Lu Shu-sheng (1509–1605)
Lu Shu-sheng was born into a poor family in Hua-t’ing in the prefecture of Sung-chiang, Southern Metropolitan Region, and brought up working as a farmhand, but he grabbed every chance to read and educate himself during breaks from his work in the fields. The diligence paid off: in 1541 he won first place in the capital examination, was immediately admitted into the imperial Han-lin Academy, and later was appointed as an imperial historian. From then on Lu received many senior official appointments, but declined or resigned from most of them. In the remaining six decades of his life (he lived to the venerable age of ninety-six), his years in officialdom totaled only about a dozen. When Emperor Shen-tsung succeeded to the throne, Lu entered the cabinet as minister of rites at insistent imperial demand. However, his term lasted less than a year. Probably because of his indignation at the eunuchs’ manipulation of court politics, he made repeated requests to be pensioned off and was eventually granted permission. He once told his son, who won the degree of Metropolitan Graduate in 1589, not to seek any central government appointment.
Lu befriended many younger poets and writers. Ch’en Chi-ju, a close friend and fellow native of Hua-t’ing, wrote in a biographical note that even at the age of eighty-six, Lu wrote to invite him to join in a trip to White Dragon Pool. Ch’en noted with great admiration how the old man could walk up and down a storied pavilion without using his walking stick, fast and robust like a young man. Lu also told Ch’en that every night, before bedtime, he would walk a thousand paces before retiring.
Ch’en Chi-ju printed several collections of Lu Shu-sheng’s prose pieces in The Private Library of Pao-yen Hall, a book series of miscellaneous writings that included many volumes of hsiao-p’in. Rich in literary allusions, Lu’s vignettes often breathe a sense of humor and a cheerful appreciation of life’s little pleasures.
Inkslab Den
I have few hobbies. All my life, except for books, I have not collected any “superfluous thing.”1 When I served as an imperial historian, I obtained a Tuan inkslab.2 When I was an official at Nan-yung, I obtained another inkslab, made of She stone.3 In a number of years I got several kinds of inkstone. Having instructed some craftsmen to work on them, I acquired ten inkslabs altogether. I told myself, “These are quite enough for a collection. I should not get any more than ten.” So I gave myself a cognomen, Master of Ten Inkslabs. I put them in a cabinet, which I named Inkslab Den. From time to time I would take them out, place them on the table, and sit there, facing them, in great pride. A friend of mine reproved me for my obsession with them. I responded, “Isn’t such an obsession better than one with some other things?”
One day a friend who had an eye for inkslabs examined them and found that none was of superb quality. I said, “My friend, you know I am obsessed with inkslabs. Why should I be obsessed with superb ones only? Besides, there has already been much discussion of inkslabs. Ou-yang Hsiu, Ts’ai Hsiang, and Hung Kuo believed that some of the good ones among the Dragon-tail are superior to the Tuan inkstone.4 But Su Shih argued to the contrary, and even elaborated on it in his writings. Perhaps there is simply no fixed value for things, and their worth is to be decided only through the mouths of the literati? In that case, how can anyone know whether those in my collection are superb or not? If, in my hobby of collecting inkslabs, I’ll take nothing but the very best ones, then among rare antiques in the world, aren’t there a myriad things other than inkslabs? As for rare antiques, men in power can surely acquire them, but often they have to snatch them from the possession of others. Therefore I will not give up my preference for any other hobby. Lacking in both talent and refinement, I do take a fancy to inkslabs, and yet have no idea how to treasure them. I am indeed not worthy of treasuring inkslabs, so how am I supposed to be able to consider the superiority or inferiority of their quality? However, I will not replace my hobby of collecting inkslabs with one of collecting rare antiques. Thus, by staying in my favor, perhaps these inkslabs have indeed been treasured accordingly? So, my obsession will stay unchanged.”
The other day, while my son, Chang, was practicing calligraphy, I took out one of my inkslabs and gave it to him, saying, “When you become a good calligrapher, I’ll give you the entire den.” Someone asked [if he could also have some], and I said, “These are the ‘black felt blanket’5 in my house. Please don’t regard them as bags of gold.”
