China and the West

Fir-flower tablets : poems [ID D29140]. (3)
Introduction by Florence Ayscough
How a house was arranged can be seen in the plan at the end of this book. Doors lead to the garden from the study, the guest-room, and the Women's Apartments. These are made in an endless diversity of shapes and add greatly to the picturesqueness of house and grounds. Those through which a number of people are to pass to and fro are often large circles, while smaller and more intimate doors are cut to the outlines of fans, leaves, or flower vases. In addition to the doors, blank spaces of wall are often broken by openings at the height of a window, such openings being [Page l] most fantastic and filled with intricately designed lattice-work.
I have already spoken of the Kuei, or Women's Apartments. In poetry, this part of the chia is alluded to in a highly figurative manner. The windows are "gold" or "jade" windows; the door by which it is approached is the Lan Kuei, or "Orchid Door." Indeed, the sweet-scented little epidendrum called by the Chinese, lan, is continually used to suggest the Kuei and its inmates.
Besides the house proper, there are numerous structures erected in gardens, for the Chinese spend much of their time in their gardens. No nation is more passionately fond of nature, whether in its grander aspects, or in the charming arrangements of potted flowers which take the place of our borders in their pleasure grounds. Among these outdoor buildings none is more difficult to describe than the lou, since we have nothing which exactly corresponds to it. Lous appear again and again in Chinese poetry, but just what to call them in English is a puzzle. They are neither summer-houses, nor pavilions, nor cupolas, but a little of all three. Always of more than one story, they are employed for differing purposes; for instance, the fo lou on the plan is an upper chamber where Buddhist images are kept. The lou generally referred to in poetry, however, is really a "pleasure-house-in-the-air," used as the Italians use their belvederes. Here the inmates of the house sit and look down upon the garden or over the surrounding country, or watch "the sun disappear in the long grass at the edge of the horizon" or "the moon rise like a golden hook."
Another erection foreign to Western architecture is the t'ai, or terrace. In early days, there were many kinds of t'ai, ranging from the small, square, uncovered stage still seen in private gardens and called yüeh t'ai, "moon terrace," to immense structures like high, long, open platforms, built by Emperors and officials for various reasons. Many of these last were famous; I have given the histories of several of them in the notes illustrating the poems, at the end of the book.
It will be observed that I have said practically nothing about religion. The reason is partly that the three principal religions practised by the Chinese are either so well known, as Buddhism, for example, or so difficult to describe, as Taoism and the ancient religion of China now merged in the teachings of Confucius; partly that none of them could be profitably compressed into the scope of this introduction; but chiefly because the subject of religion, in the poems here translated, is generally referred to in its superstitious aspects alone. The superstitions which have grown up about Taoism particularly are innumerable. I have dealt with a number of these in the notes to the poems in which they appear. Certain supernatural personages, without a [Page lii] knowledge of whom much of the poetry would be unintelligible, I have set down in the following list:
Hsien. Immortals who live in the Taoist Paradises. Human beings may attain "Hsien-ship," or Immortality, by living a life of contemplation in the hills. In translating the term, we have used the word "Immortals."
Shên. Beneficent beings who inhabit the higher regions. They are kept extremely busy attending to their duties as tutelary deities of the roads, hills, rivers, etc., and it is also their function to intervene and rescue deserving people from the attacks of their enemies.
Kuei. A proportion of the souls of the departed who inhabit the "World of Shades," a region resembling this world, which is the "World of Light," in every particular, with the important exception that it has no sunshine. Kindly kuei are known, but the influence generally suggested is an evil one. They may only return to the World of Light between sunset and sunrise, except upon the fifth day of the Fifth Month (June), when they are free to come during the time known as the "hour of the horse," from eleven A.M. to one P.M.
Yao Kuai. A class of fierce demons who live in the wild regions of the Southwest and delight in eating the flesh of human beings.
There are also supernatural creatures whose names carry a symbolical meaning. A few of them are:
Ch'i Lin. A composite animal, somewhat resembling the fabulous unicorn, whose arrival is a good omen. He appears when sages are born.
Dragon. A symbol of the forces of Heaven, also the emblem of Imperial power. Continually referred to in poetry as the steed which transports a philosopher who has attained Immortality to his home in the Western Paradise.
Fêng Huang. A glorious bird, symbol of the Empress, therefore often associated with the dragon. The conception of this bird is probably based on the Argus pheasant. It is described as possessing every grace [Page liv] and beauty. A Chinese author, quoted by F. W. Williams in "The Middle Kingdom," writes: "It resembles a wild swan before and a unicorn behind; it has the throat of a swallow, the bill of a cock, the neck of a snake, the tail of a fish, the forehead of a crane, the crown of a mandarin drake, the stripes of a dragon, and the vaulted back of a tortoise. The feathers have five colours which are named after the five cardinal virtues, and it is five cubits in height; the tail is graduated like the pipes of a gourd-organ, and its song resembles the music of the instrument, having five modulations." Properly speaking, the female is Fêng, the male Huang, but the two words are usually given in combination to denote the species. Some one, probably in desperation, once translated the combined words as "phœnix," and this term has been employed ever since. It conveys, however, an entirely wrong impression of the creature. To Western readers, the word "phœnix" suggests a bird which, being consumed by fire, [Page lv] rises in a new birth from its own ashes. The Fêng Huang has no such power, it is no symbol of hope or resurrection, but suggests friendship and affection of all sorts. Miss Lowell and I have translated the name as "crested love-pheasant," which seems to us to convey a better idea of the beautiful Fêng Huang, the bird which brings happiness.
Luan. A supernatural bird sometimes confused with the above. It is a sacred creature, connected with fire, and a symbol of love and passion, of the relation between men and women.
Chien. The "paired-wings bird," described in Chinese books as having but one wing and one eye, for which reason two must unite for either of them to fly. It is often referred to as suggesting undying affection.
Real birds and animals also have symbolical attributes. I give only three:
Crane. Represents longevity, and is employed, as is the dragon, to transport those who have attained to Immortality to the Heavens.
Yuan Yang. The exquisite little mandarin ducks, an unvarying symbol of conjugal fidelity. Li T'ai-po often alludes to them and declares that, rather than be separated, they would "prefer to die ten thousand deaths, and have their gauze-like wings torn to fragments."
Wild Geese. Symbols of direct purpose, their flight being always in a straight line. As they follow the sun's course, allusions to their departure suggest Spring, to their arrival, Autumn.
A complete list of the trees and plants endowed with symbolical meanings would be almost endless. Those most commonly employed in poetry in a suggestive sense are:
Ch'ang P'u. A plant growing in the Taoist Paradise and much admired by the Immortals, who are the only beings able to see its purple blossoms. On earth, it is known as the sweet flag, and has the peculiarity of never blossoming. It is hung on the lintels of doors on the fifth day of the [Page lvii] Fifth Month to ward off the evil influences which may be brought by the kuei on their return to this world during the "hour of the horse."
Peony. Riches and prosperity.
Lotus. Purity. Although it rises from the mud, it is bright and spotless.
Plum-blossom. Literally "the first," it being the first of the "hundred flowers" to open. It suggests the beginnings of things, and is also one of the "three friends" who do not fear the Winter cold, the other two being the pine and the bamboo.
Lan. A small epidendrum, translated in this book as "spear-orchid." It is a symbol for noble men and beautiful, refined women. Confucius compared the Chün Tzu, Princely or Superior Man, to this little orchid with its delightful scent. In poetry, it is also used in reference to the Women's Apartments and everything connected with them, suggesting, as it does, the extreme of refinement.
Chrysanthemum. Fidelity and constancy. In spite of frost, its flowers continue to bloom. [Page lviii]
Ling Chih. Longevity. This fungus, which grows at the roots of trees, is very durable when dried.
Pine. Longevity, immutability, steadfastness.
Bamboo. This plant has as many virtues as it has uses, the principal ones are modesty, protection from defilement, unchangeableness.
Wu-t'ung. A tree whose botanical name is sterculia platanifolia. Its only English name seems to be "umbrella-tree," which has proved so unattractive in its context in the poems that we have left it untranslated. It is a symbol for integrity, high principles, great sensibility. When "Autumn stands," on August seventh, although it is still to all intents and purposes Summer, the wu-t'ung tree drops one leaf. Its wood, which is white, easy to cut, and very light, is the only kind suitable for making that intimate instrument which quickly betrays the least emotion of the person playing upon it – the ch'in, or table-lute.
Willow. A prostitute, or any very frivolous person. Concubines writing to their lords often refer to themselves under this figure, in the same spirit of self-depreciation which prompts them to employ the euphemism, "Unworthy One," instead of the personal pronoun. Because of its lightness and pliability, it conveys also the idea of extreme vitality.
Peach-blossom. Beautiful women and ill-success in life. The first suggestion, on account of the exquisite colour of the flower; the second, because of its perishability.
Peach-tree Longevity. This fruit is supposed to ripen once every three thousand years on the trees of Paradise, and those who eat of this celestial species never die.
Mulberry. Utility. Also suggests a peaceful hamlet. Its wood is used in making of bows and the kind of temple-drums called mo yü – wooden fish. Its leaves feed the silk-worms.
Plantain. Sadness and grief. It is symbolical of a heart which is not "flat" or "level," as the Chinese say, not open or care-free, but of one which is "tightly rolled." The sound of rain on its leaves is very mournful, therefore an allusion to the plantain always means sorrow. Planted outside windows already glazed with silk, its heavy green leaves soften the glaring light of Summer, and it is often used for this purpose.
Nothing has been more of a stumbling-block to translators than the fact that the Chinese year – which is strictly lunar, with and intercalary month added at certain intervals – begins a month later than ours; or, to be more exact, it is calculated from the first new moon after the sun enters Aquarius, which brings the New Year at varying times from the end of January to the middle of February. For translation purposes, however, it is safe to count the Chinese months as always one later by our calendar than the number given would seem to imply. By this calculation the "First Month" is February, and so on throughout the year.
The day is divided into twelve periods of two hours each beginning at eleven P.M. and each of these periods is called by the name of an animal – horse, deer, snake, bat, etc. As these names are not duplicated, the use of them tells at [Page lxi] once whether the hour is day or night. Ancient China's method of telling time was by means of slow and evenly burning sticks made of a composition of clay and sawdust, or by the clepsydra, or water-clock. Water-clocks are mentioned several times in these poems.
So much for what I have called the backgrounds of Chinese poetry. I must now speak of that poetry itself, and of Miss Lowell's and my method of translating it.
Chinese prosody is a very difficult thing for an Occidental to understand. Chinese is a monosyllabic language, and this reduces the word-sounds so considerably that speech would be almost impossible were it not for the invention of tones by which the same sound can be made to do the duty of four in the Mandarin dialect, five in the Nankingese, nine in the Cantonese, etc., a different tone inflection totally changing the meaning of a word. Only two chief tones are used in poetry, the "level" and the "oblique," but the oblique tone is subdivided into three, which makes four different inflections possible to every sound. Of course, like English and other languages, the same word may have several meanings, and in Chinese these meanings are bewilderingly many; the only possible way of determining which one is correct is by its context. These tones constitute, at the outset, the principal difference which divides the technique of Chinese poetry from our own. Another is to be found in the fact that nothing approaching our metri- [Page lxii] cal foot is possible in a tongue which knows only single syllables. Rhyme does exist, but there are only a little over a hundred rhymes, as tone inflection does not change a word in that particular. Such a paucity of rhyme would seriously affect the richness of any poetry, if again the Chinese had not overcome this lingual defect by the employment of a juxtaposing pattern made up of their four poetic tones. And these tones come to the rescue once more when we consider the question of rhythm. Monosyllables in themselves always produce a staccato effect, which tends to make all rhythm composed of them monotonous, if, indeed, it does not destroy it altogether. The tones cause what I may call a psychological change in the time-length of these monosyllables, which change not only makes true rhythm possible, but allows marked varieties of the basic beat.
One of the chief differences between poetry and prose is that poetry must have a more evident pattern. The pattern of Chinese poetry is formed out of three elements: line, rhyme, and tone.
The Chinese attitude toward line is almost identical with that of the French. French prosody counts every syllable as a foot, and a line is made up of so many counted feet. If any of my readers has ever read French alexandrines aloud to a Frenchman, read them as we should read English poetry, seeking to bring out the musical stress, he will remember the look of sad surprise which crept over his [Page lxiii] hearer's face. Not so was this verse constructed; not so is it to be read. The number of syllables to a line is counted, that is the secret of French classic poetry; the number of syllables is counted in Chinese. But – and we come to a divergence – this method of counting does, in French practice, often do away with the rhythm so delightful to an English ear; in Chinese, no such violence occurs, as each syllable is a word and no collection of such words can fall into a metric pulse as French words can, and, in their Chansons, are permitted to do.
