Yüan Hung-tao (1568–1610)

First Trip to West Lake

Going west out of the Wu-lin Gate, as soon as I saw the Paoshu Pagoda soaring among layers of cliffs ahead, my heart started leaping across the lake. By noon we entered the Celebration Temple,¹ and after drinking some tea, we boarded a small boat and headed out on the lake.

The hills were like a lady’s dark eyebrows, and the flowers were like her cheeks. The gentle breeze was as intoxicating as wine, and the ripples were as soft as damask silk. I had barely lifted my head before I felt drunk and overwhelmed. At that moment I tried to describe it but found myself speechless. Probably Prince Tung-o felt exactly the same way when he first saw the goddess of the River Lo in his dream.² This was my first trip to West Lake. It was the fourteenth day in the second month of 1597, during the Wan-li reign.

Later in the day Tzu-kung³ and I visited the Purity Temple, where we tried to locate the monk’s lodge where Chung-tao used to stay. We came back passing by the Six Bridges, Yüeh’s Tomb,⁴ and the Stony Path Pond. We had only a brief look as we went along and didn’t have the time to explore them.

The next morning I received a short note from T’ao Wang-ling.⁵ On the nineteenth Wang-ling and his brother arrived, along with Wang Ching-hsü, a lay Buddhist. Hills and lakes, good friends—what great company at one and the same time!

Waiting for the Moon: An Evening Trip to the Six Bridges

West Lake is at its best in springtime or in moonshine. In daytime it is at its best in the morning mist or in the evening glow.

This year it snowed heavily during the spring. The early plum [Prunus mume] trees, delayed by the snow, went into bloom along with the apricots and peaches. It was truly sensational. Wang-ling had told me several times that the early plum trees in the garden of Commander Fu of the Imperial Guard were formerly from Chang Kung-fu’s Shining Jade Hall¹ and urged me to go there to have a look. But I was obsessed by the peach blossoms and couldn’t bear to leave the view. On the lake, from the Broken Bridge² all the way to the Su Embankment, for some seven or eight miles, there stretched a mist in green and a haze of red. Wafted on the wind was the sound of music and singing. Perfumed perspiration fell like rain, and the sheen of silk and poplin outshone the grass along the embankment. It was the height of exquisite glamour.

Yet the people of Hangchow tour the lake from late morning until mid-afternoon only. In fact, the marvel of the lake and the color of the hills display themselves most fully at sunrise or right before sunset. At such moments the view is at the peak of its charm and voluptuousness. The moonlit scene is simply indescribable: flowers and willows, waters and hills—everything looks so different. Such pleasure is to be indulged in only by monks from the mountains and by travelers, and is certainly not to be divulged to the vulgar crowd!

A Trip to the Six Bridges after a Rain

It rained right after the Cold Food Day.¹ I said, “This rain is here to wash away the red [flowers] at West Lake. We should waste no time in bidding our farewell to the peach blossoms.”

In the afternoon the rain stopped. I went to the Third Bridge with my friends, where the ground was covered by fallen petals more than an inch deep. To our delight, there were few tourists. Suddenly someone in white silk flitted by on horseback; the splendor of the whiteness was dazzling. All my friends who were wearing white clothes inside took off their outer garments.

Feeling a little sleepy, we lay down on the ground and had a drink. To amuse ourselves, we counted the flower petals falling onto our faces: those who received more would have to drink, and those who received less would have to sing. A small boat suddenly emerged from among the flowers. We called out and found it to be some Buddhist monks bringing tea from the temple. We all had a cup of tea and went home rocking our boat and singing loudly.

Mirror Lake

Mirror Lake used to be known as having a perimeter of some 260 miles.¹ Today there is no such a thing as a lake here anymore. Local residents said, “The lake used to be all over the farmland. But since those seaside floodgates were built, the lake has turned into farmland.”

Director Ho’s Pond is less than a mile away from T’ao’s Weir and is about two and a half miles in area. Wild grass stretched far and wide like a mist into the distance, and frogs croaked as if they were wailing; riding a boat on a moonlit night here made us feel quite forlorn.

Intoxicated, I said to Wang-ling, “You are not as unruly as Ho,² and you are not as much a drinker as Ho, but you have two eyes that approximate his.” Wang-ling asked me why. I said, “Ho recognized the talent of the ‘Banished Immortal.’³ You’ve recognized that of Yüan Hung-tao. So you do have great vision, don’t you?” Indignant at my crazy impudence, all those present fell silent.

