“Waiting for the Unicorn” | Open Indiana

Cheng Hsieh (K’o-jou; PAN-CH’IAO), a native of Hsing-hua, Kiangsu province, was known in his own time, and to this day, for his painting, poetry, and calligraphy. Also counted among the celebrated “Eight Eccentrics of Yangchow,” Cheng’s reputation as an eccentric may be based partly on his calligraphic style, which in later years was a unique combination of clerical and seal scripts, and partly on his sense of humor, which is well illustrated in his famous “Pan-ch’iao Price List”:

Large scrolls, six taels; medium scrolls, four taels; small scrolls, two taels; parallel couplets, one tael; inscriptions on fans, half a tael. Hard cash is infinitely preferable to gifts or presents of food, for your idea of what constitutes a good gift might not be mine at all. An offer of cash will warm the cockles of my heart, and my brushwork will be all the better. Gifts are an entanglement for me, and for you, credit buying is worse then repudiating a debt. I am an old man who tires easily, so I am unable to join you gentlemen in profitless talk. It’s more expensive to paint bamboo than to buy one: six feet of paper will cost you three thousand. All talk of olden days and friendship is just so much autumn wind blowing by my ears.

But merely to brand Cheng Hsieh an eccentric is to do him a gross injustice, for he was a well-rounded human being: he was a serious student, a veteran traveler, an accomplished scholar (a K’ang-hsi hsiu-ts’ai, a Yung-cheng chü-jen, and a Ch’ien-lung chin-shih), a concerned and active public servant, a devoted family man, and a bit of a philosopher as well.

Most of this first thirty years were spent at home or in school in nearby Chen-chou. In 1724 he traveled south to Kiangsi province where he became acquainted with Buddhist monks on the famed Mount Lu. In later travels, as far north as Peking, he would spend much time in Buddhist temples, where he studied the Confucian classics, history, and literature, and made friends with many Zen monks. He visited Yangchow (the city with which his name is so often associated) in 1731, but does not seem to have actually taken up residence there until 1737, the year after he had become a chin-shih in Peking. He lived in Yangchow until 1741, when he traveled to Peking for the third time, probably in search of an appointment. Indeed, the next year, at the age of forty-nine, he received his first official post as magistrate of Fanhsien in Shantung province. In 1746 he was transferred to Wei-hsien in the same province, where he served with distinction, opening the granaries during an extended famine and creating large-scale public works projects so that the poor might have a source of income to pay off their debts. During his tenure as magistrate of Wei-hsien, he offended his superiors by requesting relief aid for the people of his district, and in 1753, he resigned his post, much to the disappointment of the common folk, who had benefited from his presence for seven years. The remaining twelve years of his life were spent around his home town of Hsing-hua, or in Yangchow.

As a poet, his style has been compared to that of Po Chü-yi and Lu Yu, T’ao Ch’ien (365–427) and Liu Tsung-yüan, Fan Chung-yen (989–1052) and Yüan Mei (q.v.). In fact, none of these comparisons is quite accurate, while each holds a kernel of truth. Cheng shared with T’ao Ch’ien a love of family and the simple life together with a distaste for the company of officials. Like Liu Tsung-yüan, he kept company with Buddhist monks, exchanged poems with them, and was at the same time a concerned and active official to whose memory the people of his district erected altars after he resigned from office. Like Po Chü-yi, he wrote simple ballads in which he depicted with great power the misery of the common folk, who suffered not only from famine, but from excessively harsh officials as well. Like Lu Yu, he was unrestrained in his writing, and he had much in common with the “inspirational” school of poetry most often associated with Yüan Mei. Yet it would be unfair to limit him by any one of the above comparisons. He describes himself rather well:

My poems and prose writings are all forms of self-expression, my own ideas, although their truths are always traceable to the sages, and their style is always drawn from ordinary usage. There are those who claim to write in a style loftily and anciently rooted in the T’ang and Sung; I can’t stand these people. I say: “If my writings are to be preserved, it will be as Ch’ing poetry and Ch’ing prose. If they are not preserved, it will be because they are unworthy of being Ch’ing poetry and Ch’ing prose.” Why rave about ages that are long gone?