The Chinese line pattern is, then, one of counted words, and these counted words are never less than three, nor more than seven, in regular verse; irregular is a different matter, as I shall explain shortly. Five and seven word lines are cut by a cæsura, which comes after the second word in a five-word line, and after the fourth in a seven-word line.
Rhyme is used exactly as we use it, at the ends of lines. Internal rhyming is common, however, in a type of poem called a "fu," which I shall deal with when I come to the particular kinds of verse.
Tone is everywhere, obviously, and is employed, not arbitrarily, but woven into a pattern of its own which again is in a more or less loose relation to rhyme. By itself, the tone-pattern alternates in a peculiar manner in each line, the last line of a stanza conforming to the order of tones in the first, the intervening lines varying methodically. I have before me a poem in which the tone-pattern is alike in lines one, four, and eight, of an eight-line stanza, as are lines two and six, and lines three and seven, while line five is the exact opposite of lines two and six. In the second stanza of the same poem, the pattern is kept, but adversely; the tones do not follow the same order, but conform in similarity of grouping. I use this example merely to show what is meant by tone-pattern. It will serve to illustrate how much diversity and richness this tone-chiming is capable of bringing to Chinese poetry.
Words which rhyme must be in the same tone in regular verse, and unrhymed lines must end on an oblique tone if the rhyme-tone is level, and vice versa. The level tone is preferred for rhyme.
In the early Chinese poetry, called Ku-shih (Old Poems), the tones were practically disregarded. But in the Lü-shih (Regulated Poems) the rules regarding them are very strict. The lü-shih are supposed to date from the beginning of the T'ang Dynasty. A lü-shih poem proper should be of eight lines, though this is often extended to sixteen, but it must be in either the five-word line, or the seven-word line, metre. The poets of the T'ang Dynasty, however, were by no means the slaves of lü-shih; they went their own way, as good poets always do, conforming when it pleased them and disregarding when they chose. It depended on the character of the poet. Tu Fu was renowned for his careful versification; Li T'ai-po, on the other hand, not infrequently rebelled and made his own rules. In his "Drinking Song," which is in seven-word lines, he suddenly dashes in two three-word lines, a proceeding which must have been greatly upsetting to the purists. It is amusing to note that his "Taking Leave of Tu Fu" is in the strictest possible form, which is at once a tribute and a poking of fun at his great friend and contemporary.
Regular poems of more than sixteen lines are called p'ai lu, and these may run to any length; Tu Fu carried them to forty, eighty, and even to two hundred lines. Another form, always translated as "short-stop," cuts the eight-line poem in two. In theory, the short-stop holds the same relation to the eight-line poem that the Japanese hokku does to the tanka, although of course it preceded the hokku by many centuries. It is supposed to suggest rather than to state, being considered as an eight-line poem with its end in the air. In suggestion, however, the later Japanese form far outdoes it.
So called "irregular verse" follows the writer's inclination within the natural limits of all Chinese prosody.
A tzu may be taken to mean a lyric, if we use that term, not in its dictionary sense, but as all modern poets employ it. It may vary its line length, but must keep the same variation in all the stanzas.
Perhaps the most interesting form to modern students is the fu, in which the construction is almost identical with that of "polyphonic prose." The lines are so irregular in length that the poem might be mistaken for prose, had we not a corresponding form to guide us. The rhymes appear when and where they will, in the middle of the lines or at the end, and sometimes there are two or more together. I have been told that Persia has, or had, an analogous form, and if so modern an invention as "polyphonic prose" derives, however unconsciously, from two such ancient countries as China and Persia, the fact is, at least, interesting.
The earliest examples of Chinese poetry which have come down to us are a collection of rhymed ballads in various metres, of which the most usual is four words to a line. They are simple, straightforward pieces, often of a strange poignance, and always reflecting the quiet, peaceful habits of a people engaged in agriculture. The oldest were probably composed about 2000 B.C. and the others at varying times from then until the Sixth Century B.C., when Confucius gathered them into the volume known as the "Book of Odes." Two of these odes are translated in this book. The next epoch in the advance of poetry-making was introduced by Ch'ü Yüan (312-295 B.C.), a famous statesman and poet, who wrote an excitable, irregular style in which the primitive technical rules were disregarded, their place being taken by exigencies of emotion and idea. We are wont to regard a poetical technique determined by feeling alone as a very modern innovation, and it is interesting to note that the method is, on the contrary, as old as the hills. These rhapsodical allegories culminated in a poem entitled "Li Sao," or "Falling into Trouble," which is one of the most famous of ancient Chinese poems. A further development took place under the Western Han (206 B.C.-A.D. 25), when Su Wu invented the five-character poem, ku fêng; these poems were in Old Style, but had five words to a line. It is during this same period that poems with seven words to a line appeared. Legend has it that they were first composed by the Emperor Wu of Han, and that he hit upon the form on an occasion when he and his Ministers were drinking wine and capping verses at a feast on the White Beam Terrace. Finally, under the Empress Wu Hou, early in the T'ang Dynasty, the lü-shih, or "poems according to law," became the standard. It will be seen that the lü-shih found the five and seven word lines already in being and had merely to standardize them. The important gift which the lü-shih brought to Chinese prosody was its insistence on tone.
The great period of Chinese poetry was during the T'ang Dynasty. Then lived the three famous poets, Li T'ai-po, Tu Fu, and Po Chü-i. Space forbids me to give the biographies of all the poets whose work is included in this volume, but as Li T'ai-po and Tu Fu, between them, take up more than half the book, a short account of the princi- [Page lxviii] pal events of their lives seems necessary. I shall take them in the order of the number of their poems printed in this collection, which also, as a matter of fact, happens to be chronological.
I have already stated in the first part of this Introduction the reasons which determined me to give so large a space to Li T'ai-po. English writers on Chinese literature are fond of announcing that Li T'ai-po is China's greatest poet; the Chinese themselves, however, award this place to Tu Fu. We may put it that Li T'ai-po was the people's poet, and Tu Fu the poet of scholars. As Po Chü-i is represented here by only one poem, no account of his life has been given. A short biography of him may be found in Mr. Waley's "A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems."
It is permitted to very few to live in the hearts of their countrymen as Li T'ai-po has lived in the hearts of the Chinese. To-day, twelve hundred and twenty years after his birth, his memory and his fame are fresh, his poems are universally recited, his personality is familiar on the stage: in fact, to use the words of a Chinese scholar, "It may be said that there is no one in the People's Country who does not know the name of Li T'ai-po." Many legends are told of his birth, his life, his death, and he is now numbered among the Hsien (Immortals) who inhabit the Western Paradise.
Li T'ai-po was born A.D. 701, of well-to-do parents named Li, who lived in the Village of the Green Lotus in Szechwan. [Page lxix] He is reported to have been far more brilliant than ordinary children. When he was only five years old, he read books that other boys read at ten; at ten, he could recite the "Classics" aloud and had read the "Book of the Hundred Sages." Doubtless this precocity was due to the fact that his birth was presided over by the "Metal Star," which we know as Venus. His mother dreamt that she had conceived him under the influence of this luminary, and called him T'ai-po, "Great Whiteness," a popular name for the planet.
In spite of his learning, he was no Shu Tai Tzu (Book Idiot) as the Chinese say, but, on the contrary, grew up a strong young fellow, impetuous to a fault, with a lively, enthusiastic nature. He was extremely fond of sword-play, and constantly made use of his skill in it to right the wrongs of his friends. However worthy his causes may have been, this propensity got him into a serious scrape. In the excitement of one of these encounters, he killed several people, and was forthwith obliged to fly from his native village. The situation was an awkward one, but the young man disguised himself as a servant and entered the employ of a minor official. This gentleman was possessed of literary ambitions and a somewhat halting talent; still we can hardly wonder that he was not pleased when his servant ended a poem in which he was hopelessly floundering with lines far better than he could make. After this, and one or two similar experiences, Li T'ai-po found it advisable to relinquish his job and depart from his master's house.
His next step was to join a scholar who disguised his real name under the pseudonym of "Stern Son of the East." The couple travelled together to the beautiful Min Mountains, where they lived in retirement for five years as teacher and pupil. This period, passed in reading, writing, discussing literature, and soaking in the really marvellous scenery, greatly influenced the poet's future life, and imbued him with that passionate love for nature so apparent in his work.
At the age of twenty-five, he separated from his teacher and left the mountains, going home to his native village for a time. But the love of travel was inherent in him, nowhere could hold him for long, and he soon started off on a sight-seeing trip to all those places in the Empire famous for their beauty. This time he travelled as the position of his parents warranted, and even a little beyond it. He had a retinue of servants, and spent money lavishly. This open-handedness is one of the fine traits of his character. Needy scholars and men of talent never appealed to him in vain; during a year at Yangchow, he is reported to have spent three hundred thousand ounces of silver in charity.
From Yangchow he journeyed to the province of Hupeh ("North of the Lake") where, in the district of the "Dreary Clouds," he stayed at the house of a family named [Page lxxi] Hsü, which visit resulted in his marriage with one of the daughters. Li T'ai-po lived in Hupeh for some years – he himself says three – then his hunger for travel reasserted itself and he was off again. After some years of wandering, while visiting a magistrate in Shantung, an incident occurred which had far-reaching consequences. A prisoner was about to be flogged. Li T'ai-po, who was passing, glanced at the man, and, happening to be possessed of a shrewd insight into character, realized at once that here was an unusual person. He secured the man's release, and twenty-five years later this action bore fruit as the sequel will show. The freed prisoner was Kuo Tzu-i, who became one of China's most powerful generals and the saviour of the T'ang Dynasty.
It will be noticed that nothing has been said of the poet taking any examinations, and for the excellent reason that he never thought it worth while to present himself as a candidate. The simple fact appears to be that geniuses often do not seem to find necessary what other men consider of supreme importance. Presumably, also, he had no particular desire for an official life. The gifts of Heaven go by favour and the gifts of man are strangely apt to do the same thing, in spite of the excellent rules devised to order them. Li T'ai-po's career owed nothing to either the lack of official degrees or official interest. What he achieved, he owed to himself; what he failed in came from the same source.
About this time, the poet and a few congenial friends formed the coterie of "The Six Idlers of the Bamboo Brook." They retired to the Ch'u Lai Mountain and spent their time in drinking, reciting poems, writing beautiful characters, and playing on the table-lute. It must be admitted that Li T'ai-po was an inveterate and inordinate drinker, and far more often than was wise in the state called by his countrymen "great drunk." To this propensity he was indebted for all his ill fortune, as it was to his poetic genius that he owed all his good.
So the years passed until, when he was forty-two, he met the Taoist priest, Wu Yün. They immediately became intimate, and on Wu Yün's being called to the capital, Li T'ai-po accompanied him. Wu Yün took occasion to tell the Emperor of his friend's extraordinary talent. The Emperor was interested, the poet was sent for, and, introduced by Ho Chih-chang, was received by the Son of Heaven in the Golden Bells Hall.
The native accounts of this meeting state that "in his discourses upon the affairs of the Empire, the words rushed from his mouth like a mountain torrent." Ming Huang, who was enchanted, ordered food to be brought and helped the poet himself.
So Li T'ai-po became attached to the Court and was made an honorary member of the "Forest of Pencils." He was practically the Emperor's secretary and wrote the Emperor's edicts, but this was by the way – his real duty was simply to write what he chose and when, and recite these poems at any moment that it pleased the Emperor to call upon him to do so.
Li T'ai-po, with his love of wine and good-fellowship, was well suited for the life of the gay and dissipated Court of Ming Huang, then completely under the influence of the beautiful concubine, Yang Kuei-fei. Conspicuous among the Emperor's entourage was Ho Chih-chang, a famous statesman, poet, and calligraphist, who, on reading Li T'ai-po's poetry, is said to have sighed deeply and exclaimed: "This is not the work of a human being, but of a Tsê Hsien (Banished Immortal)." To understand fully the significance of this epithet, it must be realized that mortals who have already attained Immortality, but who have committed some fault, may be banished from Paradise to expiate their sin on earth.
