Like clouds the courtesans swarmed to Leyou

To pay respects to Liu’s grave of romance.

How absurd that men of high offices

Had less love for talent than did those in skirts.

12

The Courtesans Mourn Liu the Seventh in the Spring Breeze

The above poem is by Meng Haoran³ of the Tang dynasty, the most famous poet from the region of Xiangyang. During a sojourn in the Eastern Capital,⁴ he developed a close friendship with Zhang Yue, the prime minister, who was an ardent admirer of his talent.

One day Zhang Yue was on duty in the Imperial Secretariat, trying to compose a poem by order of the emperor. Frustrated at not being able to come up with good lines however hard he tried, he quietly sent for Meng Haoran to ask for his counsel on a couplet. With tea brewing in the pot, they were deep in their discussion when Emperor Minghuang suddenly made his appearance. Caught o guard, Meng Haoran ducked behind the bed without, however, escaping the emperor’s notice.

“Who is the man trying to hide himself from me?” he asked Zhang Yue.

“He is Meng Haoran, a poet from Xiangyang and an old friend of mine, who happened to come by,” explained Zhang. “As he is but a commoner, he dares not show himself in Your Majesty’s presence.”

The emperor said, “We have long heard of this man. I do not mind meeting him.” (A saintly ruler appreciative of talents.)

Meng Haoran was thus obliged to emerge from his hiding place. Prostrating himself upon the floor, he begged for forgiveness for an o ense that was punishable by death. The emperor said to him, “We have long heard that you are a good poet. Recite for me a poem that you yourself are most proud of.” Thereupon, Meng Haoran recited the poem quoted above at the beginning of our story. The emperor remarked, “You are not among the untalented, nor am I a wise ruler, but abandon you I did not, for you never even presented yourself to me.” Displeased, the emperor rose and left.

The following day, while at court, Zhang Yue o ered apologies to the emperor, but, at the same time, he did his best to recommend that Meng Haoran be granted office on the merit of his talent.

The emperor replied, “I know these lines by Meng Haoran: ‘Flickering stars bedim the Milky Way;⁵ / Sprinkling raindrops bedew the wutong trees.’ What exquisite lines! I also know another couplet by him: ‘The mist moistens the Yun Meng Marshes; / The ripples shake Yueyang Tower.’⁶ What a magnificent couplet! And yet, of all his verses, he picked a most dull and bitter poem for me to hear yesterday. Such a rancorous man is by no means fit to hold office. It would be best to let him have his way and return to South Mountain, since that appears to be the ambition of his life!” That is how Meng Haoran came to be known until this day as Meng the Man of the Mountain, who never attained any office to the end of his days. A poet of later times had this to say of him:

Among the ancients, there were men who rose to be prime ministers by virtue of nothing more than a single brilliant remark or a poem. Is it not, then, a matter of predetermined fate that Meng Haoran lost favor with the emperor over eight lines that happened not to strike the latter’s fancy?

Let me now tell of another famous man of talent who lost his chance at fame and fortune for the sake of a ci [lyric] poem but, after a lifetime of frustrations, came to enjoy a reputation far and wide as a romantic lover. Who was this man? As our story has it, he was Liu Yong [d. ca. 1053], courtesy name Qiqing, who lived during the reign of Emperor Renzong [1023–63]⁷ of the Song dynasty. Originally a native of Chong’an County in Jianning Prefecture, he followed his father to the capital upon the latter’s appointment as a court official and came to be stranded there. Being the seventh child of the family, he was called by all and sundry Young Master Liu the Seventh. At twenty-five years of age, he was as graceful in bearing as he was talented in the arts of music, chess, calligraphy, and painting. He was at his best in the writing of poetry and was a true master of ci poetry.

