Part 10

Tears in the Spring

Clad in blue silk and bright embroidery At the first call of Spring the fair young bride, On whom as yet Sorrow has laid no scar, Climbs the Kingfisher's Tower. Suddenly She sees the bloom of willows far and wide, And grieves for him she lent to fame and war.

Chang Chih-ho

Circa A.D. 750

A Taoist philosopher who lived in the time of the Emperor Su Tsung, and held office under him. For some offence he was exiled, and the royal pardon found him far too occupied to dream of return.

Like so many of the same philosophy, he became a lonely wanderer, calling himself the "Old Fisherman of the Mists and Waters". Professor Giles (`Chinese Literature', p. 191) adds the curious statement that "he spent his time in angling, but used no bait, his object not being to catch fish."

A World Apart

The Lady Moon is my lover, My friends are the oceans four, The heavens have roofed me over, And the dawn is my golden door I would liefer follow the condor Or the seagull, soaring from ken, Than bury my godhead yonder In the dust of the whirl of men.

Chang Jo-hu

Circa A.D. 800

When heaven reveals her primal stainless blue, Alone within the firmament there burns The tiny torch of dusk. What startled eyes Uplifted from the restless stream first met The full round glory of the moon! Yon orb That pales upon the flood of broad Kiang, When did she first through twilight mists unveil Her wonders to the world? Men come and go; New generations hunger at the heels Of those that yield possession. Still the moon Fulfils her phases. While the tides of time Eat out the rocks of empire, and the stars Of human destiny adown the void Go glittering to their doom, she changeless sweeps Through all her times and destinies. Alas! The little lives that swarmed beneath the moon, I cannot count them. This alone I know -- That, wave on wave, the Kiang seeks the sea, And not a wave returns. One small white cloud Threading the vasty vault of heaven recalls My heart unto her loneliness. I sail Between two banks, where heavy boughs enlace, Whose verdurous luxuriance wakes once more My many griefs. None know me as I am, Steering to strange adventure. None may tell If, steeped in the same moonlight, lies afar Some dim pavilion where my lady dreams Of me. Ah, happy moon! low lingering moon! That with soft touch now brightens into jade Lintel and door, and when she lifts the blind Floats through the darkened chamber of her sleep; While leagues away my love-winged messages Go flocking home; and though they mingle not, Our thoughts seek one another. In the lilt Of winds I hear her whisper: "Oh that I Might melt into the moonbeams, and with them Leap through the void, and shed myself with them Upon my lover." Slow the night creeps on. Sleep harbours in the little room. She dreams -- Dreams of a fall o' flowers. Alas! young Spring Lies on the threshold of maternity, And still he comes not. Still the flowing stream Sweeps on, but the swift torrents of green hours Are licked into the brazen skies between Their widening banks. The great deliberate moon Now leans toward the last resort of night, Gloom of the western waves. She dips her rim, She sinks, she founders in the mist; and still The stream flows on, and to the insatiate sea Hurries her white-wave flocks innumerable In never-ending tale. On such a night How many tireless travellers may attain The happy goal of their desire! So dreams My lady till the moon goes down, and lo! A rush of troubled waters floods her soul, While black forebodings rise from deeps unknown And the cold trail of fear creeps round her heart.

T`ung Han-ching

Circa A.D. 800

The Celestial Weaver

A thing of stone beside Lake Kouen-ming Has for a thousand autumns borne the name Of the Celestial Weaver. Like that star She shines above the waters, wondering At her pale loveliness. Unnumbered waves Have broidered with green moss the marble folds About her feet. Toiling eternally They knock the stone, like tireless shuttles plied Upon a sounding loom. Her pearly locks Resemble snow-coils on the mountain top; Her eyebrows arch -- the crescent moon. A smile Lies in the opened lily of her face; And, since she breathes not, being stone, the birds Light on her shoulders, flutter without fear At her still breast. Immovable she stands Before the shining mirror of her charms And, gazing on their beauty, lets the years Slip into centuries past her. . . .