For about two years, Li T'ai-po led the life of supreme favourite in the most brilliant Court in the world. The fact that when sent for to compose or recite verses he was not unapt to be drunk was of no particular importance since, after being summarily revived with a dash of cold water, he could always write or chant with his accustomed verve and dexterity. His influence over the Emperor became so great that it roused the jealousy, and eventually the hatred, of Kao Li-shih, the Chief Eunuch, who, until then, had virtually ruled his Imperial master. On one occasion, when Li T'ai-po was more than usually incapacitated, the Emperor ordered Kao to take off the poet's shoes. This was too much, and from that moment the eunuch's malignity became an active intriguing to bring about his rival's downfall. He found the opportunity he needed in the vanity of Yang Kuei-fei. Persuading this lady that Li T'ai-po's "Songs to the Peonies" contained a veiled insult directed at her, he enlisted her anger against the poet and so gained an important ally to his cause. On three separate occasions when Ming Huang wished to confer official rank upon the poet, Yang Kuei-fei interfered and persuaded the Emperor to forego his intention. Li T'ai-po was of too independent a character, and too little of a courtier, to lift a finger to placate his enemies. But the situation became so acute that at last he begged leave to retire from the Court altogether. His request granted, he immediately formed a new group of seven congenial souls and with them departed once more to the mountains. This new association called itself "The Eight Immortals of the Wine-cup."
Although Li T'ai-po had asked for his own dismissal, he had really been forced to ask it, and his banishment from the "Imperial Sun," with all that "Sun" implied, was a blow from which he never recovered. His later poems are full of more or less veiled allusions to his unhappy state.
The next ten years were spent in his favourite occupation of travelling, especially in the provinces of Szechwan, Hunan, and Hupeh.
Meanwhile, political conditions were growing steadily worse. Popular discontent at the excesses of Yang Kuei-fei and her satellite An Lu-shan were increasing, and finally, in A.D. 755, rebellion broke out. I have dealt with this rebellion earlier in this Introduction, and a more detailed account is given in the Notes; I shall, therefore, do no more than mention it here. Sometime during the preceding unrest, Li T'ai-po, weary of moving from place to place, had taken the position of adviser to Li Ling, Prince of Yung. In the wide-spread disorder caused by the rebellion, Li Ling conceived the bold idea of establishing himself South of the Yangtze as Emperor on his own account. Pursuing his purpose, he started at the head of his troops for Nanking. Li T'ai-po strongly disapproved of the Prince's course, a disapproval which affected that headstrong person not at all, and the poet was forced to accompany his master on the march to Nanking.
At Nanking, the Prince's army was defeated by the Imperial troops, and immediately after the disaster Li T'ai-po fled, but was caught, imprisoned, and condemned to death. Now came the sequel to the incident which had taken place long before at Shantung. The Commander of the Imperial forces was no other than Kuo Tzu-i, the former prisoner whose life Li T'ai-po had saved. On learning the sentence passed upon the poet, Kuo Tzu-i intervened and threatened to resign his command unless his benefactor were spared. Accordingly Li T'ai-po's sentence was changed to exile and he was released, charged to depart immediately for some great distance where he could do no harm. He set out for Yeh Lang, a desolate spot beyond the "Five Streams," in Kueichow. This was the country of the yao kuai, the man-eating demons; and whether he believed in them or not, the thought of existence in such a gloomy solitude must have filled him with desperation.
He had not gone far, luckily, when a general amnesty was declared, and he was permitted to return and live with his friend and disciple, Lu Yang-ping, in the Lu Mountains near Kiukiang, a place which he dearly loved. Here, in A.D. 762, at the age of sixty-one, he died, bequeathing all his manuscripts to Lu Yang-ping.
The tale of his drowning, repeated by Giles and others, is pure legend, as an authoritative statement of Lu Yang-ping proves. The manuscripts left to his care, and all others he could collect from friends, Lu Yang-ping published in an edition of ten volumes. This edition appeared in the year of the poet's death, and contained the following preface by Lu Yang-ping:
Since the three dynasties of antiquity,
Since the style of the 'Kuo Fêng' and the 'Li Sao,'
During these thousand years and more, of those who walked the "lonely path,"
There has been only you, you are the Solitary Man, you are without rival.
Li T'ai-po's poetry is full of dash and surprise. At his best, there is an extraordinary exhilaration in his work; at his worst, he is merely repetitive. Chinese critics have complained that his subjects are all too apt to be trivial, and that his range is narrow. This is quite true; poems of farewell, deserted ladies sighing for their absent lords, officials consumed by homesickness, pæans of praise for wine – in the aggregate there are too many of these. But how fine they often are! "The Lonely Wife," "Poignant Grief During a Sunny Spring," "After being Separated for a Long Time," such poems are the truth of emotion. Take again his inimitable humour in the two "Drinking Alone in the Moonlight" poems, or "Statement of Resolutions after being Drunk on a Spring Day." Then there are the poems of hyperbolical description such as "The Perils of the Shu Road," "The Northern Flight," and "The Terraced Road of the Two-Edged Sword Mountains." Mountains seem to be in his very blood. Of the sea, on the other hand, he has no such intimate knowledge; he sees it afar, from some height, but always as a thing apart, a distant view. The sea he gazes at; the mountains he treads under foot, their creepers scratch his face, the jutting rocks beside the path bruise his hands. He knows the straight-up, cutting-into-the-sky look of mountain peaks just above him, and feels, almost bodily, the sheer drop into the angry river tearing its way through a narrow gully below, a river he can see only by leaning dangerously far over the cliff upon which he is standing. There is a curious sense of perpendicularity about these mountain rhapsodies. The vision is strained up for miles, and shot suddenly down for hundreds of feet. The tactile effect of them is astounding; they are not to be read, but experienced. And yet I am loth to say that Li T'ai-po is at his greatest in description, with poems so full of human passion and longing as "The Lonely Wife" and "Poignant Grief During a Sunny Spring," before me. There is no doubt at all that in Li T'ai-po we have one of the world's greatest lyrists.
Great though he was, it cannot be denied that he had serious weaknesses. One was his tendency to write when the mood was not there, and at these moments he was not ashamed to repeat a fancy conceived before on some other occasion. Much of his style he crystallized into a convention, and brought it out unblushingly whenever he was at a loss for something to say. Sustained effort evidently wearied him. He will begin a poem with the utmost spirit, but his energy is apt to flag and lead to a close so weak as to annoy the reader. His short poems are always admirably built, the endings complete and unexpected; the architectonics of his long poems leave much to be desired. He seems to be ridden by his own emotion, but without the power to draw it up and up to a climax; it bursts upon us in the first line, sustains itself at the same level for a series of lines, and then seems to faint exhausted, reducing the poet to the necessity of stopping as quickly as he can and with as little jar as possible. Illustrations of this tendency to a weak ending can be seen in "The Lonely Wife," "The Perils of the Shu Road," and "The Terraced Road of the Two-Edged Sword Mountains," but that he could keep his inspiration to the end on occasion, "The Northern Flight" proves.
Finally, there are his poems of battle: "Songs of the Marches," "Battle to the South of the City," and "Fighting to the South of the City." Nothing can be said of these except that they are superb. If there is a hint of let-down in the concluding lines of "Fighting to the South of the City," it is due to the frantic Chinese desire to quote from older authors, and this is an excellent example of the chief vice of Chinese poetry, since these two lines are taken from the "Tao Tê Ching," the sacred book of Taoism; the others, even the long "Songs of the Marches," are admirably sustained.
In Mr. Waley's excellent monograph on Li T'ai-po, appears the following paragraph: "Wang An-shih (A.D. 1021-1086), the great reformer of the Eleventh Century, observes: 'Li Po's style is swift, yet never careless; lively, yet never informal. But his intellectual outlook was low and sordid. In nine poems out of ten he deals with nothing but wine and women.'" A somewhat splenetic criticism truly, but great reformers have seldom either the acumen or the sympathy necessary for the judgment of poetry. Women and wine there are in abundance, but how treated? In no mean or sordid manner certainly. Li T'ai-po was not a didactic poet, and we of the Twentieth Century may well thank fortune for that. Peradventure the Twenty-first will dote again upon the didactic, but we must follow our particular inclination which is, it must be admitted, quite counter to anything of the sort. No low or mean attitude indeed, but a rather restricted one we may, if we please, charge against Li T'ai-po. He was a sensuous realist, representing the world as he saw it, with beauty as his guiding star. Conditions to him were static; he wasted none of his force in speculating on what they should be. A scene or an emotion was, and it was his business to reproduce it, not to analyze how it had come about or what would best make its recurrence impossible. Here he is at sharp variance with Tu Fu, who probes to the roots of events even when he appears to be merely describing them. One has but to compare the "Songs of the Marches" and "Battle to the South of the City" with "The Recruiting Officers" and "Crossing the Frontier" to see the difference.
Tu Fu was born in Tu Ling, in the province of Shensi, in A.D. 713. His family was extremely poor, but his talent was so marked that at seven years old he had begun to write poetry; at nine, he could write large characters; and at fifteen, his essays and poems were the admiration of his small circle. When he was twenty-four, he went up to Ch'ang An, the capital, for his first examination – it will be remembered that, in the T'ang period, all the examinations took place at Ch'ang An. Tu Fu was perfectly qualified to pass, as every one was very well aware, but the opinions he expressed in his examination papers were so radical that the degree was withheld. There was nothing to be done, and Tu Fu took to wandering about the country, observing and writing, but with little hope of anything save poverty to come. On one of his journeys, he met Li T'ai-po on the "Lute Terrace" in Ching Hsien. The two poets, who sincerely admired each other, became the closest friends. Several poems in this collection are addressed by one to the other.
When Tu Fu was thirty-six, it happened that the Emperor sent out invitations to all the scholars in the Empire to come to the capital and compete in an examination. Tu Fu was, of course, known to the Emperor as a man who would have been promoted but for the opinions aired in his papers. Of his learning, there could be no shadow of doubt. So Tu Fu went to Ch'ang An and waited there as an "expectant official." He waited for four years, when it occurred to him to offer three fu to the Emperor. The event justified his temerity, and the poet was given a post as one of the officials in the Chih Hsien library. This post he held for four years, when he was appointed to a slightly better one at Fêng-hsien. But, a year later, the An Lu-shan rebellion broke out, which put a summary end to Tu Fu's position, whereupon he left Fêng-hsien and went to live with a relative at the Village of White Waters. He was still living there when the Emperor Ming Huang abdicated in favour of his son, Su Tsung. If the old Emperor had given him an office, perhaps the new one would; at any rate it was worth an attempt, for Tu Fu was in dire poverty. Having no money to hire any kind of conveyance, he started to walk to his destination, but fell in with brigands who captured him. He stayed with these brigands for over a year, but finally escaped, and at length reached Fêng Chiang, where the Emperor was in residence.
His appearance on his arrival was miserable in the extreme. Haggard and thin, his shoulders sticking out of his coat, his rags literally tied together, he was indeed a spectacle to inspire pity, and the Emperor at once appointed him to the post of Censor. But this did not last long. He had the imprudence to remonstrate with the Emperor anent the sentence of banishment passed upon the general Tan Kuan. Considering that this clever and extremely learned soldier had so far relaxed the discipline of his army during one of the Northern campaigns that, one night, when his troops were all peacefully sleeping in their chariots, the camp was surrounded and burnt and his forces utterly routed, the punishment seems deserved. But Tu Fu thought otherwise, and so unwisely urged his opinion that the Emperor lost patience and ordered an investigation of Tu Fu's conduct. His friends, however, rallied to his defence and the investigation was quashed, but he was deprived of the censorship and sent to a minor position in Shensi. This he chose to regard as a punishment, as indeed it was. He proceeded to Shensi, but, on arriving there, dramatically refused to assume his office; having performed which act of bravado, he joined his family in Kansu. He found them in the greatest distress from famine, and although he did his best to keep them alive by going to the hills and gathering fire-wood to sell, and by digging up roots and various growing things for them to eat, several of his children died of starvation.
Another six months of minor officialdom in Hua Chou, and he retired to Ch'êngtu in Szechwan, where he lived in a grass-roofed house, engaged in study and the endeavour to make the two ends of nothing meet. At length, a friend of his arrived in Szechwan as Governor-General, and this friend appointed him a State Counsellor. But the grass-house was more to his taste than state councils, and after a year and a half he returned to it, and the multifarious wanderings which always punctuated his life.
Five years later, when he was fifty-five, he set off on one of his journeys, but was caught by floods and obliged to take refuge in a ruined temple at Hu Kuang, where he nearly starved before help could reach him. After ten days, he was rescued through the efforts of the local magistrate, but eating again after so long a fast was fatal and he died within an hour.
Innumerable essays have been written comparing the styles of Li T'ai-po and Tu Fu. Yüan Chên, a poet of the T'ang period, says that Tu Fu's poems have perfect balance; that, if he wrote a thousand lines, the last would have as much vigour as the first and that no one can equal him in this, his poems make a "perfect circle." He goes on: "In my opinion, the great living wave of poetry and song in which Li T'ai-po excelled is surpassed in Tu Fu's work, he is shoulder higher than Li Po." Again: "The poems of Li T'ai-po are like Spring flowers, those of Tu Fu are like the pine-trees, they are eternal and fear neither snow nor cold."
