Wang Ssu-jen (1575–1646)
A native of beautiful Shan-yin County in Chekiang, Wang Ssu-jen was the son of an herb doctor with a government appointment. Known as a child prodigy, Wang received the degree of Provincial Graduate in 1594. Only a year later, at the age of twenty, he won the degree of Metropolitan Graduate and made instantaneous literary fame.
A humorist by nature in the tradition of the legendary Ch’un-yü K’un, Yen Ying, and Tung-fang So, Wang Ssu-jen offended a great number of nobles by his offhand witty remarks on politics and politicians. This probably had a negative impact on his official career, which went through many ups and downs and was generally insignificant. During fifty years of government service, Wang was out of office more than half of the time.
After Peking fell to the rebels and the Ming empire came to a tragic end with Emperor Ssu-tsung’s suicide, Wang was summoned from his retirement and appointed minister of rites in the short-lived regency regime of the prince of Lu at Shao-hsing, Chekiang. When the Manchu troops arrived in Shan-yin, where Wang was living in retirement, behind closed doors he kept writing in big characters “No Surrender,” refused to cut his hair in the new style as demanded by the Manchu regime, and died from fasting.
A versatile man, Wang was also known as a poet, painter, and calligrapher. As an essayist he explored the possibilities of prose through writing a chronological autobiography (the first of its kind in Chinese literature), a humorous book of chess (wei-ch’i; Japanese go) regulations, and a book about his travels in the Chekiang mountains entitled Wanderlust (Yu-huan), which has become a classic in its own right. His travel writings were widely acclaimed even in his lifetime. Both Ch’en Chi-ju and the great playwright T’ang Hsien-tsu (1550–1616) were his admirers; both wrote laudatory forewords for his collections of prose. Chang Tai wrote a vivid biographical sketch of him. His travel notes, always refreshing and highly expressive, are among the very best of the genre.
A Trip to Brimming Well
The capital is a thirsty place. Where there is water, there is fun. A little more than a mile and a half outside the An-ting Gate is the Brimming Well. In early spring, gentlemen and ladies gather there like clouds.
I went there to have a look with Chang Tu, a friend from Wu. The well, about five and a half feet in diameter, is encased in a gazebo. The water surface is higher in the middle than on the four sides, hence the name. The way it brims is that the fountain surges and gurgles like a string of beads, like crabs’ eyes agape, or the foamy bubbles of fish. The lush vines and grass around it sustain its moisture.
Visitors included all kinds of people, from powerful eunuchs and nobles on down. Some were wearing caps, and some headcloths. Some were carrying loads with a pole, and some on their back. Some were sitting on the grass. Some were holding on to one another by neck or shoulder, scattering their shoes around them. A clamor of voices filled the air. Some were hawking drink and food with hollers of “Great hot cakes!” “Great wine!” “Great big dumplings!” “Great fruit!” The rich and the poor each had their own supplies. The powerful ones sat closer to the well and the insignificant stayed farther away. Hired thugs, swollen with arrogance, blustered people away from their masters. Fathers and sons and husbands and wives were drinking toasts to each other. Women with towering coiffures and sprawling hair-buns were looking around for their missing shoes and earrings. There were also those who raged and cursed after getting drunk, got into trouble, and then apologized humbly or begged for mercy. It is known that once a woman gave birth to a child while sitting there, surrounded by old women who took off their short jackets and held them up as curtains. Under the glances of thousands of people, these women held one another’s hands and smiled.
What I witnessed included one who swooned and was carried away, her limp body lying across the back of a donkey; a carrier who missed the stirrup of his horse, fell flat on his back, and made a fool of himself before the public; some who swaggered and bullied others, robbing the articles or clothes of one and harassing the wife or daughter of another; and some who stood up to defend the victims, went into a bloody fight, and got themselves injured or [maybe] even killed. The entire place turned into a pandemonium. My friend Chang and I had a drink in the shade of a reed umbrella and didn’t leave until we had seen enough of this circus show.
A Trip to Wisdom Hill and Tin Hill
To a native of Yüeh on his way home from the north, seeing Tin Hill in the distance is like seeing his own family. To look at the blue stroke that crosses half the sky is like getting a drink after having been thirsty for a long time. As for a drink that comes from under the ground, there is nothing better than that from the spring at Wisdom Hill. All residents in that area are from the Chiang family.1
In the market the wine made with water from the spring was fantastic. A woman with a relaxed and detached look ran a business there; I enjoyed visiting her place to buy clay statuettes, folded-paper chickens, carved-wood tigers, masks from Lan-ling, as well as some toy swords and halberds to give to my kids. As for her wine, she provided clean porcelain cups and allowed me a taste first before the bargain. I asked for the clear, refreshing kind, and she said that she would choose and present to me a pastry to go with the wine. How could a man drink wine along with that sweet stuff? What a sweetheart—just worth dying for! Shen Ch’iu-ho remarked, “If Wen-chün indeed were presiding over the tavern, then where should Hsiang-ju be positioned?”2 We went into the temple and paid homage to Buddha. After that we scooped some water from the fountain and drank it.
Together we went to the summit of Wisdom Hill. There we looked at the vast Lake T’ai-hu. The county loomed in the distance, beyond wild ducks and wild geese flying across multicolored clouds. Below the hill there was a full-scale marketplace with fresh fish and meat that was nowhere to be found in Yangchow and Nanking. After dining we went to have a look at the Fool’s Valley Garden, which was already a barren waste. The spring there was still gurgling, but it was not like Ch’in’s Garden, which still had clean, sprawling rocks and lush, graceful old trees.