The above was written by Master of Ten Inkslabs.
Bitter Bamboo
Bamboos abound in the Chiang-nan area,1 and local residents eat bamboo shoots from habit. In springtime, when the new bamboos emerge from the soil, the sprouting shoots are picked for food. They are steamed, boiled for soup, or placed on the menu as a vegetable dish. Busybodies eyeing them for their delicate flavor think nothing of harming their potential growth. For this reason, while bamboos are well protected by their masters in beautiful, lush gardens behind winding walls and locked doors, the same people spare no effort in cutting them down when they want to eat them. Only the shoots of those that are not edible on account of a bitter flavor are spared from being cut down. Those that are ignored and allowed to grow on their own along mountain streams, in valleys, or by rocks are abandoned because of their bitter flavor, while all of the better-tasting ones are picked and sometimes are eliminated entirely.
Things that taste good get themselves destroyed accordingly; those that are bitter, though cast aside, are spared. Since everyone likes savory things, things that taste bitter remain unharmed. In this world, everyone values things of use and ignores those of no use. Will anyone ever know the misery of things that are picked for use, and the bliss of those that are left alone? Are they not like what Chuang-tzu called “those who make use of their uselessness”? In the southwestern corner of my executive mansion, a grove of bamboos has grown out of cracked bricks. Unlike those behind winding walls and locked doors, they can equal only those that grow on their own along mountain streams, in valleys, or by rocks. However, they don’t have to worry about being cut down. They will stay whole and secure from danger because of their bitter taste. Some visitors looked down upon them as bitter bamboos. I happened to be reading Chuang-tzu, and I found his words quite refreshing. On reflection, I’ve written the above note.
A Trip to Wei Village
Mr. Wang, director of the Bureau of Waterways, invited us to make a trip to Wei Village. On the day before, in intense summer heat, at a party at the house of Mr. Yang, the supervising secretary, we had made an appointment to make the trip together.
I got up in the morning. The sun was struggling behind dark clouds. I sent a clerk to hurry Mr. Yang. In a short while Mr. Yang arrived on horseback and asked me to join him. On our way, a drizzle was suddenly over us. Servant boys followed holding two big umbrellas in their hands. We went out of the Ts’ung-wen Gate1 and traveled south for about a mile and a half when the rain turned heavy, so we stopped and just stayed on horseback for a while. To our right, we could see a round mound where the trees were half hidden beyond the boundless mist and clouds. Looking backward, the city wall emerged from out of the heavy fog. I turned to Mr. Yang and said, “This is really the picture for Assistant Director Wang’s line ‘The imperial city in clouds.’2 Who would ever have grasped its essence, if not the two of us, out of our curiosity?”
We moved a little farther southward and then turned left. The narrow footpath, among grass and trees, barely allowed one horse to pass through at a time, so we gave up the umbrellas and asked a servant to pull the horse in front. The two of us bent over on horseback. The rain and the wet leaves were all over us, dampening our clothes.
After a little while we arrived. We entered the gate, unfastened our belts, and sat down by the northern door. A cool wind blew through the room. Thinly clad, I stood up, away from my seat. Mr. Yang smiled and stared at me, saying, “You don’t have the stamina to stand this?” So he told the servants to close one of the door leaves.
We sat there for a long time before the rain stopped. Then we walked around the vegetable garden and went to the gazebo by the pond. The gazebo was right in front of the pond, which was about an acre or two in area. The lotus that had just come into bloom covered the surface of the water. Slender willows provided their shade over the embankment. It very much resembled Chiang-nan.
After we sat for a while, the host arrived and offered us drinks in large goblets. By then, there was a little sunshine. The servants reported that it was noontime. A light wind fanned away the heat, and steam rose from the drying rainwater. I sat on the left, facing the wind. Turning to the two gentlemen, I said, “This is T’ao Yüan-ming’s old friend, and I am sitting face to face with him on my side.”3 We raised our goblets and toasted one another. Then we moved over to the house in the front, but after a few rounds of drink we moved back to the gazebo. Tossing down our drink from raised goblets, we talked about the scenic spots of each of our native towns.