Shên Ming-chên says: "Li Po is like the Spring grass, like Autumn waves, not a person but must love him. Tu Fu is like a great hill, a high peak, a long river, the broad sea, like fine grass and bright-coloured flowers, like a pine or an ancient fir, like moving wind and gentle waves, like [Page lxxxv] heavy hoar-frost, like burning heat – not a quality is missing."
Hu Yu-ling uses a metaphor referring to casting dice and says that Li T'ai-po would owe Tu Fu "an ivory"; and Han Yü, speaking of both Li T'ai-po and Tu Fu, declares that "the flaming light of their essays would rise ten thousand feet."
Poetic as these criticisms are, it is their penetration which is so astonishing; but I think the most striking comparison made of Tu Fu's work is that by Tao Kai-yu: "Tu Fu's poems are like pictures, like the branches of trees reflected in water – the branches of still trees. Like a large group of houses seen through clouds or mist, they appear and disappear."
Sometime ago, in a review of a volume of translations of Chinese poetry in the London "Times," I came across this remarkable statement: "The Chinese poet starts talking in the most ordinary language and voices the most ordinary things, and his poetry seems to happen suddenly out of the commonplace as if it were some beautiful action happening in the routine of actual life."
The critic could have had no knowledge of the Chinese language, as nothing can be farther from the truth than his observation. It is largely a fact that the Oriental poet finds his themes in the ordinary affairs of everyday life, but he describes them in a very special, carefully chosen, medium. The simplest child's primer is written in a language never used in speaking, while the most highly educated scholar would never dream of employing the same phrases in conversation which he would make use of were he writing an essay, a poem, or a state document. Each language – the spoken, the poetic, the literary, the documentary – has its own construction, its own class of characters, and its own symbolism. A translator must therefore make a special study of whichever he wishes to render.
Although several great sinologues have written on the subject of Chinese poetry, none, so far as I am aware, has devoted his exclusive attention to the poetic style, nor has any translator availed himself of the assistance, so essential to success, of a poet – that is, one trained in the art of seizing the poetic values in fine shades of meaning. Without this power, which amounts to an instinct, no one can hope to reproduce any poetry in another tongue, and how much truer this is of Chinese poetry can only be realized by those who have some knowledge of the language. Such poets, on the other hand, as have been moved to make beautiful renditions of Chinese originals have been hampered by inadequate translations. It is impossible to expect that even a scholar thoroughly versed in the philological aspects of Chinese literature can, at the same time, be endowed with enough of the poetic flair to convey, uninjured, the thoughts [Page lxxxvii] of one poet to another. A second personality obtrudes between poet and poet, and the contact, which must be established between the two minds if any adequate translation is to result, is broken. How Miss Lowell and I have endeavoured to obviate this rupture of the poetic current, I shall explain presently. But, to understand it, another factor in the case must first be understood.
It cannot be too firmly insisted upon that the Chinese character itself plays a considerable part in Chinese poetic composition. Calligraphy and poetry are mixed up together in the Chinese mind. How close this intermingling may be, will appear when we come to speak of the "Written Pictures," but even without following the interdependence of these arts to the point where they merge into one, it must not be forgotten that Chinese is an ideographic, or picture, language. These marvellous collections of brush-strokes which we call Chinese characters are really separate pictographic representations of complete thoughts. Complex characters are not spontaneously composed, but are built up of simple characters, each having its own peculiar meaning and usage; these, when used in combination, each play their part in modifying either the sense or the sound of the complex. Now it must not be thought that these separate entities make an over-loud noise in the harmony of the whole character. They are each subdued to the total result, the final meaning, but they do produce a qualifying effect upon the word itself. Since Chinese characters are complete ideas, it is convenient to be able to express the various degrees of these ideas by special characters which shall have those exact meanings; it is, therefore, clear that to grasp a poet's full intention in a poem there must be a knowledge of the analysis of characters.
This might seem bizarre, were it not for a striking proof to the contrary. It is a fact that many of the Chinese characters have become greatly altered during the centuries since they were invented. So long ago as A.D. 200, a scholar named Hsü Shih, realizing that this alteration was taking place, wrote the dictionary known as "Shuo Wen Chieh Tzu," or "Speech and Writing: Characters Untied," containing about ten thousand characters in their primitive and final forms. This work is on the desk of every scholar in the Far East and is studied with the greatest reverence. Many editions have appeared since it was written, and by its aid one can trace the genealogy of characters in the most complete manner. Other volumes of the same kind have followed in its wake, showing the importance of the subject in Chinese estimation. While translators are apt to ignore this matter of character genealogy, it is ever present to the mind of the Chinese poet or scholar who is familiar with the original forms; indeed, he may be said to find his overtones in the actual composition of the character he is using.
All words have their connotations, but this is connotation and more; it is a pictorial representation of something implied, and, lacking which, an effect would be lost. It may be objected that poems were heard as well as read, and that, when heard, the composition of the character must be lost. But I think this is to misunderstand the situation. Recollect, for a moment, the literary examinations, and consider that educated men had these characters literally ground into them. Merely to pronounce a word must be, in such a case, to see it and realize, half-unconsciously perhaps, its various parts. Even if half-unconscious, the nuances of meaning conveyed by them must have hung about the spoken word and given it a distinct flavour which, without them, would be absent.
Now what is a translator to do? Shall he render the word in the flat, dictionary sense, or shall he permit himself to add to it what it conveys to an educated Chinese? Clearly neither the one nor the other in all cases; but one or the other, which the context must determine. In description, for instance, where it is evident that the Chinese poet used every means at his command to achieve a vivid representation, I believe the original poem is more nearly reproduced by availing one's self of a minimum of these "split-ups"; where, on the other hand, the original carefully confines itself to simple and direct expression, the word as it is, without overtones, must certainly be preferred. The "split-ups" in these translations are few, but could our readers compare the original Chinese with Miss Lowell's rendition of it, in these instances, I think they would feel with me that in no other way could the translation have been made really "literal," could the poem be "brought over" in its entirety. If a translation of a poem is not poetry in the new tongue, the original has been shorn of its chief reason for being. Something is always lost in a translation, but that something had better be the trappings than the essence.
I must, however, make it quite clear how seldom these "split-ups" occur in the principal parts of the book; in the "Written Pictures," where the poems were not, most of them, classics, we felt justified in making a fuller use of these analytical suggestions; but I believe I am correct in saying that no translations from the Chinese that I have read are so near to the originals as these. Bear in mind, then, that there are not, I suppose, more than a baker's dozen of these "split-ups" throughout the book, and the way they were managed can be seen by this literal translation of a line the "The Terraced Road of the Two-Edged Sword Mountains." The Chinese words are on the left, the English words on the right, the analyses of the characters enclosed in brackets:
Shang Above
Tsê Then
Sung Pines
Fêng Wind
Hsiao Whistling wind (Grass – meaning the sound of wind through grass, to whistle; and in awe of, or to venerate.)
Sê Gusts of wind (Wind; and to stand.)
Sê A psaltery (Two strings of jade-stones which are sonorous.)
Yü Wind in a gale. (Wind; and to speak.)
Miss Lowell's rendering of the line was:
"On their heights, the wind whistles awesomely in the pines; it booms in great, long gusts; it clashes like the strings of a jade-stone psaltery; it shouts on the clearness of a gale."
Can any one doubt that this was just the effect that the Chinese poet wished to achieve, and did achieve by means of the overtones given in his characters?
Another, simpler, example is in a case where the Chinese poet speaks of a rising sun. There are many characters which denote sunrise, and each has some shade of difference from every other. In one, the analysis is the sunrise light seen from a boat through mist; in another, it is the sun just above the horizon; still another is made up of a period of time and a mortar, meaning that it is dawn, when people begin to work. But the poet chose none of these; instead, he chose a character which analyzes into the sun at the height of a helmeted man, and so Miss Lowell speaks of the sun as "head-high," and we have the very picture the poet wanted us to see.
Miss Lowell has told in the Preface the manner in which we worked. The papers sent to Miss Lowell were in exactly the form of the above, and with them I also sent a paraphrase, and notes such as those at the end of this book. Far from making the slightest attempt at literary form in these paraphrases, I deliberately made them as bald as possible, and strove to keep my personality from intruding between Miss Lowell and the Chinese poet with whose mood she must be in perfect sympathy. Her remarkable gift for entering into the feeling of the poet she is translating was first shown in "Six French Poets," but there she approached her authors at first hand. It was my object to enable her to approach these Chinese authors as nearly at first hand as I could. That my method has been justified by the event, the book shows; not merely are these translations extraordinarily exact, they are poetry, and would be so though no Chinese poet had conceived them fourteen hundred years ago. It is as if I had handed her the warp and the woof, the silver threads and the gold, and from these she has woven a brocade as nearly alike in pattern to that designed by the Chinese poet as the differences in the looms permit. I believe that this is the first time that English translations of Chinese poetry have been made by a student of Chinese and a poet working together. Our experience of the partnership has taught us both much; if we are pioneers in such a collaboration, we only hope that others will follow our lead.
The second section of the book, "Written Pictures," consists of illustrations, or half illustrations, of an art which the Chinese consider the most perfect medium in which a man can express himself. These Tzu Hua, "Hanging-on-the-Wall Poems," are less known and understood than any other form of Oriental art. A beautiful thought perpetuated in beautiful handwriting and hung upon the wall to suggest a mental picture – that is what it amounts to.
In China, the arts of poetry and calligraphy are united in the ideographs which form the written language. There are several different styles in which these ideographs, or characters, may be written. The earliest are pictograms known as the "ancient pictorial script," they were superseded in the Eighth Century B.C. by the "great seal" characters and later by the "lesser seal." These, which had been executed with the "knife pen," were practically given up when the invention of the writing-brush, which is usually translated as "pencil," revolutionized calligraphy (circa 215 B.C.). Their place was taken by a type of character known as "li" or "official script," a simplified form of the "seal," and this, being an improvement upon all previous styles, soon became popular. It created almost a new character in which the pictorial element had largely disappeared, and, with certain modifications, holds good to-day. The "model hand," the "running hand," and the famous "grass hand," so popular with poets and painters, are merely adaptations of the li; all three of these, together with the li itself, are used in the composition of written pictures.
The written pictures here translated were formerly in the possession of a Chinese gentleman of keenly æsthetic taste, and are excellent examples of the art. A photograph of one of the originals will be found opposite the translation made from it on page 170. The names which follow the poems are not those of the authors, but of the calligraphists. In the case of two poems, the authors' names are also given. These written pictures had no titles, those given here were added simply for convenience; but the titles to the poems in the body of the book are those of the poets themselves, except in one or two instances where the Chinese title conveyed so little to an Occidental mind that its meaning had to be paraphrased.
The Notes at the end of the book are intended for the general reader. For which reason, I have purposely excluded the type of note which consists in cataloguing literary cross-allusions. To know that certain lines in a poem are quoted from some earlier author, is one of a class of facts which deeply interest scholars, but are of no importance whatever to the rest of the world.
A word as to the title of this book: There lived at Ch'êng-tu, the capital of Szechwan, early in the Ninth Century, a courtesan named Hsieh T'ao, who was famous for her wit and verse-writing. Hsieh-T'ao made a paper of ten colours, which she dipped in a stream, and on it wrote her poems. Now, some years before, a woman had taken the stole of a Buddhist priest to this stream in order to wash it. No sooner had the stole touched the water than the stream became filled with flowers. In an old Chinese book, "The Treasury of Pleasant Records," it is told that, later in life, Hsieh T'ao gave up the "fir-flower tablets" and made paper of a smaller size. Presumably this fir-flower paper was the paper of ten colours. The mountain stream which ran near Hsieh T'ao's house is called the "Hundred Flower Stream."
I cannot close this Introduction without expressing my gratitude to my teacher, Mr. Nung Chu. It is his unflagging interest and never-failing patience that have kept me spurred on to my task. Speaking no word of English, Mr. Nung must often have found my explanations of what would, and what would not, be comprehensible to Occidental readers very difficult to understand, and my only regret is that he cannot read the book now that it is done.

