Kuei Yu-kuang (1507–71)
A native of K’un-shan County in the Southern Metropolitan Region (which later was divided into Kiangsu and Anhwei in the Ch’ing dynasty), Kuei Yu-kuang won first place in the county examination when he was twenty years old and received the degree of Provincial Graduate with second-place honor in 1540. But during the next two dozen years, he failed eight times consecutively at the national examinations, held every three years in the capital. During this time he earned his living as a private tutor preparing young men for the examinations and saw many of his students succeed. Nevertheless he managed to make a national name for himself through his pedagogic activities—by his cognomen “Master of Cheng-ch’uan”—as the leading prose writer of the age. When he finally won the degree of Metropolitan Graduate in 1565, he was nearly sixty years old. He was then appointed as magistrate of Ch’ang-hsing County, where he practiced a policy of benevolence, reducing as much as he could the official business of litigation. Unappreciated by his superiors, he was transferred in 1569 to become assistant prefect of Shun-te Prefecture, with the specified assignment of managing the government horse stables and pasturage, during the term of which office he wrote several essays on the history of horse culture. The next year, he was promoted to the position of assistant director of the Court of the Imperial Stud in Nanking, but actually stayed in the capital to manage the Proclamations Office of the Grand Secretariat, where he was assigned the task of drafting an official record of the late Emperor Chia-ching. Kuei was enthusiastic about the assignment because he had finally become an imperial historian like his idol, Ssu-ma Ch’ien, the “Grand Historian” of the Han dynasty. The position placed the imperial library collection of the Grand Secretariat within his reach and provided him an opportunity to demonstrate his literary and historiographical talents. But destiny played a cruel joke—within half a year Kuei suddenly fell ill and soon passed away, before he could complete any significant work of history.
However, at his death he left behind more than three hundred prose pieces, and his reputation as a great master had been established. Despite an earlier verbal war between them, Wang Shih-chen, a towering literary figure in sixteenth-century China, hailed Kuei as “one in a millennium,” after Han Yü and Ou-yang Hsiu, two great prose masters respectively of the T’ang and Sung dynasties. During the next century, his fame was further promoted by leading men of letters. Ch’ien Ch’ien-i collaborated with Kuei’s great-grandson Kuei Chuang (1613–73) in compiling the complete edition of Kuei Yu-kuang’s work, a classified collection in forty-one sections. Huang Tsung-hsi (1610–95) called Kuei’s prose writings representive of the very best of the Ming dynasty. Two centuries after his death Kuei was canonized by writers of the T’ung-ch’eng school (which was most influential in the middle of the Ch’ing dynasty) not only as the greatest prose writer of the Ming, but also as the singular linkage between the Eight Prose Masters of the T’ang and the Sung and themselves.
The inclusion of Kuei Yu-kuang in our anthology will make some traditional Chinese literary historians turn in their graves. Kuei has always been honored as a master of formal “classical prose” (ku-wen), the generic principles of which were in many aspects opposite to those of the casual hsiao-p’in. He learned the secret of his descriptive and narrative art from various models of different ages, but especially from Ssu-ma Ch’ien. At his best he was able to combine it with a rich underlying lyricism, which he probably learned from Ou-yang Hsiu. In many of his shorter prose pieces he confided in us, like an intimate friend sitting by the fireside, the little joys and sorrows of daily life and the uncertainty and vicissitudes of human relations with delicacy, vividness, and depth of emotion. Although the term hsiao-pin never occurred to Kuei Yu-kuang, his prose pieces often display, as our selection here indicates, the randomness and spontaneity, as well as a penchant for triviality, that characterize the genre.
Foreword to “Reflections on The Book of Documents”
In 1531, during the Chia-ching reign, I was back from the Southern Capital1 after having failed in the examination. I lived in seclusion behind closed doors. Few of my old friends ever dropped by. There was no spare room in the house. I had to stay in the inner chambers in daytime and amused myself holding my baby daughter in arms day in and day out. When she fell asleep, or while she was being breast-fed by her mother, I would read The Book of Documents.2 My baby also liked to have fun with books. When she saw a book, she would often move her fingers along the lines and make some sound in her mouth, as if she understood it well enough. So I often managed to go on with my reading, and when I had an idea, I would make a note of it. Whenever something crossed my mind, I had to grab my writing brush in a hurry. As someone in the past said, “The eagle swoops down when the hare stirs.”3 Unable to find the leisure to work these notes into essays, I kept them in my suitcase for possible future use. As regards structural analyses and syntactic explication, we already have those masters in old times, and I wouldn’t dare to compare my notes to theirs, so I titled mine simply “Reflections on The Book of Documents.”
I often think that reading a book is like an artisan drawing a portrait. He paints the ears, the eyes, the mouth, the nose: some big, some small, some fat, some thin. Every part may resemble its original; yet when people see the portrait, they may feel that it doesn’t look like the person. If that is the case, the artisan must have acquired the shape but lost the spirit! I dare not claim to have grasped the spirit in my reading, but I have always tried to search for it.