A Trip to Brimming Well

It is cold in the Yen area.¹ Even after the Flowers Day Festival² the remaining cold is still chilling. Often there is a freezing wind, and when it starts blowing, sand and gravel fly all around and one is confined to one’s chamber, unable to go out. I sometimes try to ride out against the wind, but always turn back within a hundred steps.

On the twenty-second day, the weather was somewhat mild. I went out of the Eastern City Gate with a couple of friends and arrived at Brimming Well.³ On both sides of the embankment there stood tall willow trees; the fertile soil there was slightly damp. Our vision extended far and wide, and I felt like a swan out of a cage. On that day a thin skin of ice had just started melting. Water sparkled, and ripples moved in layers and layers like fish scales. The fountain was so clear that we could see its very bottom, shining like the cold light from a mirror that had just been taken out of its case. Mountain peaks were washed by the snow in sunshine, looking fresh and bright, like a beautiful girl who has just washed her face and made up her hair. Willow twigs were about to bud, but not quite yet, with their tender tips trembling in the wind. In wheat fields the short mane of seedlings was about an inch high.

Although there were not too many tourists yet, we often ran into some who were drawing water from the fountain to make tea, some who were drinking and singing, or some women wearing red riding on donkeys. There was still a strong wind, but going on foot made us sweat all over. The birds who basked on the sands and the fish who sipped in the ripples were all at ease, and there emanated from their feathers and scales a cheerful freshness. Only then did I come to realize that outside in the suburbs and countryside, spring had already arrived, though it was hardly noticed by city dwellers.

Only because of the position I currently hold am I able to enjoy a good time among hills and woods, without having to worry about my official business being neglected on account of such excursions,⁴ as this place happens to be close to my office. I shall start making my trips from now on. And how could I do so without putting it on record? It was in the second month of the year 1599.

A Trip to High Beam Bridge

High Beam Bridge is outside the Western City Gate.¹ It has the best view in the capital area. The embankment lies in the middle of water. Weeping willows extend for more than three miles. The river flows rapidly. The water is so clear that even the fins and scales of the fish at the bottom of the river can be seen. Buddhist temples dot the scene like pieces on a chessboard. Crimson towers and pearly pagodas beam among green trees. The Western Hills seem to be right within one’s reach, enchanting tourists with their colors from morning till night. In the height of spring, gentlemen and ladies from the city gather there, and the crowd is thick as clouds. No government official would ever refrain from making a trip there unless he were extremely busy.

On the first day of the third month, I had an outing with Wang Chang-fu and the Buddhist monk Chi-tzu. A fresh green was sprouting at the tip of the willow branches. The hills shone from behind a thin mist. The river water rose up almost to the level of the embankment, and musicians were playing on their strings and pipes along both banks. Squatting on the root of an old tree, we drank some tea in place of wine, and, to accompany our drink, [in lieu of appetizers] we looked at the patterns of ripples and the shade of trees and watched, like a stage performance, the birds in the air, the fish in the water, and the people who walked back and forth.

Seeing the three of us sitting under the tree like fools, as if entranced in a Zen meditation, people who walked by along the embankment looked at one another and grinned. On our part, we were also wondering about those who were feasting and indulging themselves in a sound and fury that was totally out of tune with the charm and grace of mountains and rivers. What kind of pleasure could they really have? After a while I saw my classmate² Huang Chai-chih, who came out to visit somebody, so I shouted to him, and he dismounted. We talked for a while. Then we took a walk to Sukhāvatī Temple to watch the early plum blossoms there before we went home.

A Biography of the Stupid but Efficient Ones

Master of Stone¹ observed, “No animal is more shrewd at running for refuge than the hare, yet it often falls into a hunter’s hands. The cuttlefish spits ink to hide itself, and yet it often leads to its own destruction.” What, then, is the advantage of being artful? The sparrow is not as good as the swallow in hiding itself, and the stork is not as good as the turtledove in providing for itself—it was already thus noted in old times.² I have therefore written “A Biography of the Stupid but Efficient Ones.”