Fir-flower tablets : poems [ID D29140](4)
Sekundärliteratur
Janet Roberts : Fragrance in flowers such as orchids, the plumb blossom, the peach, and the peony play a dramatic role in Chinese literature. It is not only the 'flower' itself, as a natural item, in its botanical specificity ; the poet is concerned with the act of the memory evoked in an image of petals falling, associated with a woman, and the scent which lingers, in her passage. Like fragrance in Chinese verse, many Chinese poets write the words 'to a tune', or mention a musical instrument. Amy Lowell was serious about music, about music transmitted and transformed into poetry, and certainly she was concerned, in Fir Flower Tablets, about rhythms. Given Amy Lowell's love of music, her effort to translate music into her poems, in her words, "reproduce the effect of the music in another medium. I wanted to try something more, something less obvious than mere rhythm, and closer to the essence of musical speech".
When the composer and violinist Charles Loeffler invited Lowell to his home in Medford, his playing of the d"Indy violin sonata in his music room inspired Lowell to conflate Chinese imagery and musical notations.
Refashioning the poems in English, first required knowledge of the laws of Chinese versification, but then Amy Lowell says she had to respect the technical limits but found it impossible to follow either the rhythms or rhyme schemes of the originals as she had no experience of the spoken language. Since she did not hear the idiom of Chinese speakers, and did not step foot on Chinese soil, it is no wonder, that given she worked with the English transliterations, she could hardly exactly replicate the original rhythms.
Lowell, intrigued by the Chinese classical poems, was inspired by what she saw that Pound was able to achieve, without knowing Chinese language.
Lowell acknowledges that the study of Chinese, as well as the study of poetry, require lifelong learning, and clafifies that she has not taken up the Chinese language or the field of sinology, as had Florence Ayscough.