What, you may ask, is a ci poem? Li Bai’s “Remembering the Lady of Qin” and “Deva-like Barbarian,” and Wang Wei’s “Yu lun pao,” for example, are ci poems, or lyrics composed to given tunes. Also known as expanded shi poetry, ci poems were used extensively for singing by celebrated courtesans of the Tang dynasty. By Song times, the officials of the Imperial Bureau of Music had collected large numbers of tune patterns and had written verses to fit the tunes and o ered the resulting ci poems to the emperor. The ci poem is, therefore, marked by its definite tonal and metrical arrangements as dictated by the restrictions of the music. The lines vary in length in accordance with a fixed tonal sequence. In composing a ci poem, one needs to observe strictly the rules of prosody and, with the utmost care, match the words with the musical notes. This, then, is how ci poems are written.

Being an unsurpassed expert in the music of these tunes, Liu the Seventh added new tunes to those collected and standardized by the Bureau of Music, bringing the total number of tunes to over two hundred. Unabashedly proud of his own matchless talent, he held everyone else in contempt and thought it beneath his dignity to cultivate friendships with the local gentry or fellow scholars. Instead, he spent his days frequenting only houses of pleasure. Of the numerous courtesans in the Eastern Capital, none did not admire him and take it as an honor to see him. Any girl who did not know Liu the Seventh was laughed at as being unworthy of the company of courtesans. There came to be circulated among courtesans’ quarters these catchy phrases:

There was indeed not a morning or a night that Liu the Seventh did not spend in a house of pleasure. He was particularly taken with three famous courtesans of the highest class: Chen Shishi, Zhao Xiangxiang, and Xu Dongdong, who vied with one another in providing for Liu the Seventh out of their own pockets. How do we know this? There is a ci poem called “In Jest” to the tune of “The Moon over the West River” that bears witness:

Liu’s brilliance as a poet outshone that of all the officials in the imperial court. Therefore, for all his arrogance, those near the emperor still held him in some admiration. As it was a time when peace reigned in the land, all men with talent were sought out for office. As recommendations of Liu Yong met with support in the imperial court, Liu was thus granted the office of magistrate of the county of Yuhang in Zhejiang. Though not satisfied with the assignment, Liu accepted it as a stepping-stone toward further promotions in his future career. His only regret was to have to tear himself away from the three courtesans. As he made ready for his departure toward the end of spring, he wrote a ci poem to the tune of “The Moon over the West River” to express his sorrow at the parting:

Upon hearing that Brother Liu was leaving for a post in Zhejiang, the three courtesans came for a farewell dinner that turned out to be well attended by courtesans from all quarters. In the course of the feast, Liu the Seventh intoned a ci to the tune of “As in a Dream: A Song”:

Liu the Seventh thus took leave of the courtesans and went on his way, dressed like a scholar on a study tour, carrying his zither, sword, and cases of books. Enjoying the scenery all along the way, he stopped at Jiangzhou, where, upon making inquiries about local courtesans, he was told that the one most outstanding in both beauty and talent was called Xie Yuying. Having obtained her address, he went for a visit. Yuying greeted him and was so impressed by his refined manners that she led him into her small study. A look around the room convinced Liu of her exquisite taste. He saw

Liu’s eyes fell on a book lying on the table with the inscription Recent Ci Poems by Liu the Seventh. Flipping through the pages, he found that the volume was a collection of his lyrics handwritten in fine penmanship.

“Where did you get these poems?” asked Liu the Seventh.

Yuying explained, “These are poems by the gifted scholar Liu the Seventh of the Eastern Capital. I am a great admirer of his poems. Every time I hear his works read out loud, I write them down and bind the pages into volumes.” (Similar to Qin Shaoyou’s⁹ wonderful experience.)

Liu asked further, “Of so many ci poets in the land, why do you favor him?”

“He is most expressive and accurate in depicting scenery and describing feelings. For example, at the end of the poem ‘Thoughts on an Autumn Day,’ he says, ‘Looking at each other in sorrow amid the cries of a lonely goose, / Standing till the westering sun sinks below the horizon.’ In the poem titled ‘Parting on an Autumn Day,’ there are these lines: ‘Where will I wake up after tonight’s wine? / The willow-lined bank, the dawn breeze, the waning moon.’ These are lines no one else is capable of. Every time I read his poetry, I can’t bring myself to stop. How I wish I could meet him in person!”

“So you want to make his acquaintance? You are looking at him this very moment.”