There are four stupid servants in our family. They are Winter [Tung], East [Tung], Axe [Ch’i], and Hip [K’uei]. Winter is my servant. He has a retroussé nose, a flat face, blue eyes, a curly mustache, and a complexion of rusted iron. Once he went on a trip with me to Wu-ch’ang. On one occasion I sent him on a mission to someone in the neighborhood. On his way back he got lost. He walked back and forth several dozen times. He saw other servants passing by but would not ask them for directions. At that time he was already over forty years old. I happened to go out and saw him looking all around in frustration, as if about to cry. I shouted to him, and he was overjoyed to see me. He likes to drink. One day, some wine was being brewed in the house. Winter begged for it and was given a cup. He was then sent away for something, so he just left it on the table. A maidservant stole the wine and drank it up. The wine brewer took pity on him and gave him another cup. While bending down toward the kitchen stove, Winter got caught in the flames, which flared across his face and almost burned his moustache and eyebrows. People in the house laughed, and he was given a bottle of wine. Delighted, Winter held the bottle in boiling water, planning on drinking it after it was warmed up. The boiling water splashed on him. He dropped the bottle and thus eventually did not get to drink a single drop of the wine. He left dumbfounded. Once someone told him to open a door, the hinges of which were somewhat tight. He pushed with all his might and fell down when the door opened. His head touched the ground while his feet flew up overhead. Everyone in the family roared with laughter. Earlier this year he went with me to my executive mansion in Peking. He had a good time with the gatekeepers there for half a year. Yet, on being asked the names of those people, he is at a total loss.

East also has an archaic appearance, but there is something funny about him. When he was young he served Tsung-tao. When Tsung-tao was about to marry his second wife, he told East to go buy some cakes in the city. Our house was more than thirty miles away from the city. The wedding date was close, so East was told to return in three days. Three days later, toward sunset he was not home yet. My father and Tsung-tao waited for him outside the gate. By evening they saw a person carrying something on a shoulder pole coming along the willow-lined embankment, and it turned out to be East. My father was delighted, so he led him back into the house in a hurry. The load was put down. They looked at it and found nothing but a jar of honey. They asked him where the cakes were. East replied, “I arrived in the city yesterday, and I happened to find the honey cheap, so I bought it. The cakes were expensive, really not worth buying.” The next day had been fixed as the date to send over the betrothal gifts, but as a consequence it had to be postponed.

Both Axe and Hip are servants of the third brother [Chung-tao]. Once Axe went picking firewood. He knelt on the ground while tying the firewood into a bundle. He tied it so hard that the rope broke, and his fist hit his own breast. He was knocked out and fell to the ground, and stayed unconscious for quite a while. Hip looks like a buck. He is thirty years old, but he has not been “capped” yet.³ His hair is tied up at the back of his head in a knotted braid that looks like a big rope. My younger brother gave him some money to buy a cap. Hip forgot that he kept a braid. After he came home, when he tied up his hair and put the cap on, his eyes and nose went into that cap. He sighed in astonishment for the rest of the day. One day he went to the next-door neighbor’s and was chased by their dog. He put out his fists toward the dog as if he were about to fight another man and got his fingers bitten. It is just one example of his acts of folly.

However, while the cunning servants in our family have frequently been taken to task for wrongdoing, these four stupid ones have somehow managed to abide by the rules. One after another the cunning ones have been dismissed from the house. Without the means to provide for themselves, they could avoid hunger and starvation for no more than a year or two. The four stupid ones, on the other hand, having committed no wrong, are well fed and well clothed. Assured of their loyalty, the housekeeper has provided for each of them and would not see them leave the service. Aha! Shouldn’t this suffice to demonstrate the efficacy of being stupid?

Essay: A Biography of Hsü Wen-ch’ang

One evening, while sitting upstairs at Grand Scribe T’ao’s, I randomly pulled out something from his bookshelves and found it to be a portfolio of several volumes of poetry titled A Collection of Scraps. The paper was of poor quality, the calligraphy was slipshod, and soot had dimmed the printing, so the text was barely legible. I had to get closer to the lamp to read it. But after reading a few poems, I jumped up in surprise and cried out to Wang-ling, “Who’s the author of this Collection of Scraps? Is he dead or alive?” Wang-ling replied, “This book was by Mr. Hsü Wen-ch’ang, a fellow townsman of mine.” We both bounced up and down. We read and yelled, yelled and read in the lamplight, and all the servantboys who had fallen asleep were roused from their sleep. Alas! This untalented man here, my humble self, lived for thirty years before he got to know that there had been a Master Wen-ch’ang. Why did I come to know him so late? Therefore I now have put down all that I have heard from people of Yüeh in the following biography of Hsü Wen-ch’ang.