Bynner, Witter. On translating Chinese poetry [ID D32462].
Blithely, three years ago, I undertook with the eminent scholar, poet and publicist, Dr. Kiang Kang-hu, a translation of three hundred poems from the Chinese, thinking that twelve months would see my labors ended. Through twelve of the thirty-six months I have worked from eight to ten hours a day on nothing but these poems and through the other twenty-four have been continually devoted to them, even accompanying Dr. Kiang to China for a year of closer cooperation. And they are still unfinished. I might have read a lesson from the history of as short a piece of translation as Fitzgerald's Omar Khayyam; but I was rash and, better than that, fascinated. Prior to the present undertaking, I had translated with the help of a Chinese student a few poems from the Confucian Book of Poetry. Those few had been enough to stir my wonder at the quiet beauty and deep simplicity that are as much qualities of Chinese poetry as they are of Chinese painting.
Stephen W. Bushell, in his book on Chinese Art, speaks of some early painter as typifying the aim of painting with the phrase, 'to note the flight of the wild swan'. It 'shows already', says Bushell, 'the preoccupation Chinese art with the motion and breathing life of animals and plants, which has given their painters so signal superiority over Europeans in such subjects'. When one remembers that in China the wild swan was traditionally the messenger of the heart, the phrase might used also to typify Chinese poetry: 'the motion a breathing life' of a world in which man is the animal a nature the plant. But the wild swan was not merely a messenger between young and passionate hearts. Chinese poetry begins, in a way, where ours ends. When I felt a certain monotony of subject matter in a section of the volume I was translating, the parting and separation of friends and the solace of the everlasting hills, I turned to the Oxford Book of English Verse and found there an equal if not greater monotony in the succession of poems dealing with the extravagant passions of youth. Wordsworth, in his lyrics, is the most nearly Chinese of our poets. The poetry of the Chinese is, like his, the poetry of the mature, or, better, of grown children. It signs not the rebelliousness of youth, but the wisdom of age; not the excitement of artificial life, except for the elevation brought by wine, but the quiet of nature; not the unsteady joys of passion, but the steadfast joy of friendship. It is attached to actual daily life and not reserved as an ethereal pastime. A Chinese poem sounds often like the heart of a letter—and so it was: a condensed and thoughtful message.
Tu Fu of the T'ang Dynasty is generally accounted by the Chinese as the greatest of their lyric poets, though it was said of him and Li Po, 'How shall we tell, when two eagles have flown beyond sight, which one has come nearer the sun?' From Tu Fu's grandfather, Tu Shên-yen, the editors of the anthology I am translating selected a single poem, in which his quiet voice echoes all the way from the sixth century to undo a persistent delusion, prevalent among certain poets of the western moment, that beauty is to be found only in the unfamiliar. Incidentally, the poem illustrates the difficult game of 'harmonizing a poem', which poets sometimes played with their verse: one poet would respond to a poem from another by adopting the other's rhyme-words in the same or altered arrangement. Tu Shên-yen's poem is called
A walk in early spring
(Harmonizing a poem by my friend Liu stationed at Chin-ning)
Only to wandeerers can come
Ever new the shock of beauty
Of white cloud and red cloud dawning from the sea,
Of spring in the wild plum and river-willow
I watch a yellow oriole dart in the sun
And a green water-plant reflected –
Suddenly an old song fills
My heart with home, my eyes with tears.
'To understand the circumstances of morality', says a writer in The Nation, 'to know what such a being as man can expect, and then to contemplate such knowledge – that is as near as art can get to any steadiness of joy'. And that is where T'ang poetry had arrived a thousand years ago. The T'ang poets do not fool themselves with illusion but, seeing things as they are, find beauty in them – and thereby bring the high, the deep, the everlasting, into simple, easy touch with the immediate. They are masters of momentous minutiae, the small things that make the big. They know and record the immense patience of beauty. There is sadness in that patience, but it is an honest, a hearty, an even relishable sadness. One feels that they had sent their souls out through all the intricacies that are now confusing this western generation, through all the ways of experience and imagination, and had then recalled them to the pure elemental truths, had received them again, peacefully cleansed of illusion and restlessness, and content in the final simple beauty of their own dooryards. To be sure, they knew where to place their dooryards. But so might we all, if we would.
I was fortunate enough to spend three months on a Chinese mountain-top, with a poet and his family, in the kind of retirement the old fellows loved and wrote about, overlooking a landscape the like of which I had never seen from any dwelling on earth. There were Sung mountain-paintings glimmering from our peak all the way to the Himalayas; there were tremendous rainbows, sometimes leaving a bright section in the heart of a towering white cloud after the rest of the bow had faded; there were countless bamboos glistening after brief showers; there were the cicadas, ten thousand Chinese actors on one note at top pitch; there were the waterfalls along our paths; there were slow changes of incredible mist, spellbinding the dawns and the twilights; there was always, below us, the vast plain—rippled with hills, varied with purple shadows of cloud, veined with jade-green rice-fields; and there were remote silver gleams of river and lake and even of sea—the whole level eastward horizon seeming often the actual ocean and our mountain the brow of the earth. It is no wonder that I became imbued with the spirit of the poets who had lived in just such places—with the 'huge and thoughtful' patience of China: the kind of patience that is wisdom; the kind of wisdom that is submersion of one's self and its little ways in the large and peaceful distances of nature. And just as that landscape moved and breathed, so do the Chinese poems from line to line. And just as man becomes natural and simple in a presence like that, so did the Chinese poets. And in all the chaos of contemporary China that spirit is alive. In Peking last winter, fine old Admiral Tsai Ting-kan said to a friend of mine, 'The older I grow, the more contempt I have for the processes of human reason and the more respect for the processes of the human heart'.
Dr. Kiang has said much the same thing to me. And against various odds, he has practised what he preaches. Appalled at times by the stupendous task confronting those who would ameliorate conditions in China, he has begun, as the sincere and simple altruist always begins, with his own conduct and his own circumstances. Some years ago he founded a girls' school and gave his own dwelling in Peking to house it: the first girls' school in the country founded by a Chinese. He inherited a fine library and a distinguished collection of paintings. Some of the latter are in museums in Japan, the Nipponese having been the most intelligent of all the looters after the Boxer uprising. What was left of the library he has given to the University of California. His share of other property inherited from his father he has renounced in favor of his brothers. When Yuan Shih-kai usurped the throne, Kiang risked his life by challenging the act and finally fled to America. Now that he can be of service again in China, he has relinquished academic opportunities in the New World, to return to his own people. In other words, he is a man of the same nature as the noblest of the T'ang poets and, as such, better fitted to interpret them than if his only qualification were the title he won under the Empire, when literary knowledge and even poetic ability were requisite for passing the old Government Examinations.
When Dr. Kiang and I were colleagues on the faculty of the University of California, he led me to an anthology, compiled several hundred years ago, of poems written during China's golden age of poetry, between 600 and 900 A. D.: Three Hundred Pearls of the T'ang Dynasty, an anthology better known among Chinese than The Golden Treasury, or any other collection of English poetry, is known among us. It is in the hands and heart of every Celestial school-boy. One afternoon in Peking, I was to address a large audience and read some of my translations at the Higher Normal School, a Chinese institution for the training of teachers. Dr. Kiang was my interpreter for those of the students not proficient in English; and he was to read the originals of the poems. At the last moment we found we had not brought the Chinese book; and it had to be hastily bought at a shop close by. Laughing at my surprise that so important a volume was not in the school library, President T.Y. Teng explained, 'We do not need it there: every one has it'.
The Chinese call this poetry, written thirteen hundred years ago, 'modern poetry'. In this 'modern poetry', in spite of the constraint of rules and regulations unparalleled in the prosody of the West, I found the same human pith, the same living simplicity and directness, the same fundamental beauty, as in the ancient 'unregulated' verse of the Confucian Book, and the added power of an austere and consummate art.
T'ang poetry, like all Chinese poetry—even of the contemporary poetic rebels, who correspond in spirit to our writers of free verse—used rhyme, or what we should call assonance. Rhyme in itself, however, is not enough. There are 'drum tales', containing thousands of lines all on a single rhyme, which calls each time for an accompanying drum-beat; and these achievements are not considered poetry. Besides rhyme, there are rules of tone and balance which I have space here only to intimate. A Chinese character may be inflected, in the dialect preferred by literati, according to five tones—one level, two rising, one sinking and one arrested. The first three are called 'even tones' and the latter two 'uneven tones'; and there is an intricate pattern by which corresponding characters in adjacent lines have to be of opposite tone-groups, while yet of parallel syntax. A translator might conceivably divide the English vowels into two groups—a, e, i, and y on the one side and o and u on the other and, opposing the vowels of the two groups in conformity with the pattern of opposed tones, arrive at an effect faintly akin to the music of the Chinese convention; but to translate three hundred poems in this manner would be a life-work. As to the parallel use of words of a similar nature, I am convinced that the result would monotonously offend the English ear, though I am not sure that a final translation may not be made a thousand years hence, faithfully following the Chinese order. In some of the four-line poems it is possible in 1921 to use the parallelism throughout and in some of the longer poems to use it now and then. For example here is a poem by Po Chü-yi, a slightly different version of which I have already published in ASIA:
A REMINDER TO MY FRIEND LIU
There's a gleam of green in an old bottle,
There's a stir of red in the quiet, stove,
There's a feeling of snow in the dusk outside –
Is it yes to a cup of wine inside?
I have in China, like two of the poets I quote, a friend named Liu—to whom I successfully sent this reminder. A poem by Liu Tsung-yüan shows the same method:
SNOW ON THE RIVER
A thousand mountains and no bird,
Ten thousand paths, without a footprint,
A little boat, a bamboo cloak,
An old man fishing in the cold river-snow.
Here you have the verbal parallelism, but nothing, of course, of the pattern of tone and rhyme.
I agree with Arthur Waley that a rhymed English version is treacherous ground. Let me give the carefully simple reading which Dr. Kiang has helped me make for the Outlook of Liu Fang-p'ing's
A SIGH OF SPRING
While twilight passes her silken window
Lonely she weeps in a chamber of gold,
For spring is now leaving a desolate garden,
And a drift of petals closes her door.
And then the long-established version by Prof. Herbert A. Giles:
THE SPINSTER
Dim twilight throws a deeper shade across the window-screen;
Alone within a gilded hall her tear-drops flow unseen.
No sound the lonely court-yard stirs; the spring is all but through;
Around the pear-blooms fade and fall—and no one comes to woo.
When a Chinese poet wishes to present you with flat terms, whatever he may imply by them in the judgment of commentators, he speaks as Wang Chien does in
A BRIDE
On the third day, taking my place to cook,
Washing my hands for the bridal soup,
I resolve that not my mother-in-law
But my husband's young sister shall have the first taste.
But the heart of the poem, A Sigh of Spring, beating forever in its last line, seems to have made on the eminent sinologue who was translating it as The Spinster either no impression at all or else too much of an impression.