We went westward up Tin Hill. There we looked down at the city. Rows and rows of houses lined together like fish scales. Green rivers circled around and through them, as on a piece of embroidery. It was indeed a blessed land in the Wu area. Right after the construction of the Buddhist temples Sun, one of the top three Metropolitan Graduates, emerged; and at their reconstruction Hua, the Principal Candidate, appeared.3 So it seems that the terrestrial veins indeed exist!4
When we returned to our boat, visitors kept coming. People sang and played all kinds of music. It was like hearing divine tunes while floating in multicolored clouds. Suddenly it was as if Yeh Fa-shan were holding the hands of the Third Brother and Yü-huan, and guiding them to walk across the Bridge of the Crescent Moon for a sightseeing tour of the lanterns of Kuang-ling.5 Oh! Wasn’t it bliss indeed!
Passing by the Small Ocean
We ascended Mount Kua-ts’ang along the Evil Brook.1 The boat moved inch by inch in the stagnant water. The sky was bullied by mountains; the river begged the rocks for mercy to let it run free. When we came to the Small Ocean,2 all of a sudden we got a clear view. Wu Hung-chung came to see me off, bringing Jui-ju with him. We sat on straw mats outside the cabin at the prow and had a drink. The yellow-helmeted gentlemen sang a boat song for us.3 Drooping our heads, we focused on wagering over our drinks. Presently we looked up in a startle and yelled in excitement. Only then did we know that there were colors unknown to the human world. Not knowing how those colors would be named in heaven, I can only try my best to give an approximate description by comparing them to things that exist in our world.
The semicircle of the setting sun was like rouge just emerging out of a fire. All of the mountains west of the river were either green as a parrot’s plumage or black as a crow’s back. Soaring above them were scarlet clouds that stretched over six thousand feet, with a large hole that let out the blue sky beyond. Their reflections in the water were like red agates spread out upon a sheet of brocade.
Now the sun was dimming. The color of the sandy beach was a mixture of gentle blue and soft white. The sand on the other bank was hardly visible in the moonlight and in the shade of the reeds. The mountains all turned the color of the rind of a ripe melon. Seven or eight patches of rosy cloud, in the shape of goose feathers or oddments of cloth, glowed like gold and litchi. These soon piled into two big clouds, which became like glittering and translucent grapes. Now layers and layers of night mountain mists, white like the bellies of fish, surged and drifted in and out of the silvery vermilion of a smelting furnace. Golden light flashed and sparkled. At this moment heaven and earth, mountains and rivers, clouds and sunshine were baking, steaming, and simmering, setting off one another. No one had any idea what kind of things would be manufactured in this huge dye-works. I suspected that its master, envious of the mirage on the sea and striving to outmaneuver Siddhartha,4 was momentarily lifting the veil from the beauty of his colorful clouds. Perhaps he was also thinking about us—people in the boat: “Since you guys have your agitated bosoms and your straining eyes, why not lend you some creative imagination, so that you can give an account of my kaleidoscopic play of colors?”5 Oh, what a spectacular sensation!
Now, there are only five colors in the human world.6 When the five colors mix with one another, they will develop into no more than several tens of colors. Who could ever have imagined the existence of such fantastic, inconceivable variegation? What I have just done is only an attempt to use [the names of] things in the human world to represent the colors [in this view]. In my mind I have not yet come to a full understanding, nor had my eyes ever witnessed anything like it before. I have no choice but to find words from what my mind has comprehended and from what my eyes have seen previously, so as to make it known to others. However, what has been presented above as a rough description could never hope to approximate more than one ten-thousandth of the original scene. Oh! Without having taken a look at the wealth of heaven and earth, how could one ever know the poverty of our human world!
Shan-hsi Brook
It was unpleasant to float along in the transversel waves of the Ts’ao O River,1 with its surface like a sheet of iron. By the time we were about to reach the Junction of Three Counties (San-chieh Chih),2 the view of the river turned cheerful. Fishermen’s fires and lamplight from the villages were in harmony with the moonshine above. Sands were shining, and mountains were still. Dogs were barking as loudly as leopards. I almost forgot that I was in a wooden boat.
At dawn we passed by Cool Breeze Ridge, where the brook joined the river, but I didn’t have enough time to offer my condolences to the soul of the chaste lady.3 Mountains were high, and banks were cramped. Verdant green intertwined with layered vermilion.4 Rocking in the boat, I listened to a birdcall in the distance and found its soft music extremely appeasing. Every trill had its echoes from the thousands of mountain valleys around. I suspect that “between autumn and winter it would be even more exhilarating.”5 I have no idea why Tzu-yu of our family lost his enthusiasm.6 It was perhaps all right with Tzu-yu to make that trip to the snowy brook, but what a humiliation it must have been for Tai! Men of letters often have taken advantage of someone else’s great-heartedness and have behaved in a disgraceful manner; it’s really unjustified.
We passed by Picture Hill, which made a potted landscape of orchid and trumpet creepers. Thenceforth the thousands of streams, greeting one another, converged all the way into the sea, like a multitude of aristocrats dangling the jade pendants on their gowns. It was only after winding our way for a long time that a horizon of infinite expanse finally lay in front of our eyes.
The mountain town towered in the cliffs; its streets were sparsely populated toward evening. At the estuary there stood an elevated terrace like a pillar. Taking off my headcloth, I clambered up and sated myself with the cool wind there. South of the town, the Bridge of a Hundred Chang7 spanned the brook airily, like a rainbow drinking from it.8 Meanwhile, the brook was having its own fun beneath it, flashing like lightning and rumbling like thunder.
I had the boat moored at the end of the bridge, using the stream and the pebbles in the moonlight “to brush my teeth and to pillow my head upon,” so as to have a sweet sleep.9 The boatman, wondering why I didn’t have the boat moored on the other bank, murmured to himself in disapproval of my eccentricity.