A Parable of Urns
A man put an urn by the roadside. The urn tumbled on the ground and broke. The man was about to leave, when another person with an urn in hand passed by. The man went up and grabbed the other person, saying, “Why did you break my urn?” Then he seized the latter’s urn and gave him his own broken one. Most of the people in the street sided with the man who broke his urn in the first place, and eventually the person who passed by with an urn, being unable to defend himself, had to leave without his urn.
Oh, my! If the man who broke his urn had not seen anyone passing by, he would have left. But the person who passed by with an urn was unfortunate enough to have run into him and, as a result of that, received a broken urn in exchange for his unbroken one. To get an unbroken urn in exchange for a broken one: this is the way an incident may fluctuate. As for the people in the street, they must have lost their minds!
Inscription on the Wall of the Wild Crane Belvedere
In the spring of 1538, during the Chia-ching reign, my friends and I had a gathering for essay composition at the Wild Crane Belvedere.
Horse Saddle Hill in our K’un-shan County, though small, does have a spectacular view. The belvedere stands at the foot of the hill. There is a fountain spring by its side, the water of which is clear and sweet, very nice to drink. Toward the east, where big rocks abound, there is the part of the hill that commands the best view, locally known as Eastern Cliff or Liu Lung-chou’s Grave, as Liu Kuo of the Sung is buried there.1 The grave is among a tangle of rocks. Looking upward from the grave, one sees nothing but a dark, undulating sheet of greenness. There is only a little path winding up by the side of the stone cliff; no one can tell where it leads to. It is believed that some immortals might live up there.
The belvedere was first built by Yang Tzu-ch’i, alias Ming-fu, of Tz’u-hsi. Ming-fu was known as a magistrate who, unlike ordinary officials, was fond of literature and enjoyed the company of men of letters. Now the place is honored as a shrine for Ming-fu. My goodness! How could Ming-fu have ever known that people like us would hold a gathering here more than forty years later? The party was started by six people and joined by two latecomers. Pan Shih-ying, who had come all the way from Chia-ting, brought water from the fountain to make tea and assumed the role of the host. We left one by one, but Shih-ying and his friend stayed there. The wind was strong, the rain heavy, the cliff cracked, and pieces of stones rolled down. Wild animals in the hills screamed at night. How scary it must have been for them!
The Craggy Gazebo
Some twenty-two miles by boat from the city of K’un-shan, on the Wusung River, is a place named An-t’ing. According to the local atlas, there used to be a certain An-t’ing River, which is nowhere to be seen today. It is a place shunned by people in the county due to its poor soil and the incivility of the locality. But it is where my wife’s family lives, and I, for one, enjoy the serenity inside the house. In this year of 1542, I have engaged myself in reading here.
West of the house are some old trees, a clear pool, and a rocky hill. There is a gazebo on the hill. Up there one can glimpse the Wu-sung River circling and winding toward the east, the wind-filled sails that flit past deserted villages and treetops, and, right ahead, the nine peaks of Mount Hua-t’ing and the ancient Buddhist temple and pagoda at Green Dragon Town. The gazebo did not have a name in the past, so I have named it Craggy.
As said in the Chuang-tzu,1 Keng-sang Ch’u, after having learned about the Tao from Lao-tan,2 lived in Craggy Hills. Among his retainers, those who were smart left him. Among his maidservants, those who were noble-hearted kept their distance from him. Only the thick-witted stayed with him; only the slovenly served under him. Three years later, there was a big harvest at Craggy. Local residents worshipped him as a god, said prayers, and offered sacrifices to him.
Now I live here behind closed doors all day long. Occasionally, a friend or two visits me from faraway, and we sing and chant together among brambles. My wife owns a little more than six and a half acres of land. There happened to be a big drought this year. By driving ox carts day and night to water the fields, we had a pretty nice crop, and we brewed several piculs3 of wine. In the chilly wind, the leaves have turned yellow and fallen to the ground. I call out to my boys to get me some wine, climb up to the gazebo, and cry out aloud in ecstasy: Who were those who left me and kept their distance from me? Who are those who stay with me and serve under me? And who will be those who worship me as a god, say prayers, and offer sacrifices to me?
I have hereby written this note about the Craggy Gazebo.
The Hsiang-chi Belvedere
The Hsiang-chi Belvedere1 was formerly called the Southern Pavilion. It was less than twelve feet square, just the size for one person to live in. An old shed about a hundred years in age, it was penetrated by dust and dirt, and when it rained, water would seep in. I used to try to relocate the desk and yet, looking around, could not find a dry spot for it. Also, the room faced north and therefore did not get any sunshine; as soon as noontime passed, it would grow dark inside.