Cheng’s poetic depictions of the people, cities, historical sites, landscapes, temples, plants and flowers, and natural phenomena he experienced during his seventy-two-year life are both sincere and romantic at once. Again, this aspect of the man is best expressed in his own words:

I haven’t done too much traveling through the countryside, but then again I’ve done a bit; I haven’t done too much studying either, but I have done some; as for hobnobbing with brilliant and famous persons, I haven’t done too much, but again I’ve done a bit of that too. I started out in dire poverty, then later came to be rather well-off; even later, once again I became rather poor. Therefore you’ll find a taste of almost everything in my writings.

Cheng was not an innovator in verse technique, thematic treatment, or poetic style, but he was a master of the inspired description of genuine emotions based on his personal appreciation of the entire gamut of human experience. He knew, for example, that man is a social animal with responsibilities to his fellows. He was equally aware of the ultimate vanity of all human social endeavor, as illustrated by all the tattered remnants of once glorious enterprise he saw dotting the Chinese landscape. At the same time he was very much an individual, conscious of his individuality and demonstrating it in his own style of painting and calligraphy. The poems, like the man, are unaffected, fresh, and free-flowing. Even the seriousness with which he viewed his poems is expressed with characteristic humor in the last line of his last preface to his collected verse:

This will be the final edition of my poems. If, after my death, anyone should misappropriate my name to produce an unauthorized edition and stealthily insert his ordinary run-of-the-mill verse therein, he will surely suffer a thump on the noggin from my aggrieved ghost!

(Jan W. Walls)

____________________

1. Chao-ying Fang, ECCP, 1:112.

Martyred Widow Liu of Hai-ling:¹
A Ballad

The martyred widow’s husband, a successful military candidate, died in Tso Liang-yü’s (1598–1645) ranks. He left no sons. His widow vowed to serve her parents-in-law, and when they passed away she immediately hanged herself. The people of the prefecture mourned her, and called her the Martyred Widow Liu.

4. Cheng Hsieh’s famous price list in his own calligraphy. Reproduced in Pan-ch’iao shu-hua t’o-p’ien-chi by the Wei-fang (Shantung) Municipal Art Institute, n.d.

5. “Bamboos in Mist,” four hanging scrolls by Cheng Hsieh. The Art Museum, Princeton University. Anonymous loan.

Damp clouds press on the window, the lamp about to die,

The young woman stops her shuttle, brushes her skirt and stands.

Her heart lonely through the night’s gloom, she lies down tired,

And deep into her bedroom comes a dream of the battlefield.

Broken armor and tattered flags enfold stains of blood.

Dangling a defeated drum, an aggrieved soul howls,

Saying, “I’ve lost my life in one of many battles;

My body broken, my bones drift in the Yellow River torrents.”

Terrified and trembling she awakens with a start,

To the wild baying of dogs beneath an autumn fence.

In the depth of night she wails, but even wailing fails.

Teardrops stream down, her silken quilt is soaked.

She wipes her rouge away and abandons all makeup,

Kingfisher coiffure, cloudlike tresses, lose their sheen.

Then comes the ominous news: our troops have fallen in defeat,

No different, after all, from the dream.

With warm words, small talk, she soothes the old couple.

But in her darkened room, she rips apart skirts of silk brocade.

In her greatest grief, streams of tears become bowls of blood;

Sacrificial offerings drift away to distant autumn clouds.

In the lonely stillness of a hut, weasels squabble with squirrels,

A sickly widow keeps the home for a family grown destitute.

Night after night her cold loom spins until the break of day.

Morning after morning from the broken well she picks up lovebird tiles.

Ten acres of wasted land, no harvest for the year,

A garden full of flowers and willows booms in vain.

When Father- and Mother-in-law die, the widow will soon follow:

“No one left to serve ancestral souls, what place is there for me?”

She presses her pale neck against a red silk rope,

Hoping to send her fair soul in search of that battlefield.

The husband died for the state, the widow dies for him;

But loyalty and righteousness cannot bring back their breath.

Once the mind gives way to doubt, the deed is lost,

And filled with shame in the nether world, it is too late for regret.

Even now the graveyard trees at night cry in sorrow:

Desolate river, withered grass, high autumn plains.

A cold crow perches alone, unsettled through the night:

Sadly moaning to the moon, begging for its mate.

(CPCC, p. 35)

(Tr. Jan and Yvonne Walls)

Poor Scholar

A poor scholar, hit by hard times,

Rises at night, opens his gauze curtains.

Pacing back and forth, he stands by the courtyard tree,

A bright moon sinking in the light of dawn.

He thinks his old friends would do him well;

If asked, they surely would not decline.