Po Chu-i

A.D. 772-846

Seventeen years old and already a doctor of letters, a great future was before him. The life of such a man would seem to be one sure progress from honour to honour. Yet it is to some petty exile, some temporary withdrawal of imperial favour, that we owe "The Lute Girl", perhaps the most delicate piece of work that has survived the age of the golden T`angs. Certainly the music is the most haunting, suggestive of many-coloured moods, with an undertone of sadness, and that motive of sympathy between the artist-exiles of the universe which calls the song from the singer and tears from the heart of the man. So exile brought its consolations, the voice and presence of "The Lute Girl", and the eight nameless poets who became with Po Chu-i the literary communists of Hsiang-shan. In China it has always been possible for the artist to live away from the capital. Provincial governor and high official send for him; all compete for the honour of his presence. Respect, which is the first word of Chinese wisdom according to Confucius, is paid to him. In provincial Europe his very presence would be unknown unless he beat his wife on the high-road or stole a neighbour's pig. But his Celestial Majesty hears of the simple life at Hsiang-shan and becomes jealous for his servant. The burden of ruling must once more be laid on not too willing shoulders. Po Chu-i is recalled and promoted from province to province, till eventually, five years before his death, he is made President of the Board of War. Two short poems here rendered -- namely, "Peaceful Old Age" and "The Penalties of Rank" -- give us a glimpse of the poet in his old age, conscious of decaying powers, glad to be quit of office, and waiting with sublime faith in his Taoist principles to be "one with the pulsings of Eternity".

Po Chu-i is almost nearer to the Western idea of a poet than any other Chinese writer. He was fortunate enough to be born when the great love-tragedy of Ming Huang and T`ai Chen was still fresh in the minds of men. He had the right perspective, being not too near and yet able to see clearly. He had, moreover, the feeling for romance which is so ill-defined in other poets of his country, though strongly evident in Chinese legend and story. He is an example of that higher patriotism rarely met with in Chinese official life which recognises a duty to the Emperor as Father of the national family -- a duty too often forgotten in the obligation to the clan and the desire to use power for personal advantage. Passionately devoted to literature, he might, like Li Po and Tu Fu, have set down the seals of office and lived for art alone by the mountain-side of his beloved Hsiang-shan. But no one knew better than Po Chu-i that from him that hath much, much shall be expected. The poet ennobled political life, the broader outlook of affairs enriched his poetry and humanised it.

And when some short holiday brought him across the frontier, and the sunlight, breaking out after a noon of rain over the dappled valleys of China, called him home, who shall blame him for lingering awhile amid his forest dreams with his fishing and the chase.

Yet solitude and the picturesque cannot hold him for long, nor even the ardours of the chase. Po Chu-i is above all the poet of human love and sorrow, and beyond all the consoler. Those who profess to find pessimism in the Chinese character must leave him alone. At the end of the great tragedy of "The Never-ending Wrong" a whispered message of hope is borne to the lonely soul beating against the confines of the visible world: --

"Tell my lord," she murmured, "to be firm of heart as this gold and enamel; then in heaven or earth below we twain may meet once more."

It is the doctrine of eternal constancy, so dimly understood in the Western world, which bids the young wife immolate herself on her husband's tomb rather than marry again, and makes the whole world seem too small for the stricken Emperor with all the youth and beauty of China to command.

The Lute Girl

The following is Po Chu-i's own preface to his poem: --

When, after ten years of regular service, I was wrongfully dismissed from the Prefecture of the Nine Rivers and the Mastership of the Horse, in the bright autumn of the year I was sent away to Ko-pen Creek's mouth. It was there that I heard, seated in my boat at midnight, the faint tones of a lute. It seemed as though I was listening to the tones of the gongs in the Palace of the Capital. On asking an old man, I learnt that it was the performance of a woman who for many years had cultivated the two talents of music and singing to good effect. In the course of time her beauty faded, she humbled her pride, and followed her fate by becoming a merchant's wife.

. . . . .

The wine ran out and the songs ceased. My grief was such that I made a few short poems to set to music for singing.