Chapter 6

But Miss Li looked up at her defiantly and said: “Not so! This is the son of a noble house. Once he rode in grand coaches and wore golden trappings on his coat. But when he came to our house, he soon lost all he had; and then we plotted together and left him destitute. Our conduct has indeed been inhuman! We have ruined his career and robbed him even of his place in the category of human relationships. For the love of father and son is implanted by Heaven; yet we have hardened his father’s heart, so that he beat him with a stick and left him on the ground.

“Every one in the land knows that it is I who have reduced him to his present plight. The Court is full of his kinsmen. Some day one of them will come into power. Then an inquiry will be set afoot, and disaster will overtake us. And since we have flouted Heaven and defied the laws of humanity, neither spirits nor divinities will be on our side. Let us not wantonly incur a further retribution!

“I have lived as your daughter for twenty years. Reckoning what I have cost you in that time, I find it must be close on a thousand pieces of gold. You are now aged sixty, so that by the price of twenty more years’ food and clothing, I can buy my freedom. I intend to live separately with this young man. We will not go far away; I shall see to it that we are near enough to pay our respects to you both morning and evening.”

The “mother” saw that she was not to be gainsaid and fell in with the arrangement. When she had paid her ransom, Miss Li had a hundred pieces of gold left over; and with them she hired a vacant room, five doors away. Here she gave the young man a bath, changed his clothes, fed him with hot soup to relax his stomach, and later on fattened him up with cheese and milk.

In a few weeks she began to place before him all the choicest delicacies of land and sea; and she clothed him with cap, shoes and stockings of the finest quality. In a short time he began gradually to put on flesh, and by the end of the year, he had entirely recovered his former health.

One day Miss Li said to him: “Now your limbs are stout again and your will strong! Sometimes, when deeply pondering in silent sorrow, I wonder to myself how much you remember of your old literary studies?” He thought and answered: “Of ten parts I remember two or three.”

Miss Li then ordered the carriage to be got ready and the young man followed her on horseback. When they reached the classical bookshop at the side-gate south of the Flag tower, she made him choose all the books he wanted, till she had laid out a hundred pieces of gold. Then she packed them in the cart and drove home. She now made him dismiss all other thoughts from his mind and apply himself only to study. All the evening he toiled at his books, with Miss Li at his side, and they did not retire till midnight. If ever she found that he was too tired to work, she made him lay down his classics and write a poem or ode.

In two years he had thoroughly mastered his subjects and was admired by all the scholars of the realm. He said to Miss Li, “_Now_, surely, I am ready for the examiners!” but she would not let him compete and made him revise all he had learnt, to prepare for the “hundredth battle.” At the end of the third year she said, “Now you may go.” He went in for the examination and passed at the first attempt. His reputation spread rapidly through the examination rooms and even older men, when they saw his compositions, were filled with admiration and respect, and sought his friendship.

But Miss Li would not let him make friends with them, saying, “Wait a little longer! Nowadays when a bachelor of arts has passed his examination, he thinks himself fit to hold the most advantageous posts at Court and to win a universal reputation. But your unfortunate conduct and disreputable past put you at a disadvantage beside your fellow-scholars. You must ‘grind, temper and sharpen’ your attainments, that you may secure a second victory. Then you will be able to match yourself against famous scholars and contend with the illustrious.”

The young man accordingly increased his efforts and enhanced his value. That year it happened that the Emperor had decreed a special examination for the selection of candidates of unusual merit from all parts of the Empire. The young man competed, and came out top in the “censorial essay.” He was offered the post of Army Inspector at Ch‘ēng-tu Fu. The officers who were to escort him were all previous friends.

When he was about to take up his post, Miss Li said to him, “Now that you are restored to your proper station in life, I will not be a burden to you. Let me go back and look after the old lady till she dies. You must ally yourself with some lady of noble lineage, who will be worthy to carry the sacrificial dishes in your Ancestral Hall. Do not injure your prospects by an unequal union. Good-bye, for now I must leave you.”

The young man burst into tears and threatened to kill himself if she left him, but she obstinately refused to go with him. He begged her passionately not to desert him, and she at last consented to go with him across the river as far as Chien-mēn.[4] “There,” she said, “you must part with me.” The young man consented and in a few weeks they reached Chien-mēn. Before he had started out again, a proclamation arrived announcing that the young man’s father, who had been Governor of Ch‘ang-chou, had been appointed Governor of Ch‘ēng-tu and Intendant of the Chien-nan Circuit. Next morning the father arrived, and the young man sent in his card and waited upon him at the posting-station. His father did not recognize him, but the card bore the names of the young man’s father and grandfather, with their ranks and titles. When he read these, he was astounded, and bidding his son mount the steps he caressed him and wept. After a while he said: “Now we two are father and son once more,” and bade him tell his story. When he heard of the young man’s adventures, he was amazed. Presently he asked: “And where is Miss Li?” He replied: “She came with me as far as here, but now she is going back again.”