Leaving home, his air is fairly bold;

Halfway there, his spirit already has failed.

When they meet, they exchange cool words,

So, he swallows his request and goes back home.

Returning home, he must face his wife,

Embarrassed, bereft of dignity.

But to his surprise, she comforts him,

Takes off her jade hairpin, pawns her old clothes;

Going to the kitchen, she heats the broken cauldron,

Bright smoke congealing in the morning light.

In the platter, leftover buns and nuts

Are divided among the hungry children.

I said, “By the time wealth and honor come to me

My hair will be short and thin.”

She replied, “Never seize some new flowering bough

To mock this coarser fare.”²

(CPCC, p. 67)

(Tr. Jan and Yvonne Walls)

Flight from Famine: A Ballad

Ten days ago, he sold a son,

Five days ago, he sold his wife,

One more day, and he will be alone.

On and on the long road stretches:

The long road stretches into the distance,

To mountain passes thick with wolves and tigers.

In a famine, tigers never starve,

And cunning men lurk by mountain crags;

Wolves come out in broad daylight,

And villagers wildly beat their drums.

Ah, his very skin and hairs are scorched.

His bones broken, his back twisted.

Meeting people, at first he only stares,

Getting food, he vomits all he swallows.

Not enough of him to fill a tiger,

So even the tigers leave him alone.

He sees an abandoned child by the road,

Picks him up, carries him in his cooking pot.

All of his own children sold,

Now he cares for another child.

There is a woman on the road

Who pities the child, gives him suck.

A gulping sound at her breast,

A babbling noise from his little lips,

He seems to be calling for mom and dad,

The more pitiful as he coos and smiles.

A thousand miles to the Mountain-and-Sea Pass,³

Ten thousand to the Liao-yang⁴ garrison.

Rugged walls glower at evening stars,

Village lamps shine on autumn swamps.

A long bridge floats on the water,

Winds howl and waves are enraged.

He starts to cross, but loses his nerve,

For the bridge is slick and he has no shoes.

Someone pulls in front and someone pushes from behind,

A single slip, and you will never get up again.

Across the bridge, he rests in an ancient temple,

All attentive, he hears his village tongue:

Women talking about kinsmen and relatives,

Men speaking of families and marriages.

So happy to talk, he cannot sleep that night,

And for a while, he nearly forgets his sad and bitter lot.

Before dawn, he is up and on the road again,

In the morning light, his shadow traveling alone.

A little south toward the border walls,

Yellow sands are vast without end.

Some say the white-robed Hsüeh⁵

Set out from here to fight in Liao-tung.

Some say the Emperor Yang of Sui

Visited here with bold warriors from Korea.

On first arrival, things are as bad as before,

Nothing but hardship and talk of long ago.

Fortunately, he meets a new master,

Who at least gives him a place to sleep.

With a long plow he tills the ancient gravel,

Ploughs spring fields in the drizzling rain.

He learns to tend horses, cattle, and sheep,

In the slanting sun, to measure out the grain.

His body now safe, his heart begins to mourn;

The southern horizon is vague and far away.

So many things that cannot be put in words,

Face to the wind, his tears seem to pour.

(CPCC, p. 103)

(Tr. Jan and Yvonne Walls)

Tune: Jui-ho hsien
(An Immortal on an Auspicious Crane)
Title: The Fisherman

When wind and waves rise upon the river,

They tie the little boat to a green willow tree,

In the village of red apricot blossoms.

How I envy the fisherwoman’s air:

She uses no rouge or powder,

Only occasionally works her hair.

A wild flower on her bun

Surpasses any jeweled earring or hairpin.

Suddenly she calls her man to toss the net, sound the rattle,

And they row the boundless river-sky.

The profit’s good.

Rush bags encase their crabs,

Bamboo baskets hold their shrimp,

And willow strands string their carp.

The city’s not far away:

Go there in the morning,

Be back at noon.

They bring along a vat of someone’s fine brew:

Men and gulls get drunk together,

Lying among blossoming reeds, a vast stretch of white,

And miles and miles of setting sun.

(CPCC, p. 149)

(Tr. Jan and Yvonne Walls)

Tune: Jui-ho hsien
Title: The Tavernkeeper

A green flag—wineshop by the river

Amid fine rain and blossoming pear trees.

At this time of the spring festival.