At sunset we took a walk to the Buddhist temple, where we had a little rest in the abbot’s room. While we were sipping some tea there, we heard the soft rumbling of distant thunder, so the three of us rode home together. When we looked back at where we had been, it was already hidden in the dark.
On that day we made the trip in the rain, which was quite unusual. The guests arrived first and waited a long time for the host: quite unusual. We did not play any chess at the party: quite unusual. I had been unwell and usually did not go to parties, and if I took a ride it was within one-third of a mile in distance. On that day I rode for six or seven miles round-trip, and after a whole day of traveling with the two gentlemen, I was still able to take up my writing brush and put it on record at night. That’s quite unusual, too!
A Short Note about My Six Attendants in Retirement
In the year I turned seventy, a Buddhist monk from Mount T’ien-t’ai presented to me a rattan cane. I still had strong legs then, and would not use it for any distance within a hundred steps. When I was eighty, a friend who returned from overseas gave me as a gift a wooden cane. Within its close texture, there appears quite abruptly a grain like that of the joint of a crane’s leg, which spreads from top to bottom like a string of beads. I believe that it could have been made from only a very old tree that had gone through much frost and snow. In between having these two, I got myself three bamboo canes, all of light weight and easy to carry along. I often used one on my regular walk and relied much on it. In recent years the mountain recluse Chang, back from a trip to Yen and Chao,1 gave me a heavy and sturdy black wooden cane, saying, “You need this for sightseeing in the mountains.”
Old and feeble now, I have already given up all my early ambitions to visit the Five Sacred Mountains2 in my life. Although my mind still wanders to faraway places, I am too weak to climb or to wade anymore. So I can only place these canes by my seat all the time. Occasionally I would hold one in my hands and look at it, and let my imagination soar beyond the colorful clouds. Isn’t this almost like what Tsung Ping called “recumbent travel”?3 Hence I put down here, as I now have some free time, an account of how and in what order these six came into my possession.
These days I really rely on these six attendants to support and entertain myself in old age. In my senility I am like the morning star, or the dew at sunrise: how much more time do I still have to move around with my attendants? I cannot help feeling melancholy about it. So I write down a few more words with the “worn-out draperies” and the “dropped hairpins” in mind.4 Some may say that these six attendants will perhaps become immortalized because of me, but that’s not what I’m able to know.
Inscription on Two Paintings in My Collection
Chung Ch’in-li was a leading painter of our dynasty. Ch’in-li’s paintings belong to the category of “fine brushwork,”1 and he was especially good at cattle painting, the spirit and style of which almost equal the works of Tai Sung and Han Huang.2 His paintings were more recent in time, and he painted quite a lot, so they are not yet treasured in the world. But among fellow painters his works are already held in superior rank.
These two square pieces of mine I got from Mr. Yeh of White Cliff, when I was still under twenty. I often look at them and enjoy the free flow and vitality of the brush strokes and the use of ink, and the striking resemblance to reality. I adore and prize them, have them wrapped up and placed in a suitcase, and from time to time take them out for a look.
In the year 1541, when I made a trip to the capital with great expectations for my accomplishments, these also went in my company. In the boat, during the journey, in wind and rain, by dusk or dawn, under lamplight or by fireside, whenever I had some leisure in the intervals between writing, I would always take them out and set them in front of me.
It often occurs to me that people in the past were not always able to keep in their possession the paintings they valued. Yet these have been in my company for nearly twenty years and have not yet been snatched away by some busybody. I have hereby written this note so that it may have a chance to be passed on along with Han Yü’s note on figure painting3—who knows?
Inscription on a Portrait of Tung-p’o Wearing Bamboo Hat and Clogs
When he was still in court in his official cap and gown, his contemporaries raged and raved, and turned their backs on him. When he looks like a mountaineer and is dressed like a rustic, everyone takes pleasure in catching sight of him. That person then was a Tung-p’o; this one now is also a Tung-p’o. Come to think about all this, viewers, why not chuckle on Tung-p’o’s behalf?1