Yüan Chung-tao (1570–1623)
Chung-tao, the youngest of the Yüan brothers, survived his two elder brothers and carried on the torch as an ardent champion of their literary ideas. Like his eldest brother, Tsung-tao, he was eclipsed in fame by Hung-tao. Chih-p’ing Chou, who called Chung-tao the “reformer of the Kung-an school,” has pointed out that his views on literature deserve more critical attention.
Chung-tao was known as a child prodigy. At the early age of ten he was already the author of two lengthy rhapsodies, respectively on Yellow Mountain (Huang-shan) and on snow. But when he grew up, he was not enthusiastic about spending his time and energy on seeking an official career. Instead he traveled far and wide and, like Hung-tao, became a great admirer of the unorthodox thinker Li Chih, about whom he wrote a lively biography.
Urged by his brothers, Chung-tao did follow in their footsteps eventually and won first place in the provincial examination in 1603, when he was already thirty-three. Not until after the death of both his brothers did he finally receive the degree of Metropolitan Graduate in 1616, after which he served in a number of positions, including that of director in the Ministry of Personnel in Nanking.
The famous poet and critic Ch’ien Ch’ien-i, a good friend of Chung-tao’s, gave us an account of how Chung-tao disliked the ideas of the so-called “Ching-ling school” led by Chung Hsing and T’an Yüan-ch’un, and thought about having an open debate with those “guys from Ch’u.” He would never have imagined that he and his brothers would be thrown into the same category as Chung and T’an by some later literary historians. His prose, while not as dazzling as that of his brothers in originality, flows with ease and shows great emotion. The entries from his diaries presented here provide an early record of China’s encounter with the West in a vivid portrait of the Jesuit missionary Matteo Ricci, as well as a realistic account of his brother Hung-tao’s death.
Foreword to The Sea of Misery
Man’s heart is like fire, and the predestined relationship of the world is like firewood. Experiencing sensual and pleasurable events is like the encounter of fire with dry firewood, to be further fueled by oil. If one manages to get rid of grease and oil, and splash cold water on the flame, then the fire will gradually burn out.
I have often seen how ambition for social success was set on fire by a person’s leafing through documents of appointment, or how an aspiring mind was somewhat dampened by the sight of a funerary carriage. Our mind varies with circumstance, and my method of its cultivation may be of some use here. For this reason, people who retire from the world often live in the woods, where they may make use of impermanent waters to extinguish the blazing flame. This is the first secret to nurturing one’s mind. Yüan Sung, who was fond of singing a funerary dirge, also had that in mind.1 Being a smart person, he was only using it to cool his own youthful ambitions. Yet it was regarded as an idiosyncrasy, which really missed the point.
In the past I was in pursuit of many worldly things and constantly cherished all kinds of wild aspirations. Later I gathered in this collection poems of past and present that lament for the living and mourn for the dead, and have titled it The Sea of Misery. To chant these pieces aloud at times of heat and flame may remind us of the scarcity of the rest of our days and the impermanence of prosperity, so the crackling fire might be transformed into a cold, refreshing cloud. Whenever I suffer from such fever, I use it as a prescription, and it has always worked. I would like to make it known far and wide in the world to help people in their fever and misery. It is really a matter of transcendence,2 so I would like to have it preserved. On an autumn day in 1585, Yüan Chung-tao, the Chime-maker,3 has just written the above in a boat.
Shady Terrace
Our residence in the suburbs of Ch’ang-an1 has a garden on its left where old pine trees abound. Behind the gate there flows a clear stream, and a grove of slender bamboos grows along its banks. Across the bridge there is a scholar-tree [Sophora japonica] that reaches to the sky, even the twigs of which would be considered tall trees in themselves in other mountains. There are also trees of other kinds, such as peach, plum [Prunus salicina], date, and chestnut, all dense and luxuriant.
There are three rows of rooms for studying, where my two elder brothers and I prepared for our examinations together. They made their degree of Metropolitan Graduate one after the other and moved into the city with their families; I alone have lived here since. In summertime, having nothing else to do, I had a terrace built by the stream under the scholar-tree; the terrace was covered in its green shade and sheltered from the sunshine all the time, so I named it Shady Terrace.
