T’u Lung (1542–1605)
A native of Yin-hsien County (Ning-po in modern times), Chekiang, T’u Lung won the degree of Metropolitan Graduate in 1577. After serving a short term as a magistrate elsewhere, T’u became the magistrate of the populous and scenic Ch’ing-p’u County east of Soochow, where he enjoyed himself among the beautiful lakes and hills of the region and held frequent drinking and poetry-composing parties with local literati. One who attended such parties was Wang Shih-chen, the most eminent literary figure of the century, who regarded T’u as a literary ally and later ranked him as one of the Last Five Masters. It was also during his service in Ch’ing-p’u that T’u started his serious lifelong study of Taoism as a religion. T’u never neglected his official business, though, and became very popular with local people. He was promoted to the rank of director in the Ministry of Rites in Peking, but before long was dismissed from office after being indicted by a personal enemy. When he passed by Ch’ing-p’u on his way home, local residents tried to persuade him to stay by offering him land and property, but he declined and left after having attended drinking parties for three days.
Back at home, T’u spent most of his time drinking and writing poetry with his friends, and made a living writing tomb inscriptions and other commemorative prose pieces on commission. Sometimes he composed by dictation while playing chess with a friend, and he was always ahead of the recorder. Both his daughter and daughterin-law were good poets, and they often wrote in response to his compositions.
T’u respected Wang Shih-chen as a mentor and was an eloquent neoclassicist critic in the latter’s camp. Unlike Wang, though, T’u was not entirely unsympathetic to the views of the Kung-an school led by the Yüan brothers. T’u was also an accomplished dramatist: three of his plays, including one that had as its protagonist the great T’ang poet Li Po, are still available today. Lin Yutang translated into English T’u’s travel notes, The Travels of Mingliaotse, but it has long been out of print and available only in a few university libraries. His prose has been admired for its exquisite diction and resonant lyricism.
A Letter in Reply to Li Wei-yin
My office in the executive mansion, where incense is being burned, is like the abode of a Buddhist monk. With a pot of spring water and a volume of an alchemist’s manual, every day I engage in thoughts beyond this dusty world. As regards the documents and files of the Orchid Department,1 they are taken care of by the section chiefs, who hardly ever submit any report, and it has turned out that I have become a gentleman of leisure keeping company with clouds and waters.
There is nothing I fear more than going out on the back of an ambling horse, grabbing a horsewhip as if holding something prickly, and pushing my way in the whirling wind that sends flying sand into my face. At such times, I meditate on the blue streams and emerald rocks in Chiang-nan to cheer myself up. I do have the whirling wind and the flying sand in my face, but I also have the blue streams and emerald rocks in my mind, so what’s the harm? Every time I am on horseback in the grand company of a thousand horsemen, with the dust flying all around me, I, your humble servant, carefree and at ease, raise my head to look at the clouds and the sky, and let my mind soar into the vast. While pacing to and fro, I compose a poem in an instant.
At the fifth beat of the night watches I report to the court. My robe is veiled in the cool, refreshing mist. The moon shines over the trees in the palace. Dismounting from horseback, I walk on the imperial carriageway and cross the palace moat. My mind travels far into the mountains where immortals reside and indulges in the art of singing about irises. While my body is clothed in official robes, my heart is in the misty ravines. People around me, who see what I look like but do not know my mind, take me as just another courtier. The beauty and wonder of land and water in Chiang-nan find their embodiment in what I have noted down while standing by the left side-gate of the palace.
My honorable friend, you live by the ferry along the Ch’in-huai River,2 where the moon shines after the mist vanishes, where the waters are green and the clouds rosy at sunrise and sunset, thousands of miles away from the land of wind and sands, and yet you sound so dejected and ill at ease in your letter. Why? In general, a man of learning should value accommodating his mind to the surroundings, not accommodating the surroundings to his mind. If the mind is at peace, all the dust will settle down in the Clear Void.3 If our inmost heart is in chaos, even in quiet seclusion troubles will arise in all and sundry ways. My honorable friend, do you agree with me or not?
Tsou Yüan-piao4 said something in court that offended our Sagacious Sovereign,5 so he had to leave again for Mo-ling.6 He is an honest, uncorrupted, and straightforward man, a great asset to the state. Now you may enjoy his company day and night.
It is a fine morning. Over the fragrant meadow, the spring wind from the northeast wafts gently. But, looking southward to where you are, my “beautiful one,”7 how my heart aches!
To a Friend, while Staying in the Capital
In the city of Yen1 one wears a hood to cover the face and rides a yellow horse. When the wind arises, flying dust is all over the streets and alleys. When one alights from horseback on coming home, one’s nostrils become as black as a chimney. The excrement of people and horses is mixed with dirt and sand. After a rain, the mire is up to one’s horse-saddle and knees. Commoners, whipping their hobbling donkeys, race with one another to shoulder their way along with officeholders. When the way is being cleared for a high-ranking official to pass, they all run in a hurry, trying to take cover in a winding lane in time. One quickly becomes short of breath after running like crazy, and one’s sweat flows all the way down to one’s heels. Such is the taste of life up here.
My mind goes far away to a riverside village in the setting sun, to a fishing boat on its way back to the cove, to the lingering sunlight that penetrates into the woods, to sands bright like snow, to a fishnet hung out to dry under the flowers, to the white signboard and azure flag of a tavern looming from behind drooping willows, to an old man walking out of his fagot gate with fish and wine jug in hand. To take a stroll on the sands with a couple of good friends—it is far superior to rushing on horseback into the mud of Ch’ang-an.2
To a Friend, after Coming Home in Retirement
Once passing through the Gate of Splendor,1 I’ve been in a different world away from Ch’ang-an. Lying down by night, I’ve never had a single dream about the clatter of a horse’s hooves around the Hua-ch’ing Palace.2
Back at home here, I have my Iris-Picking Hall. Behind the hall, there are three storied buildings with small trees and bamboos planted around them. Both the bedroom and the kitchen are in the shade of the bamboos. Resting on my pillow I often listen to the singing of birds. To the west of the house there are two old cassia trees, more than a hundred years of age. When they blossom in autumn, the whole courtyard is filled with fragrance. I’ve found some space to dig out a small pond, and have planted some pink and white lotus flowers in it. By the side of the pond there are a few peach trees. In the third [lunar] month the pink brocade of their bloom finds its reflection on the water, like thousands of beautiful women mirroring themselves in the waters of O-p’ang Palace or the labyrinth of Mi-lou.3 There are also hibiscus and knotweed flowers, which enhance the melancholy grace in autumn. What is even more pleasant is that people in the streets here, though they are extremely poor, do not put on airs by aping the extravagance and pomp of the gentry houses in the regions of Wu and Yüeh.4