Much startled, Yuying asked him about his background. After being assured that he was indeed Liu the Seventh himself on his way to Yuhang to assume his post, Yuying fell on her knees, crying, “Please forgive me, a mortal being, for failing to recognize a deity.” She then set out wine and, in all sincerity, urged him to stay for the night.

Deeply moved by her devotion, Liu stayed on. However, after several days, he felt obliged to take his leave, for fear of missing the assigned date for the assumption of his post. Yuying had come to be so attached to him that she made a solemn pledge to follow him and serve him as a wife. Liu declined: “It is not appropriate for you to follow me on this trip. If you really mean what you say, wait for me until my term of office expires, and we will go to Chang’an¹⁰ together.”

Yuying agreed: “Since you deign to favor me with such great kindness, I shall, as of today, turn away all patrons and wait only for you. Please do not, on any account, abandon me and leave me to ‘heave sighs over my graying hair,’ as the poem goes.” Liu asked for a piece of paper and wrote a ci to the tune of “The Fairy Maiden and Her Jingling Jade Pendants”:

With this poem, Liu took leave of Yuying and went on his way. Before many days had passed, he came upon the Suzhou area. Much taken by the picturesque scenery, he stepped into a tavern by the roadside and ordered three cups of wine. A sudden boom of drumbeats drew him to the window, where he saw a group of children on small boats in the lake playing with the water and picking lotus flowers. They were singing a song in the style of the Wu area:

Having heard them out, Liu the Seventh took out a pen and wrote these lines on the wall in the same style:

This song is still sung in the Wu region to this day.

After passing the Suzhou region, Liu the Seventh arrived in the county of Yuhang to take up his post, and he turned out to be an upright official whose rule of justice reduced the number of court cases. What leisure time he spared from office he spent climbing Mount Dadie, Mount Tianzhu, and Mount Youquan to view the scenery while reveling in poetry and wine. In Yuhang County there were also courtesans affiliated with the Ministry of Music who served him by turns, and he would turn down all court cases involving courtesans as defendants. (Courtesans all too often get involved in court cases.) Among the courtesans was a Zhou Yuexian, a woman of remarkable beauty as well as learning. One day, she was singing and serving wine at the yamen when County Magistrate Liu noticed her sadness and asked for an explanation. Yuexian hung her head and remained silent, but tears were seen gushing from her eyes. It was only at the insistence of the county magistrate that she came out with her story.

It so happened that Yuexian was deeply in love with a local scholar named Huang and had her heart set on marrying him, but the scholar was too poor to a ord the necessary wedding gifts. Out of faithfulness to him, Yuexian was unswervingly determined not to take any more patrons, in spite of all the pressure from the procuress, who, being her own mother, could not very well do anything to her. Scholar Huang’s school being on the other side of the river, Yuexian took the ferry every evening to spend the night with him and returned to her own quarters in the morning. There was a Squire Liu the Second in the same county, who, coveting Yuexian’s beauty, asked for a rendezvous, only to be turned down firmly by her with the quatrain

Squire Liu, however, hit upon a plan. He instructed a boatman to go to a deserted place at night with his ferryboat while Yuexian was on it, rape her, and return with evidence of the deed so as to claim a handsome reward. (What a villain, Squire Liu!) Prompted by his avarice, the boatman went ahead to do as he was told. As soon as Yuexian stepped onto his boat, he started poling away from the usual route. Noticing that the boat was not headed where she should be going, Yuexian told the boatman to stop, but he turned a deaf ear and did not stop until they came to a deserted place deep in the tall reeds. He moored the boat, walked into the cabin, and, grabbing Yuexian’s arms, tried to force himself upon her. Knowing that she had not a chance to free herself from the man’s grip, Yuexian had no choice but to submit. After the clouds and rain¹¹ were over, she ruefully intoned a poem:

That night, Yuexian stayed with Mr. Huang as usual, but dared not mention the incident. She returned home in the morning. The boatman, who had memorized her poem, repeated it to Squire Liu, who duly rewarded him with an ingot of silver. He then sent someone to summon Yuexian to serve him with wine at his residence. When he was well warmed with wine, he made advances again to Yuexian, only to be pushed away as before, whereupon he produced a fan and made her read the quatrain inscribed on it. Yuexian was struck speechless in shock upon realizing that these were the very lines she had intoned on the ferryboat. Squire Liu sneered, “Wouldn’t the ivory bed and brocade quilts here be preferable to the reeds and the moon? Don’t give me any more of your demure pretensions.” Yuexian was so overcome with shame that she was reduced to submission. Henceforth, Squire Liu kept her exclusively to himself and allowed her no time for Mr. Huang. (This di ers from what appears in “Story of the Wanjiang Tower” [ Wanjianglou ji], where Magistrate Liu is said to have lusted after Yuexian and had the boatman trick her, an allegation quite damaging to his reputation as a man of good taste and refinement. The account given here should naturally be taken as the more authentic one.)

As the saying goes, “The girls love a good-looking face; the madam loves the sight of cash.” A fine scholar Mr. Huang might be, but how was he to compete with a man loaded with money? The madam was much delighted, but Yuexian, aching for Mr. Huang, was consumed with sorrow. Now, at the insistence of the county magistrate, she poured out her whole story. Being an old hand in the world of love, Liu the Seventh felt deeply for the girl. There and then, he summoned the madam and redeemed Yuexian with eighty thousand in cash. He then invited Mr. Huang to come and take Yuexian home as his lawfully wedded wife. (Lovers commiserate with lovers, just as talents appreciate other talents. Those who feel not the least bit of concern for each other do not belong to the same kind of people.) Mr. Huang and Yuexian were grateful beyond words. Truly,

Liu’s three-year term of office in Yuhang expired. He was on his way back to the capital when he recalled Xie Yuying’s pledge and made a stopover at Jiangzhou. As it happened, after Liu’s departure, Xie Yuying did, as she had promised, turn away all patrons, but after a year had elapsed without any word from Liu, a grudge against him grew in her heart. For one thing, she had no more income for her daily expenses; for another, it was no easy job turning away all who lined up at her door in their carriages day after day. Moreover, how was she to know if Liu meant what he said after they had been together for only five nights? Therefore, at the urging of some busybody, she changed her mind and resumed her old profession. There came along a Squire Sun, an immensely rich merchant from Xin’an and a man not without some literary taste, who lavished more than a thousand taels of silver on her over a year’s time. Upon arrival at Yuying’s door, Liu the Seventh was told that she was out with Squire Sun viewing boats on the lake. Realizing that the absent Yuying had gone back on her word, he became so sick at heart that he took a sheet of flowered notepaper and wrote a ci poem to the tune of “Tapping the Wutong Tree”:

By way of finishing, he added the line “Written by Liu Yong of the Eastern Capital on the occasion of a failed attempt to see Yuying.” After reading the poem over again, he posted it on the wall and left in a hu , with a flick of his sleeves. Back in the Eastern Capital, he was promoted, after repeated recommendations, to the post of vice-director of the Bureau of State Farms. His interchanges of visits with the courtesans of the city resumed. In the courtesans’ quarters he spent all his salary and the gifts he received in exchange for poems. (Zhang Youyu,¹³ a native of the Wu region, had the same way of living.)

One day he was sporting with Xu Dongdong in her residence when a messenger sent by Prime Minister Lü Yijian found his way in and announced, “In preparing for celebrating the sixtieth birthday of Prime Minister Lü, the girls of the house find themselves short of a new song to dedicate to him and sent me to request an impromptu song from you for them to practice. Two bolts of Sichuan brocade and four bolts of Wu silk are respectfully o ered as compensation.”