I often invite friends to come over and have some fun here. There are no spectacular peaks or deep valleys in view, but over the hills and ranges, far and near, thick pines and green bamboos grow lush. Whenever a wind arises from afar, it comes over winding through the thousands of pine trees until its raging force has been spent and it comes to a stop here. Then it joins in the breeze that comes over from the lotus flowers in the pond, so there is always a faint coolness and fragrance. At sunset one has to wear double-layered clothes to sit outside there. Looking down, I can see fish frolicking; raising my head, I can listen to birds chirping. Elated, I always shout to my friends, “Isn’t this the place for a recluse?”
Selections from Wood Shavings of Daily Life
1
Late at night it snowed a little more heavily. I had planned to make a boat trip to Sha-shih, but gave up because of the rain and snow. Yet it was somewhat nice to hear the snow pellets tinkling among thousands of bamboos and to read a few chapters by the dim light from the window and the red glow of fire. I often regret that I’ve not been able to carry out my travel plans, but one should really go on with the flow of the stream, and stop when an islet lies ahead—just take it easy. As Huang T’ing-chien said, “Wherever I go, I’m able to have a nice dream.”
2
Hosted a banquet for all the guests who came to celebrate the launching of the new boat. Strings, woodwinds, and percussion sounded in tune. We had the boat rowed upriver against the current. Spectators stood like walls. The reflection from the surface of water was a shining sheet of light. The sound of singing, talking, and laughing sank into the waves. By dusk, dark clouds rose in all directions. We had the boat rowed back to where it had been. There was a windstorm. Guests and messengers scattered like meteors. Throughout that night, the river roared as in an earthquake.
3
In the gazette I read the obituary of Li Ma-tou [Matteo Ricci], an Attendant from the West.1 Ma-tou had come from his native country by sea; it took him four or five years to arrive. At first he stayed in Fukien, and then in Wu and Yüeh. By and by he learned to speak and read Chinese. Later he went to the capital and presented the portrait of the Master of Heaven [God] and the chime clock that he had brought with him. The imperial court offered him board and lodging. In his country, people serve Heaven and know nothing about Buddha. They do good deeds and treasure friendship. Many people remain virginal all their life. Ma-tou was quite eloquent and also good at writing. He had a low income, but he often gave money to others. He purchased a house, employed servants, and lived well. People suspected that he, like Wang Yang,2 knew some secret alchemy. Ma-tou was indeed conversant with many special skills, but regretfully they’ll remain unknown. He has said that the celestial body is like an egg, the sky being its white and the earth its yolk, and that there are worlds above and beneath us and in all four directions. He has also remarked that the people of the world above and the people of the world below have their feet against each other’s, because the latter are like flies or insects moving upside down on roof beams. These sayings are very strange, but they accord with the Miscellaneous Flowers Sūtra: “Facing upward there is a world, facing down there is a world, and looking sideways there is a world.” Ma-tou made friends with officeholders. I saw him several times at Hung-tao’s executive mansion. He lived to only sixty. I was told that he died a virgin.
4
On the night of the sixth1 the old maidservant in Hung-tao’s room suddenly cried out to me and asked me to go in, saying, “He urinated three or four times at night—each time passing blood—and he almost fainted. If the urine stops, then maybe he could talk.” I wept in private. She comforted me. We hurried to call in Li, the doctor, who felt his pulse and said, “The pulse is slowing down.” I stamped my feet and threw myself on the ground. The doctor said, “Don’t panic! Let’s try ginseng soup.” After taking the ginseng he started gasping and said that he was three-tenths alive but seven-tenths dead. After a while he got up to urinate again and murmured to himself, “I’ll take a nap.” He didn’t say anything else, and just passed away sitting there. When I called out to him, he could no longer respond! Alas! Alas! So just overnight, I lost my dear brother! The sky and earth fell apart. I would have been happy to die together with him. I didn’t want to live in the world anymore. I fell on the ground in a faint and remained unconscious for a long time. Then I managed to get up to take care of preparation for the burial. There were only fifty taels of silver in his money bag. I had to beg for a loan and pawn something to purchase the coffin. I had never realized that a director of the Ministry of Personnel could be in such straitened circumstances! In grief I went up to Kung-an to console our old father.
5
I took a walk by the river and watched the thousands of acres of white sand on the northern bank that looked like snow. That night I was very sad. Since Hung-tao’s death all those who claimed to be bosom friends among his classmates have said something against him in contempt or indignation. In the middle of the night I read aloud the observation of “Dragon Pool” Li [Li Chih]: “Common men are free from falsity, so they are unable to conceal their true heart. Men who talk about the Tao have lost their innocence, so they are determined to purge those who stand out among them.” This saying is indeed as invaluable as Yü’s Tripod or the Mirror of Ch’in!1