I made a few repairs. First I stopped the leak in the ceiling, installed four windows in the front, and had a wall facing the sun in the south built around the courtyard. Now the sunshine is reflected into the room from the wall, brightening the room. I also planted in the courtyard orchid, cassia, bamboo, and some trees, which enhance the grace of the old balustrades and thresholds. Then I filled up the shelves with books. Now it has become a place where I may sit back or lie down, to chant or sing aloud. Often I sit alone in silence, and nature presents its myriad sounds against the quiet all around the courtyard. Little birds frequently come to peck at food, and do not leave even when people approach them. On the fifteenth of the lunar month, the bright moon lights up half of the wall, and the shadow of the cassia trees spreads out in a fine pattern. When a wind arises, the shadow stirs. A lovely sight indeed.
And yet for all the time I have lived here I hold as many happy memories as sad ones. The courtyard used to open to both the north and the south as one unit. When my father and uncles started living separately, small gates and walls were erected here and there, both in and out of the house. Dogs east and west barked at one another. Visitors had to pass through the kitchen to get to dinner. Roosters stayed in the front hall. The courtyard was first separated by fences and then by walls. Thus the look of the house has changed twice already.
An old nanny in the family used to live here. She was the maid of my late grandmother. Having been the nanny for two generations, she was well treated by my late mother. The shed was formerly connected on its western side to the inner chambers. My mother sometimes would come over here. The nanny would often tell me, “This was the place where your mother used to stand.” She would also say, “Your elder sister was crying loudly in my arms. Your mother tapped at the door with her fingers, asking, ‘Is the baby feeling cold? Or is she hungry?’ And I would talk back to her from behind the door.” Before she finished saying this, I started weeping, and the nanny also cried.
After I had my hair tied up,2 I often read my books at the belvedere. One day, grandmother dropped by and said, “Sonny, I’ve hardly seen you for a long time. Why are you staying here all day long, almost as quiet as a young lady?” As she was leaving, she murmured to herself when she closed the door, “It has been a long time since the family had any success in studies. Maybe we can expect this boy to accomplish something.” In a short while she was back again, holding an ivory court tablet3 in her hand. She said, “This was held in his hands by my grandfather, Chamberlain for Ceremonial, when he went to court during the Hsüan-te reign.4 Some day you should be the one to use it.” Looking around at all the relics, it seems as if what took place then happened only yesterday; I can’t help crying out loud and long.
East of the belvedere there used to be the kitchen, and people on their way there would pass by the belvedere. Having stayed inside behind closed doors for a long time, I was able to tell who it was by listening to the sound of the footsteps. The belvedere caught fire four times, but it never burned down, as if it were protected by divinity.
Master Hsiang-chi observed, “Widow Ch’ing of Shu held her place at the cinnabar mine, and made it the most profitable place in the world. Later the emperor of Ch’in had a tower erected in her memory.5 When Liu Pei and Ts’ao Ts’ao fought each other for the state, Chu-ko Liang rose to power from Lung-chung.6 But when these two lived in obscurity in remote places, how was it possible for the world to know their talent? Now this humble gentleman here, who lives in this shabby belvedere, raises his eyebrows, looks all around, and believes that he commands spectacular views. Those who hear of this may wonder what difference there is between him and the frog down in the well.”7
Five years after I wrote the above note, my wife came to this house after our marriage. She would often come over to the belvedere to ask me about things in ancient times, or lean over the desk to practice calligraphy. Once, when my wife came back from visiting her parents, she told me what her little sisters had said to her: “Sister, we’ve heard that there is a pavilion at your house. Now what is a pavilion?” Six years later, my wife died. The belvedere turned into a wreck. Another two years later, I had nothing to do after being sick for a long time, so I had the Southern Pavilion fixed again. The structure now has become slightly different from before. Yet since then I have stayed away from home most of the time, and hardly live there anymore.
In the courtyard there is a loquat tree that my wife planted by herself in the year she passed away. It stands tall now, with its foliage spreading out like a canopy.
An Epitaph for Chillyposy
The girl was my wife Lady Wei’s maid. She died on the fourth day of the fifth lunar month in 1537, during the Chia-ching reign, and was buried on a small hill. She served us, but not to the end. Wasn’t it all destiny?
When the girl first came over at my wedding, she was only ten years old. Her hair was tied in two hanging knots, and she dragged around in a dark-green cotton skirt. One day, it was very cold. We made a fire and cooked some water chestnuts over it. The girl peeled them, filling up a small earthen pot. When I entered the room from outside, I picked up some to eat, but the girl took the pot away and would not give me any more, which set Lady Wei laughing. My wife often told her to lean at the side of our little table to eat her meal. Whenever the meal was about to be served, she would roll her eyes around slowly in her sockets, and my wife would point it out to me for a chuckle.
Looking back upon those days, I suddenly realized that ten years have passed. Alas, woe is me!