The use of metaphor by the T'ang poets? In comparison with our use of it, they hardly use it at all. Their language is compact of it. But so, to a lesser degree, is ours. And it is surely as much an error in translating from the Chinese to drag out from an ideograph its radical metaphor as it would be in translating from the English to uproot the origins of our own idioms. It lands you in a limbo-language. If an English poet incidentally used the phrase, 'at daybreak', and a translator made it appear to a Chinese reader that the phrase read, 'when night was broken by the day', the relation of the phrase to whatever else the English poet might be saying would be distorted and the balance of his poem would be broken by what in itself is a valid and arresting image. 
But the image is now a commonplace. Hence it should be translated into an equivalent phrase in the Chinese and not dislocated by an unintended emphasis. Dr. Kiang once said to me of an English translation, 'Three heavy words in a four-line poem? One would tip it over'. Unfortunately the English poet or reader who approaches a literature like the Chinese or the Greek is so accustomed to our lavish use of surface-images that he feels ashamed of the nudity he sees and hastens to clothe it. Gilbert Murray, even, says in one of his introductions that, if he should translate a play from the Greek in terms as simple as the original, the effect in English, a language naturally ornate, would be so plain as to be bald. That approach seems to me mistaken and a little insular, as though English literature had nothing to learn; and it has caused, on the part of many translators and through their work, a misunderstanding of the spirit and beauty of Chinese poetry. We Westerners are forever expressing things in terms of other things, exalting metaphor too often above truth. The triumph of the great Chinese poets is the art by which they express a thing in its own innermost terms. And it is that very art, concealing itself, which may make them seem to the casual observer persons of slight attainment, not 'literary' enough. A friend remarked to me, on hearing some of Wei Ying-wu's verse, 'There's nothing in that. That's what every one feels and any one could say'. I doubt not that Wei Ying-wu, had he overheard, would have been comforted.
Restricting myself, in order to keep within bounds, to the four-line poems in which the words stop but the sense goes on, I choose from Wei Ying-wu
AN AUTUMN-NIGHT MESSAGE TO CH'IU
As I walk in the cool of the autumn night,
Thinking of you, singing my poem,
And hear a mountain pine-cone fall—
You also seem to be awake.
The poet here selects an exact touch in natural happenings that starts alive a sense of the nearness of a friend—a moment mystic, but not too mystic to be real. He makes no surface metaphor of it by saying that the pine-cone fell like a footstep. His metaphor becomes one only through your own application of it. It is at the very heart of his mood and of his meaning, not on the surface. And it is only as you also are touched by the pulse of it, that you feel what the poet feels when an unexpected sound brings him acutely the sense of life, of motion, of change, and so of human relationship. It is only by your becoming the poet, by his humanly taking you into himself, that you feel the communion of the earth and the presence of his friend. So it is with the concluding suggestion of the petals in the poem of spring. The poet tells what is happening, which is enough in itself to make a charming and wistful picture of a lady and her garden. It is left for you to form, if you like, the metaphor of a drift of loves, of memories, of regrets, closing like petals the door of her youth.
Giles constantly elucidates and sacrifices the poetic suggestiveness of the original. L. Cranmer-Byng, in his Lute of Jade and Feast of Lanterns, overdecorates and thereby forfeits clean selectiveness. To be sure, he makes beautiful Tennysonian lines, such as
Till she of the dark moth-eyebrows, lily-pale,
Shines through tall avenues of spears to die.
But Dr. Kiang assures me that those lines are by Cranmer-Byng, and not by Po Chü-yi, who says, more simply,
Till under their horses' hoofs they trample those moth-eyebrows.
I cannot judge yet of the interesting translations by Florence Ayscough and Amy Lowell; but, from the few I have seen, I should say that these authors, also, tend to inflate the poems with too much pomp and color. The contemporary writer who is contributing most of all to spread an erroneous idea of the great Chinese lyrics is E. Powys Mathers in his popular books of translations from the oriental verse of many countries. I suspect that he may be translating them through the French and that the French versions, like the charming paraphrases of Judith Gautier, may be partly to blame. At any rate, he uses, in his book, Coloured Stars, the French name Thou-Sin-Yu for Chu Ch'ing-yu, giving from that poet a whimsical, rather droll little poem, which possibly but not necessarily refers to a telltale among the ladies. Here is the poem, with nothing added, a version accurately checked by Dr. Kiang;
A SONG OF THE PALACE
The palacv-gate quietly closes on flowers;
Ladies file out to a terrace of jade,
Their lips abrim with imperial gossip,
Which they dare not utter because of a parrot. 
Mathers translates this very simple poem as follows:
IN THE PALACE
What rigorous calm! What almost holy silence!
All the doors are shut, and the beds of flowers are giving out scent; discreetly, of course .
Two women that lean against each other, stand to the balustrade
of red marble on the edge of the terrace.
One of them wishes to speak, to confide to her friend the secret
sorrow that is agonizing her heart.
She throws an anxious glance at the motionless leaves, and because
of a paroquet with iridescent wings that perches on a branch,
she sighs and is silent.
I make no comment—except that, fortunately, there is another Englishman, Arthur Waley, whose honest translations are even more popular.
I am often asked whether, in making these translations, I have learned any Chinese myself. No. Wandering through out-of-the-way places in China, following at Si Wu and up through the Yangtze Gorges the very footsteps of the poets in whose work I was engrossed, I learned to ask in several dialects for a few necessaries: but that is a very far cry from being able to read. I learned that 'shan' means mountain and that 'shuei' means water and that 'shan-shuei' means landscape. I learned that 'mountain-water' paintings lack sometimes the mountain and sometimes the water, and I learned to translate the word as landscape. I am not even sure how to spell the word for water. I am spelling it as it sounded when I added to it the word for hot, which I herewith avoid spelling, and summoned, according to a middle or an upper gesture, a hand-basin or a pot of tea. But had I learned Chinese, I should not have fared much better as a translator. I am assured that not even foreigners born in China and knowing the language from childhood are safe guides when it comes to Chinese poetry.
The Chinese themselves vary in their interpretations —not in a way that conflicts with basic and essential clarity, but in one that is only natural, considering the absence from the poems of such grammatical details as person, tense and number. Sometimes I would lay before Dr. Kiang divergent readings from several Chinese whom I had the pleasure of consulting. Dr. Hu Suh, an influential young modernist of Peking Government University and author of widely read poems in the so-called 'vulgar tongue', was a patient listener. And World-of-Jade— otherwise Nieh Shih-chang—the young student and friend who piloted me on many trips, was constantly reading the poems and making helpful suggestions. I remember, too, the charm and delight with which Princess Der Ling, former lady-in-waiting to the Empress Dowager, would recite aloud with me instantaneous translations of the poems, which she knew by heart, as I read my versions. For the most part we would coincide. Now and then she would take issue. And when I would carry her challenges and those of the others to Dr. Kiang, he would make sure that I knew the literal meaning of the successive characters, explain his own preference, give me sometimes my choice of the various interpretations, or even let me make one of my own. It is due him, for better or worse, to say that I generally chose his.
Among the scholars I met in Peking was the queued and aged Dr. Ku Hung-ming, a conservative in both politics and literature, a monarchist and a classicist. Attendant long ago at the University of Edinburgh and familiar with five languages, he is a witty opponent of foreign influence and a doughty upholder of traditional Chinese culture. I cannot do better than to call him as witness in favor of some of my contentions as to T'ang poetry, by quoting a passage or two from The Spirit of the Chinese People, his naively brilliant and stalwart book, written in English but published as yet only in Peking.
'The classica majora Chinese is not difficult', says he, 'because, like the spoken or colloquial Chinese, it is extremely simple… plain in words and style… simple in ideas… and yet how deep in thought, how deep in feeling it is !'
Consequently, 'Chinese is difficult because it is deep. It is difficult because it is a language for expressing deep feeling in simple words'. Dr. Ku then gives a translation of his own of a rather long poem by Tu Fu, and comments, 'The above version, I admit, is almost doggerel. The Chinese text is not doggerel, but poetry – poetry simple to the verge of colloquialism, yet with a grace, dignity, pathos and nobleness which I cannot reproduce and which perhaps it is impossible to reproduce, in English, in such simple language'. A passage from another essay of his may explain to us in wider terms the warm, live presence of the Chinese poets: 'The wonderful peculiarity of the Chinese people is that, while living a life o the heart, the life of a child, they yet have a power of mind and rationality which you do not find in the Christian people of medieval Europe or in any other primitive people. For a people who have lived so long as a grown-up nation, as a nation of adult reason, they are yet able to this day to live the life of a child – a life of the heart. Instead, therefore, of saying that the Chinese are a people of arrested development, one ought rather to say that the Chinese are a people who never grow old. The real Chinaman is a man who lives the life of a man of adult reason with the heart of a child: the head of a grown-up man and the heart of a child. The Chinese spirit, therefore, is a spirit of perpetual youth, the spirit of national immortality'.
This quality which Dr. Ku describes in the Chinese spirit, this directness, this pulse of the heart, is the quality by which the T'ang poetry endures. Sinister and devious the Chinese are not, except to shield themselves from even more sinister and devious foreigners, or to outwit brutal explitation. They are not to be judged from the depraved conduct of scheming enuchs, of profligate monarchs and courtiers, nor from the debased callousness of generals and soldiers; they are not to be judged by a foreigner who arrogates to himself racial superiority. They are to be judged from the spirit of the people at large; they are to be judged evenly and honestly. And then will be found in them the deep simplicity of the T'ang poets.
The clothes of poetry change from age to age; fashion, manner, decoration. The body of poetry is the same a thousand years ago, a thousand years hence. Poetry that depends on its trappings dies; but poetry that is bare and vital and true is imperishable. There are many Chinese court pieces and poems of official adulation that are overloaded with artifice and ornament. As curiosities, they may survive to astonish the eye of the literary tourist – jade for the jaded. But the power that makes the best of the T'ang poetry permanent is the honest bareness of its beauty, relating it to the poetic hearts of any race or time.
As artist and as human being, I cherish my three years' labor and the hope that it will help to interpret for the West not only the perfected artistry of the Chinese but the spirit expressed through that artistry—a spirit as nobly simple and as nobly sad, after all, as the spirit we Westerners must find fundamental in ourselves whenever we have time to be alone with it. Before there can be political equity in the world, there must be human equity, an end of racial ignorance and snobbery on all sides, an end of the superstition that superficial differ-ences of skin and mold mean fundamental differences of mind and spirit. East and West, there is only one human spirit in the world, though knaves and fools would keep it divided. And it is the nearest thing we know to what we confidently call the divine spirit. At its best it is the spirit of beauty, whether in nature, in art or in the conduct of man. And still, through the centuries, the poets are its heralds.
New poets from the West are now assembling, as well they may, in the spirit-house of Wei Ying-wu at Soochow, where he greets them as, long ago, he greeted other poets:
ENTERTAINING LITERARY MEN IN MY OFFICIAL RESIDENCE ON A RAINY DAY
Outside are insignia, shown in state,
But here are sweet incense-clouds, quietly guarded.
Wind and rain, coming in from sea,
Have cooled this pavilion over the lake
And driven the feverish heat away
From where my eminent guests assemble.
Ashamed though I am of my high position
While people lead unhappy lives,
Let's reasonably banish care
And just be friends enjoying nature.
Are fish and meat prohibitive?
There are plenty of fruits and vegetables.
We bow, we take our cups of wine,
We lend, our ears to beautiful poems.
When the spirit is high, the body is lightened
And feels as if it could float in the wind.
Wu is famed as a center of letters;
And modern writers, crowding here,
Prove that the name of a great land
Is made by other things than wealth.