Hsü Wei, styled Wen-ch’ang, was already well known while a mere government student at Shan-yin. His Excellency Hsüeh Hui, while in charge of examinations in the Yüeh area, marveled at his genius and regarded him as a national star. Yet, as ill luck would have it, Hsü failed at every attempt in subsequent examinations. His Excellency Hu Tsung-hsien,¹ the vice censorin-chief, heard about him and appointed him as a private secretary. Every time Wen-ch’ang went to meet His Excellency, wearing a black hood and a gown of hemp cloth, he would speak freely about state affairs, to the delight of His Excellency. At that time His Excellency was in command of several divisions of frontier troops and exercised great authority over the entire southeast. In front of His Excellency, those in armor and helmet would talk on their knees, bend over and walk with their faces down, and would not dare to lift their heads. But Wen-ch’ang, though only a government student on his staff, comported himself with dignity. People compared him to Liu T’an and Tu Fu.² Once, when the two white deer were captured, Wen-ch’ang was commissioned to write the memorial to the throne, and His Majesty the late emperor was delighted with it. His Excellency accordingly thought even more highly of him, and all His Excellency’s memorials were composed by him. Wen-ch’ang took great pride in his knowledge of the art of war. He was fond of stratagems, and when he discussed military maneuvering he often would go right to the heart of the matter. He could not find anyone among contemporary men of letters who was his equal in talent, and yet he never had any luck.

Unsuccessful in his official career, Wen-ch’ang indulged himself in drinking and in enjoying the beauty of nature. He traveled in the regions of Ch’i, Lu, Yen, and Chao and explored the northern deserts. In his poetry he wrote about everything: undulating mountain ridges and hurling sea waves, whirling sands and floating clouds, howling wind and trees prostrate in it, the quiet mountain valley and the metropolis, human beings, fish and birds, and all kinds of events and things that surprised and amazed him. Deep down in his heart he always cherished unquenchable ambitions, but he also harbored the kind of sorrow felt by unfortunate heroic figures who have nowhere to turn for help. Accordingly, he took turns raging and laughing in his poetry. It is like riverwater roaring through the gorges, or sprouts bursting forth out of the soil. It is like a widow weeping at night, or a wayfarer sleepless in the cold. His poetry may be crude and unrefined in terms of structure at times, but, fresh and original, it has a lofty, princely manner that is not to be found in the works of those who assume an effeminate attitude waiting upon the delight of others. His prose writing, poised and well organized, shows great perception: its brilliance is unspoiled by imitation, and its eloquence remains unscathed by argumentation, placing its author in the same rank as Han and Tseng.³ Wen-ch’ang never conformed to contemporary modes; rather, he rebuked all those who presided over the literary stage of his time and regarded them as inferiors. Hence his reputation did not spread beyond the Yüeh area. What a pity!

He liked to practice calligraphy. His brush strokes are bold and flowing like his poetry. Within its vigor and boldness there beam charm and elegance: it is like what Master Ou-yang⁴ described as “a ravishing woman who is graceful even at old age.” In leisure, his overflowing talent also drove him to try his hand at paintings of birds and flowers, which, unassuming and tasteful, are also superb.

Later, he killed his third wife when she aroused his suspicion. He was thrown into prison and sentenced to death, and was acquitted only after Grand Scribe Chang Yüan-pien’s strenuous efforts to plead for him.⁵ In old age he became even more resentful and tried even harder to feign madness. He sometimes shut his door on visitors of high station. He often took money and went to the tavern, where he would call lowbred attendants to join him for a drink. Once he hit and cracked open his own head with a hatchet; blood dripped all over his face. His broken skull creaked when his head was being rubbed. On another occasion he jabbed both his ears with a sharp awl, which penetrated about an inch and a half. But he survived.

Wang-ling said that his poetry and prose of the later period was even more remarkable. But, never having been printed, the collection has been kept in his family. A classmate of mine is now serving in the Yüeh area; I have asked him to obtain a handwritten copy for me, but it has not arrived yet. I have to make do with only Hsü Wen-ch’ang’s Works and A Collection of Scraps. A social failure, Wen-ch’ang eventually passed away, carrying all his rage and regret into the grave.

Master of Stone observed, “Suffering from an endless series of bad luck, our master became insane. As a result of his insanity, he was thrown behind bars. Of all men of letters past and present who grieved and suffered, none was as miserable as our master. And yet His Excellency Hu was a hero of the age, and the late emperor was a sage sovereign. His Excellency, who treated the master in a way different from all the rest of his staff, must have understood him. When the memorial was presented, the sovereign was pleased, so His Majesty must have appreciated the master as well. What he missed was only rank and prestige. His poetry and prose, unequaled in his time, have swept away all the foul practice of our age. A hundred generations from now a fair evaluation will come around. So why should he be considered unappreciated and a failure? Mei K’o-sheng once wrote me a letter saying, ‘Wen-ch’ang was an old friend of mine. His sickness was stranger than his personality; and his personality was stranger than his poetry.’ I would rather say that nothing about Wen-ch’ang was not strange. And since nothing about him was not strange, he was out of luck wherever he went. How sad!”