU YU-HSI

[_A.D. 838_]

In length of days and soundness of limb you and I are one; Our eyes are not wholly blind, nor our ears quite deaf. Deep drinking we lie together, fellows of a spring day; Or gay-hearted boldly break into gatherings of young men. When, seeking flowers, we borrowed his horse, the river-keeper was vexed; When, to play on the water, we stole his boat, the Duke Ling was sore. I hear it said that in Lo-yang, people are all shocked, And call us by the name of “Liu and Po, those two mad old men.”

[58] MY SERVANT WAKES ME

[_A.D. 839_]

My servant wakes me: “Master, it is broad day. Rise from bed; I bring you bowl and comb. Winter comes and the morning air is chill; To-day your Honour must not venture abroad.” When I stay at home, no one comes to call; What must I do with the long, idle hours? Setting my chair where a faint sunshine falls I have warmed wine and opened my poetry-books.

[59] SINCE I LAY ILL

[_A.D. 840_]

Since I lay ill, how long has passed? Almost a hundred heavy-hanging days. The maids have learnt to gather my medicine-herbs; The dog no longer barks when the doctor comes. The jars in my cellar are plastered deep with mould; My singer’s carpets are half crumbled to dust. How can I bear, when the Earth renews her light, To watch from a pillow the beauty of Spring unfold?

[60] SONG OF PAST FEELINGS [With Preface]

[_Circa A.D. 840_]

When Lo-t‘ien[1] was old, he fell ill of a palsy. So he made a list of his possessions and examined his expenses, that he might reject whatever had become superfluous. He had in his employ a girl about twenty years old called Fan Su, whose postures delighted him when she sang or danced. But above all she excelled in singing the “Willow-Branch,” so that many called her by the name of this song, and she was well known by this name in the town of Lo-yang. But she was on the list of unnecessary expenses and was to be sent away.

He had too a white horse with black mane, sturdy and sure-footed, which he had ridden for many years. It stood on the list of things which could be dispensed with, and was to be sold. When the groom led the horse through the gate, it tossed its head and looked back, neighing once with a sound in its voice that seemed to say: “I know I am leaving you and long to stay.” Su, when she heard the horse neigh, rose timidly, bowed before me and spoke sweetly, as shall hereafter be shown. When she had done speaking her tears fell.