Baring, Maurice. Passing by. (London : M. Secker, 1921).
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42702.
Miss Cross blushed. I took her in to dinner. She talked of sculpture, the Chinese nation, German novels, and Russian music…

Thomas Scott ist Bischof von Shandong.

Kurt Wulff erhält ein Stipendium der Carlsberg Foundation und reist nach Beijing, Shanghai, Hong Kong und Japan und studiert Mandarin.

Johan Wilhelm Normann Munthe ist an Aktivitäten der chinesisisch-skandinavischen Bank beteiligt.

Gustav Adolf von Schweden wird Vorsitzender des China Committee to support Swedish research in geology and paleontology in China.

Gründung des Intitute of Oriental Studies in Moskau.

William Lange ist als Journalist der Nachrichtenagentur Transocean in China und Hong Kong tätig.

Xiao shuo yue bao. Special issue. [Studies in Russian literature].
Enthält Artikel von Shen Yanbing, Lu Xun, Zheng Zhenduo, Geng Jizhi und 27 Prosa-Werke und Lyrik.
Zheng Zhenduo was placing photographs of eleven writers and artists.

Harold Balme ist Präsident der Shantung Christian University [Qiulu daxue]. Er organisiert das erste Council ond Medical Education in China und wird Präsident des Council on Higher Education.

[Artsybashev, Mikhail Petrovich]. Gong ren Suihuilüe fu. Lu Xun yi. [ID D12525].
Lu Xun was moved by Shevyrev's compassion. His view of this work influenced that of many of his followers and readers. He saw Shevyrev as torn apart by love and hate : a hate that originated in his broadminded love of mankind, and culminated in his final act of revenge on society. He disapproved Shevyrev's way of taking revenge : by firing at the masses whom he considered at least as culpable as the oppressive government. He was 'horrified' by this act of violence.
Speaking about Shevyrev in Beijing, Lu Xun said : "We have not seen such wholly destructive men in China so far ; probably they will not appear here and I too do not hope that they do."
1922 Hu Zhongchi draw reader's attention to Lu Xun's translation in Wen xue xun kan. He retold the book's contents, though errors in his summary are suggestive of a cursory reading. He concluded with praise both for Artsybashev's writing style and the avowed word-for-word policy notwithstanding, for the fluency of Lu Xun's Chinese. "This translated book is not only a great contribution to the world of letters, but also a powerful testimony to the need of promoting direct translation.
1925 Briefe von Lu Xun and Xu Guangping.
"I suspect that in the golden age of the future, renegades will still be condemned to death, and everyone will still consider it the proper business of a golden age ; the problem being that everyone is different.
Anyone who tries to destroy utterly this general trend easily turns into individualist anarchist like Shevyrev. The destiny of such a character at the present time – though perhaps it's in the future – is that he wants to save the masses but is persecuted by the masses and ends up a solitary figure ; in an excess of fury and frustration, he does an about-turn, regards everyone as his enemy, and opens fire indiscriminately, destroying himself in the process."
1929 Shao Xian : "The author of Worker Shevyrev, from what they say, passed out of fashion and is now dead and gone. His empty reputation will now probably vanish as well from the world. But no, certainly not ! –at least for me, he shall remain at the centre of my admiration. Because he has made me open my eyes, and with courage ride the mad currents of this age. That I am no more tortured to death by any morality, nor crushed flat by any faith, is all due to the strength I have taken from him. Surely, it is in perpetual nothingness that deepest pleasure lies."

Zheng, Zhenduo. Yi wen xue shu de san ge wen ti. [ID D38807].
Zheng concluded that the method of retranslation was so common in China because persons conversant with languages other than English refused to do their share for the introduction of literatures such as Russian or Scandinavian.

Zheng, Zhenduo. How to translate literary texts [ID D38983].
From the above, one can see that literary works are translatable, and the degree of their translatability is related to the translator's artistic ability…
Hence there are three principles of translation, never to be abrogated :
1. That the translation should give a complete transcript of the ideas of the original work.
2. That the style and manner of writing should be of the same character with that of the original.
3. That the translation should have all the ease of original composition.

Zheng, Zhenduo. Virgins and matchmakers [ID D38995].
… We need to know that translation not only serves to introduce world literature, but is also beneficial to the creation of a new literature in China… Translating a literary work is like creating one : they both have the same impact on the supreme spirit of mankind. Although literary creation is scarce at present, literary translation is hardly any better…

Guo, Moruo. Letter to Zheng Zhenduo [ID D38996].
… I believe that translation has to be creative, and I staunchly support this belief. Translation has never been easy – to be creative, a translator must have an in-depth understanding of the thinking and the background of the author, and conduct a thorough investigation of the content and manner of presentation of a piece of work. It is therefore not easy to be a faithful translator. I do also believe that specific research on a great writer or an important piece of work can be made into a lifelong career… I believe that translation should be kept to a minimum, with a quest for quality rather than quantity… I realize that the field of creative writing in China has been very inactive…

Charles A. Gunn arbeitet als Architekt in Guangzhou, dann baut er das Missions Building in Shanghai.

Johannes Prip-Moller experimented with incorporating Chinese forms into his new designs in Shenyang (Liaoning).

Vojtech Chytil wird als Diplomat nach Tokyo geschickt. Er hat Kontakt mit China, kauft und verkauft Bilder.