Shrimp and snails, mixed fish and lotus roots,

And of course the old jug under seal,

Opened only now,

Pure, mellow, sweet,

Enough to souse a fisherman or a woodsman.

The road back to village and town grown blurred,

Man and setting sun are flushed through and through.

Did you know

There are rich and poor in the human world,

Growth and decay among the leaves,

Ins and outs on fortune’s wheel?

So why worry?

Raise the winecup,

Long life to you,

May you sweep away your old dreams of the capital

And come to find your thirsty friends here in the hills.

Take off that golden sable and give it to the tavern hand!

From now on, let go!

(CPCC, p. 149)

(Tr. Jan W. Walls)

Tune: Jui-ho hsien
Title: The Monk

The thatched temple, leaning toward collapse,

Is supported by an ancient tree,

Encircled by white clouds.

The forest deep, no visitors arrive,

But a spring babbles at the bottom of the brook

In the valley of hidden birds.

Gentle winds come to sweep

And sweep the fallen leaves into the stove,

So he may close the door, bake potatoes, trim the lamp.

The lamp expires, potatoes smell sweet, day dawns.

No fakery—

Though he hobnobs with nobility,

Though he treads the red dust,

Still he always returns to the rosy clouds;

Tattered shirt, frazzled patches,

Unmendable,

Unsewable.

He has less hair than a man of the world,

But fewer troubles, too.

He lights incense before the Buddha,

Takes a nap at ease.

(CPCC, p. 150–151)

(Tr. Jan W. Walls)

Tune: Jui-ho hsien
Title: Powerful Officials

Music and song wandering beyond the clouds,

Candles burning, stars bright,

Flowers thick, the night goes on and on.

Glowing sunrise in a cold upper room,

Peonies greedy for a little more sleep,

The parrots have not wakened.

Amid the halberdlike shadows of the locust tree,

Stand so many dignitaries with their insignia of office,

In no time, the fog disperses and clouds disappear,

So desolate, a sparrow net could be spread outside the gate.

Suddenly he knows:

Swallows have taken the spring away,

Wild geese have brought the fall.

And frost and snow press in,

Some households feel the cold

That forces out

The sign of the blossoming plum.

Ah, how closely Heaven divides and multiplies human fortune—

waxing and waning!

Not circumscribed by the greed of a single house,

Even though cast with iron, molded of bronze,

All are like cakes drawn on paper!

(CPCC, p. 151)

(Tr. Jan W. Walls)

Tune: Jui-ho hsien
Title: Kings and Emperors

Mountains and rivers are like discarded shoes:

How I envy the sage ideal of Emperor Yao

Who passed over his son, ceded his throne to the worthiest man.

And Emperors Yü and T’ang who hatched no schemes,

But let their sons and grandsons

Bear the burden of the universe.

In a thousand generations, a myriad ages,

How many heroes have been wasted—

Now only reams of old paper!

Why regret the founding of Ch’in upon the heels of Ch’u!

Rely on no one!

Neither on eunuchs,

Nor on princes,

Nor on royal kin!

Prop up the east, and the west will fall;

Lean heavily to one side,

And there is friction and quarrel.

In other years, palace walls will be broken bits of tile,

Lotus leaves will flap about on autumn waters;

There remains a rustic on a tattered boat in the slanting sun,

Leisurely picking the wild rice.

(CPCC, p. 151)

(Tr. Jan and Yvonne Walls)

NOTES

1. A salt-producing area on the sea coast, near present-day T’ai-hsien, Kiangsu province.

2. Literally, “To mock this deer-parsley,” meaning the wife herself. This expression alludes to two lines of an ancient-style poem: “I go up the mountain to gather deer-parsley,/I come down the mountain to meet my husband.” See Wang Shih-chen, ed., Ku-shih hsüan, 1:4 a. Also cf. David Hawkes, The Songs of the South, p. 40, Line 1 of “Shao Ssu Ming,” for his translation of mi-wu as “deer-parsley.”

3. Shan-hai kuan: see Wu Wei-yeh, note 3.

4. Liao-yang: located in Liao-ning province in China’s northeast, an ancient town established during the Ch’in dynasty. Once conquered by Korea, it has been an important Chinese administrative center since T’ang times.

5. Hsüeh Jen-kuei (612–681) is a popular hero of Chinese military romance; he followed the T’ang emperor T’ai-tsung (reg. 627–650) on his campaign to Liao-tung, achieved great success in battle, and rose to the rank of general.

Waiting for the Unicorn