Liu the Seventh accepted the o er and kept the messenger for some food and drink downstairs. He then asked Xu Dongdong for some paper of good quality, whereupon she took two rolls of fine paper from a casket and laid them out on the table. Liu rubbed his ink-stick against the ink-stone until the ink was ready, dipped his brush-pen well into the ink, and, spreading out a scroll, wrote a lyric to the tune of “A Thousand Years” without even bothering with a first draft:

Still in a poetic mood, on the remaining scroll he wrote another ci poem to the tune of “The Moon over the West River”:

He was laying the finished poems out on the table when a maid sent by Chen Shishi, another courtesan, entered to announce, “A beautiful lady who refuses to reveal her name has come all the way from the south to see you. She is now waiting at our residence. Please be so kind as to come at once.” Liu hastily sealed up what he had written and, sending the messenger away, set o for Chen Shishi’s residence. The sight of that woman staggered him. Who, you may ask, was she? Truly,

That woman was none other than Xie Yuying of Jiangzhou. After returning from the lake where she had been viewing ships, she had seen the poem “Tapping the Wutong Tree” on the wall and, after reading it over and over again, was overcome with shame at the realization that Liu, true lover that he was, had come back to her in fulfillment of his promise. Without telling Squire Sun a word, she packed up her belongings and hired a boat for a journey to the Eastern Capital. Upon arrival, she was told, after inquiries, that Master Liu the Seventh had an intimate relationship with Chen Shishi. She therefore presented herself to Chen Shishi and asked for an introduction to Liu. She was beside herself with joy at the reunion. This was nothing less than a case of a cut flower being rejoined and a waning moon waxing full once more. After learning all the details, Chen Shishi asked Xie Yuying to live with her. But, not wishing to inconvenience Shishi, Yuying asked to have the eastern wing as her private quarters. After her arrival in the Eastern Capital, she never took customers but served Liu exclusively in a wifely manner, nor did she attempt to stop Liu from visiting other courtesans. Her generosity was much admired.

To pick up another thread of the story, I now return to Liu. In haste—which inevitably breeds mistakes—he sealed up both poems in a momentary lapse of attention and handed them to the messenger. After breaking the seal, Prime Minister Lü read the birthday poem first and was delighted. Then, as he saw the other one to the tune of “The Moon over the West River,” he naturally read on. When he came to the line “Though each word costs more than a bolt of silk, I never stoop to haggle over price,” he sneered, saying, “When Pei Du, the duke of Jin,¹⁶ requested a poem from Huangfu Ti to embellish the newly built Monastery of the Light of Bliss, Huangfu Ti demanded three bolts of silk for each character. So this man is complaining about the amount I pay.” At the lines “I bow to no one for fame and riches; / Others make bows to me for my poems,” rage seized him. “What impudence! I bow to him, he says!” Henceforth, his heart was set against Liu, whereas the latter, whose mind was well above petty grudges, had forgotten all about that poem.

A few days later, the minister of personnel recommended to the emperor that Liu Yong be appointed to fill a vacancy in the Hanlin Academy. Emperor Renzong, much impressed by Liu’s work for the Imperial Bureau of Music in standardizing and expanding the collection of tunes for ci poems, asked Lü Yijian, the prime minister, “Do you know this Liu Yong? I have a mind to make him a member of the Hanlin Academy.”

Lü Yijian answered, “I grant him his talent, but the man is too arrogant and has no regard whatsoever for the honor of his position as vice-director of the Bureau of State Farms. His all-too-frequent visits to the houses of ill fame are greatly detrimental to the respectability of all officials. Should he be given an important post, I am afraid that officials’ morality in general would never be the same again.” (Lord Guo¹⁷ and Prime Minister Wen¹⁸ were also self-indulgent men who frequented courtesan quarters, but, once charged with important missions, they dedicated themselves to the nation to the neglect of their self interests. What does a pedantic Confucian moralist know!) Then he proceeded to recite Liu’s poem to the tune of “The Moon over the West River.” The emperor nodded. Some officials in the Bureau of Remonstrance¹⁹ had long been informed of Prime Minister Lü’s anger toward Liu Yong and now seized the opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the prime minister by supporting the removal of Liu from his current post. The emperor took up his brush-pen and wrote the following quatrain:

At the news of his dismissal, Liu burst into a roar of laughter. “All those holding office nowadays are nothing more than benighted illiterates,” he said. “How can such men be expected to tolerate a gifted poet like me?” He thereupon changed his name to Liu of Three Changes. To his bewildered friends, he explained, “When I was a most brilliant student in my younger days, I had hopes of attaining instant fame so as to o er my contribution to the imperial court. However, repeated failures at the examinations changed me into a grumpy and frustrated poet. My talent should have been more than enough for eternal fame, but, all too unexpectedly, I was recommended for office, and there I was, a poet changed into an official complete with hat and belt. Yet, descent to the lowly level of a bureaucrat was by no means what my heart was after. Hence the third change: released by imperial edict, I am now as carefree as an immortal being.”