[4] The “Sword-gate”: commanding the pass which leads into Szechuan from the north.

“I cannot allow it,” the father said. Next day he ordered a carriage for his son and sent him on to report himself at Ch‘ēng-tu; but he detained Miss Li at Chien-mēn, found her a suitable lodging and ordered a match-maker to perform the initial ceremonies for uniting the two families and to accomplish the six rites of welcome. The young man came back from Ch‘ēng-tu and they were duly married. In the years that followed their marriage, Miss Li showed herself a devoted wife and competent housekeeper, and was beloved by all her relations.

Some years later both the young man’s parents died, and in his mourning observances he showed unusual piety. As a mark of divine favour, magic toadstools grew on the roof of his mourning-hut,[5] each stem bearing three plants. The report of his virtue reached even the Emperor’s ears. Moreover a number of white swallows nested in the beams of his roof, an omen which so impressed the Emperor that he raised his rank immediately.

[5] See “Book or Rites,” xxxii, 3. On returning from his father’s burial a son must not enter the house; he should live in an “out-house,” mourning for his father’s absence.

When the three years of mourning were over, he was successively promoted to various distinguished posts and in the course of ten years was Governor of several provinces. Miss Li was given the fief of Chien-kuo, with the title “The Lady of Chien-kuo.”

He had four sons who all held high rank. Even the least successful of them became Governor of T‘ai-yüan, and his brothers all married into great families, so that his good fortune both in public and private life was without parallel.

How strange that we should find in the conduct of a prostitute a degree of constancy rarely equalled even by the heroines of history! Surely the story is one which cannot but provoke a sigh!

My great-uncle was Governor of Chin-chou; subsequently he joined the Ministry of Finance and became Inspector of Waterways, and finally Inspector of Roads. In all these three offices he had Miss Li’s husband as his colleague, so that her story was well known to him in every particular. During the Chēng-yüan period[6] I was sitting one day with Li Kung-tso[7] of Lung-hai; we fell to talking of wives who had distinguished themselves by remarkable conduct. I told him the story of Miss Li. He listened with rapt attention, and when it was over, asked me to write it down for him. So I took up my brush, wetted the hairs and made this rough outline of the story.

[6] A.D. 785-805.

[7] A writer.

_[Dated] autumn, eighth month of the year Yi-hai, (A.D. 795), written by Po-Hsing-chien of T‘ai-yüan._

WANG CHIEN

[_c. A.D. 830_]

[66] HEARING THAT HIS FRIEND WAS COMING BACK FROM THE WAR

In old days those who went to fight In three years had one year’s leave. But in _this_ war the soldiers are never changed; They must go on fighting till they die on the battle-field. I thought of you, so weak and indolent, Hopelessly trying to learn to march and drill. That a young man should ever come home again Seemed about as likely as that the sky should fall. Since I got the news that you were coming back, Twice I have mounted to the high hall of your home. I found your brother mending your horse’s stall; I found your mother sewing your new clothes. I am half afraid; perhaps it is not true; Yet I never weary of watching for you on the road. Each day I go out at the City Gate With a flask of wine, lest you should come thirsty. Oh that I could shrink the surface of the World, So that suddenly I might find you standing at my side.

[67] THE SOUTH

In the southern land many birds sing; Of towns and cities half are unwalled. The country markets are thronged by wild tribes; The mountain-villages bear river-names. Poisonous mists rise from the damp sands; Strange fires gleam through the night-rain. And none passes but the lonely fisher of pearls. Year by year on his way to the South Sea.

OU-YANG HSIU

[_b. 1007; d. 1072_]

[68] AUTUMN

Master Ou-yang was reading his books[1] at night when he heard a strange sound coming from the north-west. He paused and listened intently, saying to himself: “How strange, how strange!” First there was a pattering and rustling; but suddenly this broke into a great churning and crashing, like the noise of waves that wake the traveller at night, when wind and rain suddenly come; and where they lash the ship, there is a jangling and clanging as of metal against metal.

[1] The poem was written in 1052, when Ou-yang was finishing his “New History of the T‘ang Dynasty.”

Or again, like the sound of soldiers going to battle, who march swiftly with their gags[2] between their teeth, when the captain’s voice cannot be heard, but only the tramp of horses and men moving.

[2] Pieces of wood put in their mouths to prevent their talking.

I called to my boy, bidding him go out and see what noise this could be. The boy said: “The moon and stars are shining; the Milky Way glitters in the sky. Nowhere is there any noise of men. The noise must be in the trees.”

“I-hsi! alas!” I said, “this must be the sound of Autumn. Oh, why has Autumn come? For as to Autumn’s form, her colours are mournful and pale. Mists scatter and clouds withdraw. Her aspect is clean and bright. The sky is high and the sunlight clear as crystal. Her breath is shivering and raw, pricking men’s skin and bones; her thoughts are desolate, bringing emptiness and silence to the rivers and hills. And hence it is that her whisperings are sorrowful and cold, but her shouts are wild and angry. Pleasant grasses grew soft and green, vying in rankness. Fair trees knit their shade and gave delight. Autumn swept the grasses and their colour changed; she met the trees, and their boughs were stripped. And because Autumn’s being is compounded of sternness, therefore it was that they withered and perished, fell and decayed. For Autumn is an executioner,[3] and her hour is darkness. She is a warrior, and her element is metal. Therefore she is called ‘the doom-spirit of heaven and earth’;[4] for her thoughts are bent on stern destruction.

[3] Executions took place in autumn. See _Chou Li_, Book xxxiv (Biot’s translation, tom. ii, p. 286).

[4] “Book of Rites,” I. 656 (Couvreur’s edition).

“In Spring, growth; in Autumn, fruit: that is Heaven’s plan. Therefore in music the note _shang_ is the symbol of the West and _I-tsē_ is the pitch-pipe of the seventh month. For _shang_ means ‘_to strike_’; when things grow old they are stricken by grief. And _I_ means ‘_to slay_’; things that have passed their prime must needs be slain. Plants and trees have no feelings; when their time comes they are blown down. But man moves and lives and is of creatures most divine. A hundred griefs assail his heart, ten thousand tasks wear out his limbs, and each inward stirring shakes the atoms of his soul. And all the more, when he thinks of things that his strength cannot achieve or grieves at things his mind cannot understand, is it strange that cheeks that were steeped in red should grow withered as an old stick, and hair that was black as ebony should turn as spangled as a starry sky? How should ought else but what is fashioned of brass or stone strive to outlast the splendour of a tree? Who but man himself is the slayer of his youth? Why was I angered at Autumn’s voice?”

The boy made no answer: he was sleeping with lowered head. I could hear nothing but the insects chirping shrilly on every side as though they sought to join in my lamentation.

APPENDIX

An essay on Po Chü-i, whose poems occupy most of this book, will be found in “170 Chinese Poems.” The fullest account of Li Po’s life (with translations) is given in a paper read by me to the China Society, and published in the _Asiatic Review_, July, 1919. Notices of Ch‘ü Yüan, Wang Wei, Yüan Chēn, Wang Chien and Ou-yang Hsiu will be found in Giles’s “Biographical Dictionary.” To Wang Chieh Po Chü-i addressed several poems.

Of the 68 pieces in this book, 55 are now translated for the first time. Of the eight poems by Li Po, all but Number 6 have been translated before, some of them by several hands.

Among the poems by Po Chü-i, three (Nos. 11, 12, and 44) have been translated by Woitsch[1] and one, (No. 43), very incorrectly, by Pfizmaier. Another (No. 21) was translated into rhymed verse by Prof. Giles in “Adversaria Sinica” (1914), p. 323. Ou-yang Hsiu’s “Autumn” was translated by Giles (with great freedom in many places) in his “Chinese Literature,” p. 215.

[1] Aus den Gedichten Po Chü-i’s. Peking, 1908.

[Transcriber’s Note: The following apparent misprints have been corrected for this electronic edition: Patient carrier of towel and comb,[2] --as printed, cited footnote 1, which is inapplicable and not on page

“Because you are my cousin, “Then came the sharing of pillow and mat, “Now, having ‘seen my Prince,’ --as printed, all were missing opening “

Footnote 3: See p. 58, “170 Chinese Poems,” Alfred A. Knopf, 1919. --as printed, See p, 58,

with bedclothes under her arm --as printed, bed-clothes]

End of Project Gutenberg's More Translations from the Chinese, by Various