From that time on, he grew even more dissolute in his ways and went so far as to take up residence in the courtesans’ quarters. On a tablet of the kind that was held by officials, he wrote, “Liu of Three Changes, Imperial Poet Designate.” Before he called on a courtesan, he would first send over this tablet and she would then prepare wine and dishes and bedding for the night. (What a carefree life! This is better than serving as an official.) The following day, he would visit another courtesan and repeat the same process. For every poem he wrote, however trivial, he would add the words “Written by order of the emperor,” much to the amusement of all and sundry.

Several years went by in this way. One day he was taking a nap in Zhao Xiangxiang’s residence when a yellow-robed messenger from heaven appeared to him in a dream, saying, “By a decree from the Jade Emperor,²¹ the tune ‘Song of the Rainbow and Feather Clothes’ is dated and needs to be rewritten by you with your divine talent. Please follow me without delay.” Liu the Seventh woke up and asked for a bath in perfumed water. To Zhao Xiangxiang he said, “The Lord on High has just summoned me. I will be gone in a moment. You may send a message to all the sisters and tell them that I will not be able to see them any more.” So saying, he sat down and closed his eyes. Xiangxiang took a good look and saw that he was already dead. (This is a man who rises well above mundane concerns. Who says he yearns for nothing but wine and women? Such gross injustice done to a true man is enough cause for eternal sorrow.) With great alacrity, she sent word to Xie Yuying, who hastened to the scene, so consumed with grief that she had to drag herself along every step of the way. Chen Shishi and Xu Dongdong arrived shortly thereafter. Several other courtesans who had known him also came upon hearing the news.

The truth of the matter was that Liu the Seventh had absolutely no possessions of any value, even though he had served two terms of office. (This fact alone makes him tens of thousands of times superior to others.) Yuying, supposedly the woman to depend upon him for a living, had, on the contrary, brought her own belongings, costing him not a penny. Paying their last respects to him now were Xie Yuying as his wife and the other courtesans as his relatives. With Chen Shishi taking charge, they collected enough money and silk from other local courtesans to buy a coffin and burial clothing in preparation for the funeral ceremony to be held at the Zhao residence. In her mourning clothes, Xie Yuying officiated at the funeral. The other three leading courtesans, also in mourning, gathered together and kept vigil over the coffin. In the meantime, they bought a vacant lot on the Leyou Plains, had a grave dug on the site, and chose a propitious day for the burial. (Is this understood at all? Could a mere rake have brought all this about?) On the grave was erected a small stone tablet with the inscription “Tomb of Liu of Three Changes, Imperial Poet Designate,” in imitation of his own style. On the day of the burial, some officeholding acquaintances of his also came to attend. There, for all to see, was nothing but white silk all over the place, for no courtesan over the length and breadth of the city was not there. Their wailing made the earth tremble. The officials felt so ashamed of themselves that they covered their faces and slunk away.

In less than two months’ time, Xie Yuying died of an illness caused by excessive grief and was buried next to Liu’s grave. Such a virtuous courtesan is indeed hard to come by, but of her, no more.

Since Liu’s burial, every year around the time of the Clear and Bright Festival²² celebrated courtesans would, by no prior agreement, gather at his grave and, in the soft breeze of spring, lay out their sacrificial o erings and burn paper money in a ceremony that came to be known as “visiting the grave of Liu the Seventh” or “visiting the grave of romance.” Those who had not attended the ceremony dared not set foot on the Leyou Plains. This annual ritual gradually became a tradition and did not come to an end until after Emperor Gaozong’s court moved south. A later poet had this to say about Liu’s grave: