Southern Identity and Southern Estrangement in Medieval Chinese Poetry 9789888139262

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
List of Contributors
1. Southland as Symbol • Ping Wang and Nicholas Morrow Williams
2. Southern Metal and Feather Fan: The “Southern Consciousness” of Lu Ji • David R. Knechtges
3. Fan Writing: Lu Ji, Lu Yun and the Cultural Transactions between North and South • Xiaofei Tian
4. Plaint, Lyricism, and the South • Ping Wang
5. Farther South: Jiang Yan in Darkest Fujian • Paul W. Kroll
6. Th e Pity of Spring: A Southern Topos Reimagined by Wang Bo and Li Bai • Nicholas Morrow Williams
7. The Stele and the Drunkard: Two Poetic Allusions from Xiangyang • Jie Wu
8. Jiangnan from the Ninth Century On: The Routinization of Desire • Stephen Owen
Works Cited
Index

Citation preview

Southern Identity and Southern Estrangement in Medieval Chinese Poetry

Edited by

Ping Wang and Nicholas Morrow Williams

Southern Identity and Southern Estrangement in Medieval Chinese Poetry

Southern Identity and Southern Estrangement in Medieval Chinese Poetry

Edited by Ping Wang and Nicholas Morrow Williams

Hong Kong University Press The University of Hong Kong Pokfulam Road Hong Kong www.hkupress.org © 2015 Hong Kong University Press ISBN 978-988-8139-26-2 All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed and bound by Liang Yu Printing Factory Ltd. in Hong Kong, China

Contents

Acknowledgments List of Contributors 1.

Southland as Symbol Ping Wang and Nicholas Morrow Williams

2.

Southern Metal and Feather Fan: The “Southern Consciousness” of Lu Ji David R. Knechtges

3.

Fan Writing: Lu Ji, Lu Yun and the Cultural Transactions between North and South Xiaofei Tian

vii ix 1 19

43

4.

Plaint, Lyricism, and the South Ping Wang

5.

Farther South: Jiang Yan in Darkest Fujian Paul W. Kroll

109

6.

The Pity of Spring: A Southern Topos Reimagined by Wang Bo and Li Bai Nicholas Morrow Williams

137

7.

The Stele and the Drunkard: Two Poetic Allusions from Xiangyang Jie Wu

165

8.

Jiangnan from the Ninth Century On: The Routinization of Desire Stephen Owen

189

Works Cited Index

79

207 219

Acknowledgments

Most of the essays in this volume were originally presented at the “Poetry and Place” conference held at Princeton University on October 26–27, 2012. The conference was jointly sponsored by the Princeton Institute for International and Regional Studies and Princeton University Council of the Humanities. The co-editors would like to thank all the participants of that conference for their insights and suggestions. We would also like to thank the Mr. Simon Suen and Mrs. Mary Suen Sino-Humanitas Institute of Hong Kong Baptist University for its support.

Contributors

David R. Knechtges (PhD, 1968, University of Washington) is professor of Chinese at the University of Washington. Paul W. Kroll (PhD, 1976, University of Michigan) is professor of Chinese at the University of Colorado. Stephen Owen (PhD, 1974, Yale University) is James Bryant Conant University Professor at Harvard University. Xiaofei Tian (PhD, 1998, Harvard University) is professor of Chinese at Harvard University. Ping Wang (PhD, 2006, University of Washington) is assistant professor of Chinese at the University of Washington. Nicholas Morrow Williams (PhD, 2010, University of Washington) is research assistant professor at the Mr. Simon Suen and Mrs. Mary Suen Sino-Humanitas Institute, Hong Kong Baptist University. Jie Wu (PhD, 2008, University of Washington) is assistant professor of Chinese at Murray State University.

1 Southland as Symbol Ping Wang and Nicholas Morrow Williams

China’s southeastern coastal provinces of Jiangsu, Zhejiang, Fujian, and Guangdong have been at the forefront of its modern revolution, leading economic expansion and cultural engagement. It has been Shanghai and Hong Kong, not the political capital of Beijing, that have served as the cradles of innovation and gateways for foreign ideas. But China’s southern regions have not always been closely integrated into its arc of development; to the contrary, they were once exotic and intimidating to Han Chinese. The ancient origins of the Chinese script, of traditional thought, of art and music, all lie to the north: for the Shang dynasty centered in Henan province, and for its successor the Zhou in Shaanxi. By contrast, the settlement and assimilation of the southern regions into Han China was a millenniumlong process that has been fundamental to the formation of Chinese culture and society. This book approaches this subject through its representation in poetry. The South has borne a disproportionate importance in Chinese literary history, particularly during China’s medieval period: roughly the first millennium CE, following the Qin-Han foundation of the empire, and leading up to the transitional period of the Song. This is the era including the long Period of Disunion, 220–589, followed by the reunification of the Sui and Tang dynasties. Throughout the medieval period, the South has a dual significance for Chinese writers. It is on one hand associated with the ancient state of Chu and that great poet-statesman Qu Yuan ⯰⍇ (late 4th–early 3rd century BCE), and hence with one of China’s central literary traditions; on the other hand, it is seen as a threatening, marginal zone beyond the borders of the civilized world. In particular, the southern frontiers are the site of exile for a number of major writers, beginning with Qu Yuan himself; yet political exile is poetic inspiration, as removal from the centers of power occasions some of the finest writings in the Chinese tradition. The boundaries of the South in literature are fluid and evolving, and for the purposes of this study we focus not on the geographical “south” but on the cultural “Southland” or “Jiangnan” 㰇⋿ (literally “south of the Yangtze River”). The Southland is a relative concept, on the margin of the Chinese empire. It is materially exotic, with strange fruits and animals unknown to the northerners, and it is the home of foreign peoples like the Miao and Yue. It is physically and culturally estranged, and yet in the creative and subjective realm of literary expression, also the place where Chinese writers of the medieval period carved out

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new identities for themselves. In this mutual interaction of southern identity and southern estrangement lies a substantial part of the elite culture of traditional China, leaving behind a legacy of which modern southerners from the Bund to Kowloon are still conscious today. The symbolism of the Southland remains potent, though it can be invoked in many different forms. The authors of this volume trace different iterations of southern symbolism from the Han dynasty through the Tang and beyond, without attempting to define it in any unitary way. As a popular song by Hong Kong lyricist Keith Chan 昛⮹䏒 argues: “Only lovers by their love deranged believe the Southland’s passions stay unchanged” 徟徼ㆨṢᾹẍ䁢 㰇⋿ねᶵ嬲.

The Ancient State of Chu The cultural memory of the South in Chinese literature is delineated most vividly in the poems of the Chu ci 㤂录 (Songs of the South). Though some poems in the anthology date to the Han dynasty, the central impetus for the anthology comes from the culture of the Chu kingdom, independent till it was conquered by Qin in 223 BCE.1 Chu was not far south relative to modern Chinese geography, being centered around modern Hubei and Hunan provinces, and its territory even extended at its height into parts of modern Henan, Shandong, Anhui, and Jiangsu provinces. But it was the southernmost of the Warring States, and though constantly in contact with other states, retained a sense of cultural distinctiveness that was associated with its southern orientation. In the mind of medieval China, the South was a part of the realm both strange and familiar at the same time, belonging to the Chinese cultural sphere yet permanently and irrevocably distinctive as well. During the medieval period, Chu itself was not the primary geographical referent of “the South,” whose scope was constantly shifting, though generally bounded to the north by the Yangtze River and its tributaries. The primary terms used to signal these cultural values did not refer directly to Chu itself, but rather to the more elusive “Southland.” The term “Nanguo” (southern country) occurs, for instance, in the poem “Ode to the Tangerine” (Ju song 㨀枴), traditionally attributed to Qu Yuan:2 Splendid tree of his Royal Majesty, The tangerine comes to make obeisance— According to mandate it moveth not, Growing in the Southland— ⎶䘯▱㧡炻㨀⽈㚵№ˤ⍿␥ᶵ怟炻䓇⋿⚳№ˤ

The tangerine here is allegorized as the virtuous courtier, but it is also concretely identified as the sour-peel tangerine, native to the south, and so implicitly the virtues of the 1. 2.

For a comprehensive survey of ancient Chu, see Cook and Major, eds., Defining Chu: Image and Reality in Ancient China. Chu ci buzhu 4.153.

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noblemen are associated with this southern heritage. Here the term for the “Southland” is “Nanguo” ⋿⚳, literally the “southern country.” We can see this sense of southern identity confirmed in the traditional conception of the Chu ci as a kind of local anthology of Chu lore.3 If this generalization does not reflect the full variety of the anthology’s contents, it certainly applies well to the poem celebrating the southern tangerine. Though it is hard to know if this poem was actually composed by Qu Yuan himself, it was certainly understood in later centuries as his own composition, so that the tangerine represents not just any virtuous nobleman, but the great culture hero of Chu who remained loyal to his sovereign even in exile. Qu Yuan is the representative, though, not just of the “southern country,” but of exile from it as well. Indeed, one of the most important mentions of the Southland in early literature is the identification of Jiangnan as Qu Yuan’s place of exile.4 This “Jiangnan” would probably not mean “south of the Yangtze” or the Southland in general, but a specific geographical region on the southwest frontier of Chu’s territory, also known as Qianzhong 湼ᷕ commandery (the western part of modern Hunan province).5 Just as Qu Yuan was a dual figure of both culture and dissent, so, as Chu was incorporated in the unified empire of the Qin-Han, did it retain an ambivalent role in the consciousness of the realm. Though still possessing the exotic flavor of the southland, Chu cultural traditions were of prominent, often central, importance throughout the empire. Chu was the native place of the ruling family of Han; the language and the songs of Chu were widely known; its material culture, particularly well preserved and known today through the southern tombs that have been excavated recently, embodied the prosperity of early China. At the same time, however, it was the Southland, never fully assimilated to the center of Chinese culture in the Yellow River valley. There is thus an ambivalence in the relation of the South to the center that was shaped in medieval times, from the Han to the Tang, and endures in China today. Perhaps part of the singularity of Chu lay in the alternate history that might have been— the nearest contender to Qin in the great contest of the Warring States, an empire unified under Chu provided a tantalizing scenario. The famous traveling persuader Su Qin 喯䦎 (?–317 BCE), for instance, once told the King of Chu:6 Chu is the mightiest of states under Heaven; you, great king, are sageliest of kings under Heaven. To the west you have Qianzhong and Wu commandery; to the east Xiazhou and Haiyang; to the south Dongting and Cangwu; to the north the border of Fen and Xing, and Xunyang. With territory five thousand li square, one million armored men, a thousand chariots, ten thousand cavalry, and grain supplies to last a decade, you have the resources to become hegemon. 3.

4. 5. 6.

“They are all written in the language of Chu and composed in Chu sounds, recording the places of Chu and naming the objects of Chu, and so they are called Chu ci ‘Chu words.’” See Huang Bosi, “Jiaoding Chu ci xu,” Dongguan yulun, B.77a–b. According to Wang Yi’s 䌳忠 (2nd century CE) preface to the “Li sao,” Chu ci buzhu 1.2. On this identification of Jiangnan, see Jao Tsung-i, Chu ci dili kao, B.79–83. Zhanguo ce, Chu 1/17, in Zhanguo ce jianzheng 14.787.

4

Ping Wang and Nicholas Morrow Williams 㤂炻⣑ᶳᷳ⻟⚳ḇˤ⣏䌳炻⣑ᶳᷳ岊䌳ḇˤ㤂⛘大㚱湼ᷕˣⶓ悉炻㜙㚱⢷ ⶆˣ㴟春炻⋿㚱㳆⹕ˣ呤㡏炻⊿㚱㰦昀ᷳ⠆ˣ息春ˤ⛘㕡Ḽ⋫慴炻ⷞ䓚䘦 叔炻干⋫Ḁ炻榶叔⋡炻䱇㓗⋩⸜炻㬌曠䌳ᷳ屯ḇˤ

Su Qin praises the vast expanse of Chu territory. On the west it extends to Qianzhong and Wu Commandery (reaching into modern Sichuan and the western reaches of Hunan), while on the east it includes Xiazhou (in modern Wuhan, Hubei) and, after the conquest of its eastern neighbor Yue in 334 BCE, even extended to the border of the ocean: Haiyang, at the mouth of the Yangtze east of modern Yangzhou. To the south it included the vast lake Dongting, and its territory even penetrated to the distant Cangwu, at the very southern tip of modern Hunan bordering on Guangxi. Its northern frontier, heavily contested by its rivals Qin, Han, Wei, and others, pressed against Fenqiu 㰦᷀ and Mount Xing 昀 (both near modern Xuchang 姙㖴, Henan, in Xiangcheng 壬❶ and Yancheng 悦❶ counties respectively), as well as toward Xunyang (modern Xunyang 㖔春 in southern Shaanxi). Originally one of the mightiest of the separate states, Chu had had the potential to unify the realm in place of Qin, and hence retained a certain significance as a kind of symbolic alternative to the current regime. It is important to note that Chu, despite its connections with remote southern regions, was also one of the central states, and its territory actually extended quite far north of the Yangtze.7 Its rival Qin advanced rapidly on Chu’s western frontier in the early third century, conquering its capital at Ying in 278. From this point on the territory of Chu shifted to the north and east. Indeed Pei 㱃 county, the hometown of Han founder Liu Bang ∱恎 (247–195 BCE), was located near modern Xuzhou ⼸ⶆ, Jiangsu, and only came within Chu’s sway after the fall of the state of Song ⬳ in 286 BCE. Map 1.1 illustrates the scope of Chu’s territory in the fourth century, a vast expanse of land around the middle reaches of the Yangtze. Any number of geographical terms could be distinctively southern. In the “Ode to the Tangerine,” the “southern country” is identified by commentator Wang Yi 䌳忠 as an equivalent for Jiangnan “the Southland.” Jiangnan literally appears to mean “the region south of the Yangtze River,” but its area often encompasses Yangzhou and other places on the north side of the river, so it might be more accurate to translate it as “the Yangtze River region in the south,” or more loosely as the “Southland.” Here it is southern relative to the state of Chu, but Chu was itself the southernmost of the Warring States. As the Han empire expanded, however, its borders extended further south than those of pre-Qin Chu, and the South grew to encompass the region of modern Fujian and Guangdong. The origins of a southern consciousness lie in Chu itself. This sense of pride in the value of southern products, language, or people was also an assertion of difference, in opposition to central or northern culture. The ci of Chu ci, though sometimes meaning simply everyday “words,” was in the pre-Qin era usually a specifically motivated, argumentative, or ritualistic kind of speech. In comparison with the canonical Odes (Shijing 娑䴻), the Chu ci was 7.

Arthur Waley points this out in an appendix to his book, The Nine Songs, 59.

Map 1.1 Chu in the Warring States era, ca. 350 BCE Key: Independent states: Qin 䦎, Han 杻, Wei 櫷, Song ⬳, Qi 滲, Lu 欗, Yue 崲, Chu 㤂 Cangwu呤㡏: Commandery on southern frontier, located in eastern Guangxi province Haiyang 㴟春: Region east of modern Yangzhou ㎂ⶆ, Jiangsu Luoyi 㳃怹: Capital of Zhou dynasty, modern Luoyang 㳃春, Henan Mt. Xing 昀Ⱉ: Marker of northern frontier of Chu territory Pei 㱃: hometown of Liu Bang ∱恎, founder of Han dynasty Qianzhong 湼ᷕ: Commandery to southwest of Ying Wujun ⶓ悉: Commandery surrounding Mt. Wu on the border of modern Sichuan and Hubei provinces Xianyang ①春: Capital of Qin; northeast of modern Xi’an 大⬱, Shaanxi Xiazhou ⢷ⶆ: Area of modern Wuhan, Hubei Xunyang 息春: Modern Xunyang 㖔春 county, Shaanxi Ying 悊: Capital of Chu, modern Jiangling 㰇昝, Hubei

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described as Yin, the feminine counterpart to the mainstream Yang, the heterodox opposite of the mainstream and canonical—yet in its centrality and ubiquity forming a canon or counter-canon of its own. The South was thus seen as the responsive partner to the creative force of northern culture. The Yin force took visible form in the geography of the South, which was distinguished particularly by water: from the great Yangtze River, in this period referred to simply as the Jiang 㰇, later becoming the common noun “river,” to the Dongting 㳆⹕ lake, origin of the modern names of the provinces Hubei and Hunan (meaning “north of the lake” and “south of the lake” respectively). Water was associated with the Yin principle in traditional Chinese cosmology, and this was another attribute of Chu’s Yin identity. By the Tang dynasty the area around the Yangtze River would become the site of some of China’s great cities, particularly Suzhou, located on the Taihu ⣒㷾 lake, and Jiangnan itself came to refer primarily to the scenic lake region. In the Warring States and Han, though, the watery south was more likely to be regarded with distrust or fear, as signified by Qu Yuan’s own demise, suicide by drowning in the Miluo 㰐伭 River, with all its mythic significance. There was also a religious dimension that distinguished Chu and the Chu ci from the rest of the pre-Qin states. The Chu ci poems frequently employ the persona of a shaman who calls out the souls of the deceased, converses with deities, and embarks on spiritual journeys throughout the universe. An assortment of fragrant plants native to the southern marshland and an array of precious gemstones, in their natural or worked forms, lure beautiful goddesses in their full attire to descend. Early historians such as Ban Gu 䎕⚢ (32–92) disparagingly attributed this to the people of Chu’s superstitious belief in spirits and their “excessive” rituals to soothe them.8 In spite of these moralistic critiques, though, the spiritual powers and religious ramifications of Chu songs were part of its distinctive power for Chinese readers up to the present day. The South more broadly was seen throughout much of Chinese history as a forbidding, disease-ridden, and barbaric place, and troublesome officials were often dispatched there in exile. At the heart of Chu ci poetry was the figure of Qu Yuan, the Chu nobleman exiled to Jiangnan for his loyal dissent.9 According to the tradition that is preserved in numerous Chu ci poems, Qu Yuan drowned himself in protest and thus became a martyr to the ideal of the loyal courtier, his name forever preserved in song. But this exile also holds the possibility of a kind of redemption, as Qu Yuan finds a way to affirm his integrity and preserve his name in spite of his worldly defeat. Though exiled from the seat of power, his status as culture hero far transcends that of any king of Chu itself. This victory on the level of culture would become increasingly important when, after the fall of the Western Jin, the Chinese court retreated to the Yangtze valley. Throughout the Southern Dynasties whose capitals were located at Jiankang ⺢⹟ (modern Nanjing), it seemed as if elite Chinese culture as a whole had shared in Qu Yuan’s exile, and been relocated southward. This sense of identification 8. 9.

Han shu 28B.1666. The precise location of Qu Yuan’s exile is a matter of dispute. See, e.g., discussion in Chapter 6 of this volume.

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between Qu Yuan and the scholarly elite in general persisted afterwards as well: “Implicit throughout the Ch’ü Yuan lore is a sweeping analogy between the exiled official and the exiled high culture itself.”10 More precisely, though, the Chu ci preserved a particular dimension of the high culture, one that stood in tension with the classical tradition of the Odes. In fact, the Chu ci is generally kept separate from the Classics altogether in traditional bibliography, and instead placed first among the literary collections (ji 普). Yet precisely because it is displaced from the other classics, the Chu ci assumed the mantle of pure literature, representing the estranged voice of pure longing better than the classical tradition of the Odes.11 Poets who found themselves yearning for the Southland while lingering outside it resemble Qu Yuan in the sense that they fail to find their place in the world. The Southland, real or imagined, inspires such poetic expression in which poets augment their personal angst with beautiful words. The Southland thus encompasses several possibilities in the historical imagination of medieval China: as a label of regional identity, or the site of exile from that place, but most remarkably, the cultural triumph over that exile and its undying preservation in textual form (Chu ci). Each of these elements remains relevant to the literary representation of the South, though one may appear dominant at a particular moment. The meaning of the Chu ci anthology was frequently transformed, as in the popular later editions identified as collections of Qu Yuan’s poems, rather than the writings of Chu. As the borders of political control expanded southward and westward, the geographical location of the Southland shifted southward also.12 This book traces shifts in the literary representation of the South throughout the medieval period, from the fall of the Han through the Period of Division into the reunification of the Tang. The historical alternation of pride in the distinctiveness of southern culture and anxiety over the exotic and alien qualities of the southern frontier produced many of the distinctive features of medieval Chinese literature. Approaching the subject from this original perspective sheds new light on the historical development of Chinese poetry, as we see regional conflict beyond polite conventions, conscious refashioning of traditional motifs to suit new situations, and the enduring power of the symbolic associations of the South. The inspiration of the South frequently jumps backwards and forwards in time, between and across genres. The whole point of the literary cult of Qu Yuan is to persist after the ruler’s defeat and the kingdom’s fall—the loyalty of the heroic official is remembered long after.

Joining the Han Empire The disjunction between the geographical and cultural significance of the Southland is already evident in the Han dynasty. Though China had been unified by a true northerner, 10. Laurence A. Schneider, A Madman of Ch’u: The Chinese Myth of Loyalty and Dissent, 13. 11. Cf. Stephen Owen, Traditional Chinese Poetry and Poetics: The Omen of the World, 254–63. 12. See Paul Kroll’s discussion in this volume of how Jiang Yan found Fujian unbearably remote and uncivilized.

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the First Emperor of Qin, the Han which actually sustained the unification had southern origins. Liu Bang founded the Han dynasty in 206 BCE, and the Liu family remained on the throne for nearly four hundred years. Han is the name of the longest tributary of the Yangtze, which originates in the Qin mountains and flows south through the old Chu territory, joining the Yangtze at the old Chu capital. Liu Bang held the Han river basin as his base from which to resist Xiang Yu 枭佥 (232–202 BCE), a formidable opponent who claimed to be a scion of the Chu king. Since Liu Bang’s hometown of Pei was also part of the Chu territory and actually not far from the hometown of Xiang Yu, the great duel traditionally dubbed the “Contest between Chu and Han” to seize the empire of Qin was actually one between two Chu men. The Chu commoner who had declared himself King of Han would win and make Han the new name of the empire that he had wrested from the hand of his fellow countryman. There are two songs remembered from this famous competition, one by the victor and future emperor, and the other by the noble loser before his death. In parting with his battle horse and favorite concubine, Yu 嘆, Xiang Yu intoned the following words:13 My power shook the mountain—my spirit dominated the world; But with fate not on my side—even my thoroughbred can run no more. When my steed can run no more—what can I do? Ah, Yu, ah Yu—what will happen to you? ≃㉼Ⱉ№㯋味ᶾ炻㗪ᶵ⇑№榭ᶵ必ˤ榭ᶵ必№⎗⣰ỽ炻嘆№嘆№⣰劍ỽˤ

Yu slashed her own throat with Xiang Yu’s sword upon hearing this sad song. On the other hand, on Liu Bang’s celebratory return journey to his hometown of Pei, he performed a song, which was echoed and repeated by 120 children:14 The great wind has risen—and clouds are scattered; My might covers the world within the seas—now I have returned in triumph. Where may I obtain brave men—to guard the four corners of my empire? ⣏桐崟№暚梃㎂炻⦩≈㴟ℏ№㬠㓭悱ˤ⬱⼿䋃⢓№⬰⚃㕡ˤ

What the new Han emperor does not realize while singing this song is that the meter of his song is in the Chu song form, the same pattern which his opponent had used before committing suicide. The similarity is indicated in the translation by the dash —, which represents the particle xi № in the original songs. This particle, which seems to indicate a kind of breathing pause or prolongation, is also used frequently in the Chu ci, and itself became a marker of southern music. The relevance of southern music and poetry to the imperial culture is demonstrated vividly by the use of the Chu song form to capture the voices of the imperial founder and his great opponent, at the most dramatic moments of their careers.

13. Shi ji 7.333. 14. Shi ji 8.389.

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Yet Chu’s distance from the centers of imperial power at Chang’an (modern Xi’an) and Luoyang meant that it retreated in the Han imagination to become a marginalized inferior, typified by the barbarity of its boundless marshland. Or so it appeared to the northerners sitting in the high halls of the capital, but the Chu words were never banished, and instead proliferated. Not only were they studied diligently by those princes stationed in the South, they were also presented at the central court. As a matter of fact, the majestic literary form called fu 岎 that Han court poets employed to celebrate the glory of Han was heavily influenced by the Chu ci. They tended to be long epideictic pieces, full of praise for the empire, all the possessions within its domain, and above all for the man who governed it. Ironically, though, linguistic opaqueness or otherness was probably an important reason why the fu was enjoyed, given the many expressive sound words and dialectal phrases used by the mostly southern poets. One essential element from its Chu ancestor that would have been missing in the eulogistic fu was the plaintive tone, which became the defining feature of works supposedly written by an individual author who wrote in privacy and at moments of frustration. The marriage of authorship and a wistful if not vengeful persona, earlier articulated by the historian Sima Qian ⎠楔怟 (145–86 BCE), broadened the appeal and significance of poetic lyricism, which probably had a long existence in folk songs. There are many examples of this expressive and melancholy persona in both the Odes and Han banquet songs. But when an individual writer assuming the author-persona sings his innermost thoughts to an audience that is sometimes projected into a different time and space, lyrical poetry comes into being, as seems to have happened toward the end of the Han. The birth of lyrical poetry is the beginning of a long process in which the southern spirit is revived and the South as a place is reconstructed in and through poetry. As one scholar has observed, “Chinese civilization seems not to have regarded its history as violated or abused when the historic monuments collapsed or burned, as long as those could be replaced or restored, and their functions regained. . . . The only truly enduring embodiments of the eternal human moments are the literary ones.”15 This literariness of Chinese civilization was often construed as specifically southern. Though the origins of this southern strain lay in the ancient state of Chu, as we have seen, it was under the Han empire that Chu traditions were codified and canonized. As a genre of literary production central to the self-conception of literati, the tradition of the Chu ci was not solely one of exile but also of positive affirmation. We can see this particularly in the imitations of Chu ci, written in the same meters, employing similar imagery, and often even adopting the voice of Qu Yuan himself. Some Han pieces of this type are even included in the Chu ci anthology, and writers continued to compose works of this type throughout later dynasties. In her essay “Echoes of Return: Geographical Discourses and Imagined Homelands,” Cheng Yu-yu 惕㭻䐄 has examined some of the early poems of this type, 15. Frederick Mote, “A Millennium of Chinese Urban History: Form, Time, and Space Concepts in Soochow,” 51.

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from the Han as well as the Wei and Jin dynasties.16 She shows how poets facing exile from the political center used various means to negate their own sense of alienation by constructing an opposing identity of “counter-exile.”17 For instance, Xie Lingyun 嫅曰忳 (385–433) uses the enjoyment of mountains and rivers to create a literature of counter-exile, grounded in his own family tradition. Cheng also points out the intriguing overlap between literature of exile and “geographical treatises” (dili zhi ⛘䎮⽿). Precisely because exiles were sent to relatively unfamiliar locales, their writings would then provide important sources of information for the geography of empire. Beginning with Qu Yuan himself, the literature of southern exile was constantly finding ways to reassert its own authority vis-à-vis the center.

Southern Identities after the Fall of the Han Chu defined the literary contours of the South for ages to come. But various locations could take on the aegis of southern identity relative to the North; they share in various forms a sense of alienation from the center of power, and often allude to Chu culture and history even if actually geographically distant. After the fall of the Han, when the Three Kingdoms vied for control of the entire realm, the kingdom of Wu ⏛ was the main representative of southern China, with its primary capital at Jianye ⺢㤕 (modern Nanjing), and controlling the southern and southeastern provinces. After its ultimate defeat and the reunification of the Western Jin dynasty, some natives of Wu retained a certain loyalty to their lost dynasty, a topic discussed in the second and third chapters of the book. For one writer in the fifth century, an appointment in Fujian seemed an exile to a distant and barbarous place, equaling the disappointments of Qu Yuan himself. Through the four centuries of Han empire, regional differences in China had been submerged by the emphasis on cultural and political unity among the elites. But as the empire collapsed in civil war toward the end of the second century CE, the era of the Three Kingdoms ensued. Though the Wei 櫷 state of the Cao 㚡 family was dominant, it was opposed by Wu in the Yangtze valley and Shu 嚨 in Sichuan. Though tripartite division lasted only a few decades before the Sima clan overturned the Wei and conquered Wu and Shu, the rivalry of the three states retained a dramatic symbolism for later ages as well. It is possible to trace the formation of regional identities in the literature of this period. One prominent attempt along these lines is the essay published in 1992 by Lin  Wen-yueh 㜿㔯㚰 of Taiwan National University, “Southern Consciousness in the Poems of Pan Yue and Lu Ji.”18 Professor Lin bases her comparison of the two major poets, one northern and one southern, on a close analysis of their use of the word “South” in poetry. David R. Knechtges pursued a closely related argument in his article “Sweet-peel 16. “Guifan de huiyin: dili lunshu yu jiaguo xiangxiang” 㬠彼䘬⚆枛ʇʇ⛘䎮婾徘冯⭞⚳゛⁷, in Xingbie yu jiaguo: Han Jin cifu de Chu sao lunshu, 55–113. 17. Cheng borrows this term from an essay by Claudio Guillén, “On the Literature of Exile and Counter Exile.” 18. “Pan Yue Lu Ji shi zhong de nanfang yishi.”

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Orange or Southern Gold? Regional Identity in Western Jin Literature,” published in 2003. Both Lin and Knechtges make clear that Lu Ji 映㨇 (261–303) retained a strong sense of southern identity as a scion of the state of Wu, only recently conquered by Jin in the wars of the Three Kingdoms. Though he journeyed to the capital of Luoyang to make his career, he felt uneasy with some of the cultural trends there, such as eccentric departures from Confucian etiquette, or the abstruse philosophizing of qingtan 㶭婯 “pure conversation” and xuanxue 䌬⬠ “studies of the Mystery.” The first two studies in this book develop this line of inquiry. David Knechtges returns to the topic of his seminal article to examine other facets of Lu Ji’s attachment to his native place of Wu. Here the specific southern region is not Chu at all, but what was both in the Warring States era and during the Three Kingdoms campaigns a rival of Chu. But the North/South polarity here is parallel to that of Chu versus the North. In fact, Lu Ji’s northern acquaintance and poetic rival, Pan Yue 㼀ⱛ (247–300), plays with the image of the orange tree from the Chu ci to tease Lu Ji, comparing Lu to the “sweet-peel tangerine” (gan 㝹), said in ancient sources to become the “trifoliate orange” (zhi 㝛) when relocated to the North. Lu Ji himself asserts his longing for home and strong Wu identity in a number of pieces, often indirectly through colorful images of his own. Knechtges calls attention, in particular, to Lu Ji’s fu on the “feather fan,” a unique product of the Wu region. Lu Ji sets his fu in the context of King Xiang’s 壬䌳 court in Warring States Chu, the setting of the classic fu attributed to Song Yu ⬳䌱. In the fu, “the fan made of white crane feathers is the favored accoutrement at the southern Chu court,” an “anachronistic” literary innovation that melds the traditional Chu setting with the contemporary material object. This anachronism is an assertion of cultural difference, which attests to the broad significance of “regional identity” for the interpretation of Western Jin literature. Tian Xiaofei’s chapter examines the same topic from a diametrically opposite perspective. While she agrees with Knechtges’s conclusions, she finds that Lu Ji’s identity as a southerner was accompanied by an admiration of Luoyang and its prominent figures, like the Cao family. While Lu Ji figures himself as a feather fan from the South, then, he is himself a “fan” (i.e., admirer) of northern culture. The interaction of these two sentiments is actually key to understanding the literary productions of both Lu Ji and his brother Lu Yun 映暚 (262–303). The Lu brothers expended much effort in rewriting northern yuefu 㦪⹄ songs in a more refined style, thereby appropriating them. Their motivations in doing so were surely shaped in part by their special status as southerners relocated to the capital. Tian follows the development of the “Song of Oars” tune as Southern Dynasties poets composed new poems to it. Originally a song of martial pomp, and rewritten along similar lines by Lu Ji, it became a popular title among poets at the Liang court, though there the content had shifted to a pastoral scene of lotus-picking on a river. In this new guise, and infused with Chu ci allusions, the song now signified “the cultural supremacy of the southern court of the Liang.” This kind of transformation and reworking of the literary tradition was used to assert, create, and magnify perceptions of regional identity. These later elaborations of yuefu

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themes are particularly striking insofar as they show how the sense of regional identity in the Western Jin did not simply disappear after the great southward migration at the beginning of the fourth century, but rather ramified into new configurations. Tian’s argument here is elaborating on her analysis of the binary opposition between North and South in her book on the literary culture of the Liang, in which she discusses “northern” frontier poetry and “southern” love chants in relation to the historical background in which they arose.19 The fall of the Han and the advent of political disunion did not result in cultural fragmentation, but rather in new attempts at creating a synthesis of regional cultures. Here regional identity, whether located in Wu, the South, or elsewhere, was often a way of contributing to a larger whole, as in the southern orange tree offered up to the king, or for Lu Ji writing about Luoyang as a fan from the South. But the southern frontier regions retained their exoticism, and the literary resonance of the South as the land of exile and estrangement remained. Lu Ji’s celebration of the feather fan does not neglect to describe the sacrifice made by the crane which provides the feathers: Burdened by being prized for its beautiful plumes, It has its thousand-year span reduced by a single arrow. Its body is offered to receive fashioning, Its two wings are presented to make a fan. 䳗㆟䑏㕤伶佥炻㋓⋫庱᷶ᶨ䭕ˤ⥼㚚橼ẍ⍿⇞炻⣷暁佭侴䁢㇯ˤ

In Lu Ji’s case, pride in his Wu heritage was fraught with constant reminders of Wu’s military defeat and submission. Like the crane, he could find esteem at court only after losing a part of himself. That personal defeat could result in cultural triumph is a central part of the heritage of Chu and the Qu Yuan legend. Aside from ancient Chu itself, perhaps the key period in the definition of the South was the series of short-lived southern dynasties—the Eastern Jin, Liu-Song, Qi, Liang, and Chen—all of which had their capitals at Jiankang. After the fall of Luoyang in 311 to Xiongnu forces, the rulers of the Western Jin fled south of the Yangtze River to reestablish their civilization there. Dominant themes of the new culture that developed in the South were nostalgia for their northern homes, and pride in the cultural sophistication that could survive in exile from its original home. It was in this period that the South gained a new claim to identity as the center of Chinese culture. Map 1.2 on the facing page illustrates the boundaries of the reduced Eastern Jin state after the flight southward. The new identity of these transplanted elite is perhaps best suggested by the famous remark attributed to Zhou Yi ␐柿: “The scenery is not too different, but when you look around, you see how the mountains and rivers are distinct.”20 Zhou is said to have made this remark after the fall of the Western Jin. Though writers in different parts of China might 19. Tian, Beacon Fire and Shooting Star: The Literary Culture of the Liang (502–557), 310–66. 20. Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 2/31 (2.92). Cf. translation in Richard B. Mather, A New Account of Tales of the World, 47.

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Map 1.2 Eastern Jin Territory ca. 317 CE Key: Dotted line signifies approximate territorial border of Eastern Jin (317–420) Chengdu ㆸ悥: Modern Chengdu, Sichuan; capital of Shu 嚨 kingdom during Three Kingdoms period Chiting 崌ṕ: Modern Fuyang ⭴春, Zhejiang Gusu ⥹喯: Modern Suzhou, Jiangsu Jiankang ⺢⹟: Modern Nanjing, Southern Dynasties capital Luoyang 㳃春: Modern Luoyang, Henan; capital of Wei and Western Jin dynasties Nanjun ⋿悉: Modern Jiangling 㰇昝, Hubei Wuxing ⏛冰: Site of Jiang Yan’s 㰇㶡 exile, near modern Pucheng 㴎❶, Fujian Ye 惜: Court of Cao Cao 㚡㑵 (155–220)

conform to a standard dialect and subscribe to a shared culture, there remained something distinct about the Southland, whether the mountains and rivers or something more ineffable. This perspective on Chinese literature as mediated by a geographic region is illuminating because the Southland had precisely this function throughout the history of Chinese culture. It was never merely a topographical or geographical designation, but always a topos,

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a commonplace of expression that carried with it conventional associations and complexly allusive referents. Chu and Qu Yuan continued to cast a long shadow over the literary culture of the Southern Dynasties, and literati felt a renewed affection for Qu Yuan as they were themselves transplanted southward. Ping Wang’s chapter takes an innovative look at the Chu origins of the poetic tradition. The classic treatise ranking pentasyllabic poets into three grades, Zhong Rong’s 挦ⵠ (468–518) Shi pin 娑⑩ mentions a “Han consort” (Han qie 㻊⥦) in its preface. Zhong Rong mentions this Han consort in tandem with the “Chu vassal” as archetypical figures of loss. But while the Chu vassal must be Qu Yuan, the Han consort might indicate either Lady Ban 䎕 or Wang Zhaojun 䌳㗕⏃, two Han ladies both associated with the literature of “plaint” (yuan ⿐). As Wang shows, this is actually a false choice, because these women are just two out of a set of stereotyped figures of female plaint, all associated with some kind of exile or bereavement. These various figures were all constructed, perhaps deliberately, by the Ban family, in particular by Ban Gu through his compilation of the Han shu 㻊㚠. There is a striking parallel here to Sima Qian’s role in editing the biography of Qu Yuan in his Shi ji ⎚姀. Sima Qian’s emphasis on Qu Yuan’s authorship of his poems as an expression of personal frustration, whether or not historical, certainly seems tendentious. Wang shows that the presentation of female plaint in the Han shu is equally artificial, and even more significant for the future of pentasyllabic verse. This chapter reveals a tradition in the making, a tradition that builds throughout on the heritage of Chu songs and the mythology of Qu Yuan. Paul Kroll’s chapter “Farther South: Jiang Yan in Darkest Fujian” looks at the Southern Dynasties official Jiang Yan 㰇㶡 (444–505), who was dispatched to a magistracy in Fujian province between 474 and 477, after a dispute with his patron. As Kroll points out, by this time the displaced Chinese aristocracy had become entirely accustomed to the Jiangnan region it inhabited, and a place had to be “farther south,” indeed as far as Fujian, to evoke the same sense of danger that Jiangnan once did. Kroll examines a number of Jiang’s compositions, primarily fu, that date to this period, in which Jiang describes his distress and dismay at arriving in such an inhospitable and alien land. One of the most striking features of these compositions, brought out with remarkable precision by Kroll’s translations, is how Jiang adapted the language of the Chu ci to this new Southland. At the same time, Jiang also recognized the novelty of Fujian, in particular of its flora, which he describes in a set of fifteen poems. Even though he continues to bemoan his transplantation, in fact, Jiang indicates here that he is beginning to make some emotional accommodation with his southern abode, as he appreciates the special beauties of the flowers and trees he has discovered.

Southern Motifs in the Tang By the Tang dynasty (618–907), different southern regions were beginning to develop new poetic identities rather different from those of Han times. The Jingzhou region (in modern

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Hubei and Hunan), linked with Chu in ancient times but never receiving as much literary distinction, developed a distinct identity in Tang poetry (explored in the seventh chapter of this book). The novel experiences of Tang literati dispatched to the Lingnan ⵢ⋿ region of modern Guangdong and Guangxi have been covered in depth in The Vermilion Bird: T’ang Images of the South, Edward H. Schafer’s masterful study, and a major source of inspiration for this book. Meanwhile Jiangnan was becoming more and more central to literati culture, to the point that it could be the site of ennui. By the Tang, the Jiangnan area of Suzhou and Yangzhou had shifted from an exotic and remote place, as it had once seemed to the men of the central plain, to the enchanting site of pleasure quarters and comforting vistas of lakes and hills. Map 1.3 on the next page illustrates the locations of the Jiangan East and Jiangnan West Circuits in the High Tang era. As an administrative matter, Yangzhou belonged to the Huainan Circuit, although it was felt to belong to the cultural “Southland” as well. The Chu region, though, and the Southland more broadly understood, remained a powerful source of inspiration for Tang literati, even though their travels might take them far beyond the region of Qu Yuan’s exile. Nicholas Morrow Williams’s chapter “The Pity of Spring” traces the impact of Chu ci language and imagery on later poetry. In particular, a close reading of two understudied fu by Li Bai 㛶䘥 (701–762) shows that they can be understood as commentary on a few lines in the “Summons to the Soul” ㊃櫪 from the Chu ci. Behind what might appear conventional lines on the passage of spring lies the undiscovered depths of Qu Yuan mythology, in particular the ancient belief in the division of the soul. This is an aspect of the Qu Yuan legend that contributed to its continuing power during and after the Tang. References to the “Chu vassal” and to various Chu ci poems are not just references to the historical episode of Qu Yuan’s exile and suicide, but to timeless conceptions of life and death. Two other poems by Li Bai complement this analysis by representing other southern traditions of springtime angst. Like Kroll’s chapter, Williams’s study of Wang Bo and Li Bai traces how certain expressions in the Chu ci tradition continued to retain their resonance centuries after their original composition. Meanwhile, Jiangnan itself, once the archetypal site of exile and abandonment, had become a cultural center. While great poets could revive the language of the Chu ci in appropriate circumstances, some of the familiar topoi had become pure conventions. The final two chapters of this book address the gradual shift in literary representations of the South during the Tang dynasty. Though reflecting major transitions in the social and political geography of China, literary transformations do not always proceed quite in tandem with them. Jie Wu’s chapter “The Stele and the Drunkard: Two Poetic Allusions from Xiangyang” discusses two new conventions of Tang poetry, which developed around particular places in Xiangyang 壬春. In hindsight, neither convention seems to possess any historical inevitability, but they formed gradually as later poets selected and reshaped certain elements. The stele of Yang Hu 伲䤄 became an especially potent image in part because it combined

Map 1.3 Tang China ca. 741 CE Key: Circuits (dao 忻) are identified in italics on map. Huainan 㶖⋿ Circuit: Literally meaning “south of the Huai River,” encompassing parts of modern Jiangsu, Anhui, and Hubei Jiangnan East 㰇⋿㜙 Circuit: Encompassed modern Suzhou, Hangzhou, and Fujian province in the south Jiangnan West 㰇⋿大 Circuit: Encompassed modern Jiangxi and Hunan provinces, as well as part of Hubei and Anhui Jiannan ∵⋿ Circuit: Area south of modern Jiange ∵敋, Sichuan Lingnan ⵢ⋿ Circuit: Encompassing modern Guangdong and Guangxi provinces Qianzhong 湼ᷕ Circuit: Area encompassing ancient Chu’s Qianzhong commandery City names are identical with modern ones, with the exception of Chang’an 攟⬱, modern Xi’an 大⬱, Shaanxi

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so many important topoi. The pond of the Xi 佺 family was not the actual site of feasting or composition for many poets, but somehow became extremely popular as literary reference belonging to the realm of the imagination. The way that certain allusions become euhemerized, and ultimately reduced to clichés taught to school children, is reminiscent of how the legend of Qu Yuan likewise simplifies some of the contradictions inherent in the original story. During the Han dynasty, Qu Yuan was a controversial figure often criticized for committing suicide needlessly. Stephen Owen’s chapter “Jiangnan from the Ninth Century On: The Routinization of Desire” concludes the volume by presenting Jiangnan as the “routinized,” commonplace figure of desire, long-since stripped of its original rhetorical significance. In late Tang shi 娑 and early ci 娆, Jiangnan is a conventional figure for pleasant scenery and drunken festivities. Figures of protest and plaint still exist, but have become attached to other geographical sites and literary references. Owen details the new representation of Jiangnan, which contains its own curious aporias and erasures. Finally he describes a ci by Su Shi 喯度 (1036–1101), leading us onward into the literature of the Northern Song, in which “‘the Southland is best’ survives only as a quotation, a quotation with a heavy freight of associations that is invisible in the simplicity of the statement.” This routinization and simplification of rhetorical terms that had taken on “heavy freight” was itself one necessary task in the continuation of the literary tradition. Here Owen suggests that “defamiliarization” was often a necessary step toward making old literary conventions newly relevant to contemporary experience. Over the course of history the identity of the South has taken on various meanings, for natives and exiles, as for poets and courtiers. But throughout this book we see how the imagery of the southland is also grounded in real experiences, some of them so vivid that they continue to be meaningful centuries after their historical occurrence. Edward Schafer’s study The Vermilion Bird is focused on the concrete reality of the South as depicted in Tang poetry, but also refers to this interaction of sentiment and reality:21 The cry of a magpie or a swallow made the medieval northerner’s heart swell with happiness; the call of a langur or chukar made him weep with homesickness. It was the writing of southerners like Chang Chiu-ling which made it possible for later generations to see nature in all of its local manifestations without sentimental or parochial distortion. Perhaps, after all, the vermilion bird of the south might lose its ancient symbolic role and become a happy reality.

In Owen’s chapter we see one example of the South changing from “ancient symbolic role” to “happy reality” in the present. What Owen shows, though, as do other writers in the volume, is how easily the “happy reality” slips back into a “symbolic role,” becoming another topos of cultural significance that may elide its original meaning. So for medieval Chinese poets reasserting regional, or individual, identity is an effort made in the face of greater historical forces. It is a recapturing and appropriation of traditional symbols for their 21. Edward Schafer, The Vermilion Bird: T’ang Images of the South, 47.

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own purposes. Ultimately the depiction of the estrangement, whether foreignness or exile, of the South itself plays a role in the assertion of identity. But this identity is not necessarily “southern,” however much allusions to Qu Yuan or the South may be ingredients in its composition. It is the identity of the scholar-official, particularly in the aggrieved role of the loyal dissident. The poet’s identification with the moral system and literary heritage of the ages is only intensified by exile and isolation, a way of confirming one’s own purity and virtue. In this sense the Southland becomes synecdoche for the Chinese poetic tradition as a whole.

2 Southern Metal and Feather Fan The “Southern Consciousness” of Lu Ji David R. Knechtges

In 1992, Professor Lin Wen-yueh 㜿㔯㚰 published an article on the “southern” consciousness of the Western Jin poets Pan Yue 㼀ⱛ (247–300) and Lu Ji 映㨇 (261–303) in which she compares the meaning of nan ⋿ or south in these two poets’ verse.1 Professor Lin shows in poems that Pan Yue wrote when he was serving in office north of the Yellow River that the South to which he longed to return was the area south of the Yellow River, and especially the capital Luoyang. Lu Ji, on the other hand, after he left Wu and took up residence in Luoyang, wrote many pieces in which he expresses nostalgia for the South, which to him meant his ancestral home in Wu Commandery, and especially his natal place, which is usually identified as Huating 厗ṕ. I will say something more about its precise location later in this chapter. In this chapter, I wish to re-examine the “southern consciousness” of Lu Ji. I shall mainly focus on Lu Ji’s fu compositions that provide rich data for enriching our understanding of how Lu Ji fashioned his “southern” identity. First, I need to provide some biographical information about Lu Ji.2 As I already mentioned, Lu Ji’s ancestral home was Wu ⏛ of Wu Commandery ⏛悉 (modern Suzhou in Jiangsu). He was a member of a prominent family of the Wu state.3 Lu Ji’s grandfather Lu Xun 映怄 (183–245) served as prime minister of Wu, and his father Lu Kang 映㈿ (226–274) was minister of war. Lu Ji was the older brother of Lu Yun 映暚 (262–303). Lu Xun was an early supporter of the Wu founder Sun Quan ⬓㪲 (r. 222–252).4 He was married to Sun Quan’s sister. In 219, Lu Xun led the Wu army to a decisive victory over the Shu general Guan Yu 斄佥 (d. 219), and as a reward Sun Quan enfeoffed him as Marquis of Huating (Hua Neighborhood).5 However, this Huating is not the same as the 1. 2.

3. 4. 5.

See Lin Wen-yueh, “Pan Yue Lu Ji shi zhong de ‘nanfang’ yishi.” For biographies of Lu Ji see Takahashi Kazumi, “Riku Ki no denki to sono bungaku”; Hasegawa Shigenari, “Rikuchō bunjin den—Riku Ki Riku Un (Shinsho)”; Jiang Zuyi and Han Quanxin, “Lu Ji”; Lai Chiu-mi, “River and Ocean: The Third Century Verse of Pan Yue and Lu Ji,” 88–119, 383–88. On the Lu family of Wu commandery see Wang Yongping, “Zhongyi shijia: Wu jun Lushi zhi jiazu wenhua,” Liuchao jiazu, 302–43. For Lu Xun’s biography see Sanguo zhi 58.143–54. See Sanguo zhi 58.1345.

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later estate that was owned by the Lu family.6 The Huating where the Lu family lived is not an administrative unit, but is simply the name of the Lu family estate. It was in an area variously designated as Kunshan 㖮Ⱉ or Youquan 䓙㊛, located south of modern Jiaxing ▱冰 in northern Zhejiang.7 In the third century, Huating was a scenic area that included a large valley and meandering river. It was also famous for its colony of cranes, whose crunkling could be heard from a great distance. Lu Xun was one of Sun Quan’s most able generals, and he was appointed prime minister of Wu in 244, one year before his death.8 In 245, Lu Xun became embroiled in a political struggle at the court between two of Sun Quan’s sons. Displeased with Lu Xun’s handling of the matter, Sun Quan repeatedly sent palace emissaries to admonish him. According to Lu Xun’s biography in the Sanguo zhi (58.1345), Lu Xun died of “indignation” at the age of sixty-three.9 When Lu Xun died in 245, Lu Kang took command of his father’s army. Lu Kang was the leader of the forces that fought against the Wei armies led by Sima Zhao ⎠楔㗕 (211–265). While a number of the Wu commanders surrendered to the Wei, Lu Kang remained loyal to Wu, even after Sima Yan ⎠楔䀶 (236–290) established the Jin dynasty in 265. In 272, the Wu commander Bu Chan 㬍斉 (d. 272) surrendered to the Jin. Lu Kang occupied Xiling 大昝 (southeast of modern Yichang ⭄㖴, Hubei) to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Jin. After capturing Xiling, Lu Kang ordered the execution of Bu Chan and his family.10 Probably as a reward for this achievement, in 273 Lu Kang was named commander-in-chief and regional inspector of the large and important province of Jingzhou 勲ⶆ (administrative seat Xiangyang 壬春, modern Xiangfan city, Hubei), which seems to have been an area traditionally assigned to members of the Lu family. However, in autumn of 274, Lu Kang died of illness.11 Lu Kang had six sons: Lu Yan 映㗷 (d. 280), Lu Jing 映㘗 (249–280), Lu Xuan 映䌬 (n.d.), Lu Ji, Lu Yun, and Lu Dan 映俥 (d. 303). The oldest son Lu Yan succeeded his father as head of the family, but all of the sons except for the youngest, Lu Dan, shared in the command of Lu Kang’s army. Lu Ji was only fourteen years old at the time, but he was given the rank of yamen jiangjun 䈁攨⮯幵 (general of the banner gate).12 In December 279, the Jin sent a large army of over 200,000 men to attack Wu from the west. Just before his death, Lu Kang had warned the Wu emperor to prepare for such an invasion. In the face of this overwhelming force, many of the Wu commanders surrendered without a fight. However,

The Huating fief granted to Lu Xun was located in Hua 厗 county, which is modern Fei 屣 county, Shandong, far from Wu commandery. See Li Mei, “Lu Ji jiguan kao.” 7. See Li Mei, “Lu Ji jiguan kao,” 86; Liu Yunhao, “Lu Ji jiguan yu xingji kaolun.” 8. See Sanguo zhi 58.1353. 9. See Sanguo zhi 58.1354. 10. See Sanguo zhi 48.1169, 52.1240, 58.1356. 11. See Sanguo zhi 58.1360. 12. See Wang Yin, Jin shu cited in Wen xuan 16.723, and Zang Rongxu, Jin shu cited in Wen xuan 17.761.

6.

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Lu Ji’s two older brothers Lu Yan and Lu Jing were both killed in battle with the Jin general Wang Jun 䌳㴂 (206–285).13 According to the traditional account summarized in the Jin shu, after the Jin conquest, Lu  Ji and his brother Lu Yun retired to the family estate in Huating.14 They reputedly lived here for nearly ten years, engaging in scholarly pursuits and writing poetry until 289 when they received an invitation from the Jin court to take up office in Luoyang. Shortly after the Jin conquest, Lu wrote a long two-part expository essay, “Bian wang lun” 彐ṉ 婾 (Disquisition on the fall of a state) in which he discusses the reasons for Wu’s defeat.15 There is much debate among scholars about exactly when Lu Ji first went to Luoyang. I will not devote any space here to a detailed examination of the various views on this subject.16 The most detailed study of the chronology of Lu Ji’s life is the recent book by Yu Shiling ᾆ⢓䍚 of Nanjing University.17 I mostly follow Professor Yu in the account of Lu Ji’s early career in Luoyang. According to the Zang Rongxu 冏㥖䵺 Jin shu, at the end of the Taixi ⣒䅁 period Yang Jun 㣲榧 (d. 291) “summoned [Lu] Ji to the position of chancellor [in the national university].”18 Yang Jun was the father of Empress Yang 㣲䘯⎶ (238–274), the principal consort of Emperor Wu (r. 265–290). By the end of Emperor Wu’s reign, Yang Jun had de facto control of the imperial court. The Taixi period lasted to the fourth lunar month (4–27) of 290. However, the text does not mention that Lu Ji actually took up the position of chancellor. Yu Shiling suggests that although Yang Jun had wished to name Lu Ji chancellor, after Sima Yu ⎠楔怡 (d. 300) was selected as heir designate on October 18, 290, Lu Ji was appointed librarian on the staff of the heir designate.19 In fact, the Zang Rongxu Jin shu specifically says that after Yang Jun was executed, Lu Ji was appointed librarian to the heir designate.20 Yang Jun was killed in a palace coup on April 23, 291. Although most accounts record that Lu Ji, his brother Lu Yun, and another Lu native Gu Rong 栏㥖 (d. 312), who 13. Lu Yan was killed defending Yidao ⣟忻 (northwest of modern Yidu, Hubei) on 22 March 280, and Lu Jing lost his life at the same place on 23 March 280. See Sanguo zhi 58.1360; Jin shu 17.761. 14. See Jin shu 54.1467. There is a question of whether the Lu brothers were captured and taken to the north, perhaps as far as Luoyang. For a good summary of the matter, see Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 29–32. 15. For the text see Wen xuan 53.2310–19, Jin shu 54.1467–72. For translations see Emile Gaspardone, “Le Discours de la perte du Wou par Lou Ki,” Sinologica 4 (1958): 189–225; David R. Knechtges, “Han and Six Dynasties Parallel Prose,” 78–94. 16. The following are most of the studies that discuss the dating of when Lu Ji went to Luoyang for the first time. See Zhu Dongrun, “Lu Ji nianbiao”; Jiang Liangfu, Lu Pingyuan nianpu; Chen Zhuang, “Lu  Ji shengping san kao”; Fu Gang, “Lu Ji chu ci fu Luo shijian kao bian”; rpt. Fu Gang, Han Wei Liuchao wenxue yu wenxian lungao, 461–67; Shen Yucheng, “‘Zhang Hua nianpu’ ‘Lu Pingyuan nianpu’ zhong de jige wenti”; rpt. in Shen Yucheng, Shen Yucheng wencun, 265–78; Jiang Fang, “Lu Ji Lu Yun shi Jin huanji kao,” 76–86; Jiang Jianyun, “Lu Ji ru Luo yi’an xinduan,” 14–16; Jiang Jianyun, “Lu Ji ru Luo shijian ji cishu wenti,” 232–45; Gu Nong, “Lu Ji shengping zhuzuo kaobian san ti”; Li Xiuhua, Lu Ji de wenxue chuangzuo yu lilun, 211–12; Wang Linli, “Lu Ji Taikang shiji kao” and “Lu Ji chu ci ru Luo shijian xintan”; Liu Yunhao, “Lu Ji jiguan yu xingji kaolun”; Li Xiaomin, “Lu Ji shengping kaobian er ze.” 17. Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu. 18. See Wen xuan 24.1154, Li Shan’s commentary. 19. See Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 107–9. 20. See Wen xuan 20.949, Li Shan’s commentary.

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was married to the Lu brothers’ elder sister, went to Luoyang in 282, it is likely that Lu Ji did not take up his post in Luoyang until 292. According to Yu Shiling, Lu Yun and Gu Rong held office at the Luoyang court a decade before Lu Ji.21 When Lu Ji arrived in Luoyang his colleagues included He Shao ỽ≕ (236–302), Wang Rong 䌳ㆶ (234–305), Liu Shi ∱⭼ (220–310), He Qiao ␴ⵈ (d. 292), Fu Xian ‭① (239–294), Pan Ni 㼀⯤ (ca. 250–311), Feng Xiong 楖䄲 (d. 305), and Zhang Zai ⻝庱 (ca. 250–ca. 310).22 It was about this time that Lu Ji and Lu Yun made the acquaintance of the prominent statesman and scholar Zhang Hua ⻝厗 (232–300). He is reputed to have said upon first meeting them that “one of the benefits of conquering Lu has been obtaining these two outstanding men.”23 At this time Zhang Hua held the prestigious positions of grand master for splendid happiness of the left (zuo guanglu dafu ⶎ⃱䤧 ⣏⣓), palace attendant (shi zhong ἵᷕ), and secretariat supervisor (zhongshu jian ᷕ㚠 䚋).24 Zhang Hua introduced the Lu brothers to prominent men of Luoyang. One of their visits was to Liu Bao ∱⮞ (n.d.), whose ancestral home was Gaoping 檀⸛ (southeast of modern Zou 悺 county, Shandong). When the two brothers called on him they found him drinking alcohol even though he was in mourning. After politely greeting them, all Liu Bao said to them was: “Eastern Wu has long-necked calabashes. Did you bring any seeds with you?” The brothers then left, feeling great disappointment that they had visited him in the first place.25 Another man whom Lu Ji visited perhaps at the suggestion of Zhang Hua was Wang Ji 䌳㾇 (d. ca. 292) from the distinguished Wang clan of Jinyang 㗱春 in Taiyuan ⣒⍇ (modern Taiyuan, Shanxi). He was the second son of Wang Hun 䌳㷦 (233–297), who played an important role in the defeat of Wu in 280. He was the brother-in-law of He Qiao and was married to the Princess of Changshan ⷠⰙ℔ᷣ.26 He thus was on close terms with Emperor Wu.27 Lu Ji called on Wang Ji, and Wang Ji, wishing to insult him, set out several hu-measures of goat curds (yang lao 伲愒) before him and said, “What do you have south of the Yangtze to match this?” Lu Ji replied, “We only have water-shield soup (chun geng 咜佡), but we do not put in any salted beans [as with goat curds].”28 These incidents are more than just insults hurled at Lu Ji and his brother from rude northerners. They are also examples of what I have called a “cultural rift” between the Wu elite and some of their northern counterparts.29 As we have seen, the Lu brothers belonged to one of the most prominent Wu families, and they identify themselves with the old 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

See Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 49–51. See Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 86–92. See Jin yangqiu 㗱春䥳, cited in Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 2.88 (2/26). See Liao Wei-ch’ing, “Zhang Hua nianpu,” Zhonggu shiren yanjiu, 259. See Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 24.769 (24/5). See Jin shu 42.1205. See Jin shu 55.1502. See Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 1.88 (2/26). See David R. Knechtges, “Sweet-peel Orange or Southern Gold? Regional Identity in Western Jin Literature.”

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traditions of the Wu area. They thought of themselves as the cultural heirs of Taibo ⣒ỗ and Zhongyong ẚ晵, who were sons of the venerable Zhou ancestor, designated in Chinese history as King Tai ⣒䌳, the Ancient Venerable Danfu ⎌℔Ṟ䇞. In the late Shang period, when King Tai wished to cede the throne to his youngest son, whose wife had given birth to a boy who would become the future King Wen of Zhou, Taibo and Zhongyong voluntarily renounced their claims to the throne, and they moved to the land of the southern tribes where Taibo founded the state of Gouwu ⎍⏛.30 Taibo reputedly settled in Meili 㠭慴 (modern Meicun 㠭㛹, southeast of modern Wuxi 䃉拓, Jiangsu), which was the Gouwu capital for nineteen reigns until the reign of Shoumeng ⢥⣊ (r. 585–561 BCE). When Shoumeng died, the people of Gouwu moved to Wu ⏛, which is modern Suzhou.31 Lu Ji wrote many works about his ancestral home of Wu commandery. One notable piece is a yuefu to the title “Wu qu xing” ⏛嵐埴 (Song of Wu).32 This may be a variant name for “Wu qu qu” ⏛嵐㚚 (Song of Wu) which according to the Gujin zhu ⎌Ṳ㲐 (Notes on antiquity and the present) by Cui Bao Ⲽ尡 (fl. 290–306) was used by the people of Wu to sing about their Wu area.33 Although Lu Ji’s piece is the only extant piece by this title, if Cui Bao’s claim is credible, his poem belongs to a tradition of Wu pieces written by other natives of Wu commandery who celebrate their home area.34 Indeed, this is what Lu Ji does in his “Song of Wu.” Consort of Chu, stop for a moment your lament; Beauty of Qi, halt for now your singing. All you seated round, listen quietly, Listen to me sing a song of Wu. 5

The song of Wu has a beginning, Let me begin with Chang Gate. Chang Gate, how tall and towering! Soaring passageways stride over the merging waves. Double brackets support floating columns,

10

Round windows open on the curved end-beams. Thick and dense, propitious clouds spread forth, Cool and refreshing, an auspicious breeze blows by. In mountains and marshes are buried many nourishing products, The local customs are pure and good.

15

Taibo led with a benevolent wind, Zhongyong further stirred the waves. Solemn and majestic was the Lord of Yanling,

30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

See Shi ji 31.1445. See Shi ji 31.1445, n. 1. See Wen xuan 28.1308–9. See Wen xuan 28.1308, Li Shan’s commentary. Lu Ji’s “Wu qu xing” is the only piece to this title in the Yuefu shiji. See Guo Maoqian, Yuefu shiji, 64.934.

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24 Brightly he cast his light on the Central Domain. Royal accomplishments averted the Yang Nine disasters,35 20

Imperial achievement revived the outlands in the four directions. The Grand Sovereign rose from Fuchun, Raising his hand, he regulated the net of state. Outstanding talents came forth in response to the cycle of fortune, Glistening like blossoms in a spring grove.

25

The cities within its domain all have scholar-gentlemen, But Wu commandery district has the most. The eight clans are not worth lavish praise, But the four lineages truly are distinguished houses. From their cultured virtue flourishes purity and goodness,

30

Their martial feats are like unto mountain and river. In observing rites and yielding way—how solemn and dignified! Our streaming influence spreads in copious flow. Our purity and excellence is hard fully to recount, As a brief summary for consideration have I made this song.

ġ

㤂⤫ᶼ⊧㫶炻滲⧍ᶼ卓嫛ˤ⚃⛸᷎㶭倥炻倥ㆹ㫴⏛嵐ˤ⏛嵐冒㚱⥳炻 婳⽆敞攨崟ˤ敞攨ỽⲐⲐ炻梃敋嶐忂㲊ˤ慵㪺㈧忲㤝炻⚆幺┇㚚旧ˤ 喡喡ㄞ暚塓炻㲈㲈䤍桐忶ˤⰙ㽌⣂啷做炻⛇桐㶭ᶼ▱ˤ㲘ỗ⮶ṩ桐炻 ẚ晵㎂℞㲊ˤ䧮䧮⺞昝⫸炻䀤䀤⃱媠厗ˤ䌳嶉晌春ḅ炻ⷅ≇冰⚃忸ˤ ⣏䘯冒⭴㗍炻䞗ㇳ枻ᶾ伭ˤ恎⼍ㅱ忳冰炻䱚劍㗍㜿向ˤⰔ❶①㚱⢓炻 ⏛怹㚨䁢⣂ˤℓ㕷㛒嵛ἰ炻⚃⥻⮎⎵⭞ˤ㔯⽟䅁㶛ㆧ炻㬎≇ἼⰙ㱛ˤ 䥖嬻ỽ㾇㾇炻㳩⊾冒㹪㱙ˤ㵹伶暋䩖䲨炻⓮㥟䁢㬌㫴ˤ

Lu Ji begins his account of the Wu capital by describing a major gate, the Chang Gate 敞攨, which was located on the northern side of the city. It reputedly was constructed under the direction of Wu Zixu ẵ⫸傍 (d. 485 BCE) during the reign of King Helü 敼敕 (r. 51–496 BCE). It was built so as to allow the western breeze to circulate into the city.36 Lu Ji then mentions the favorable geomantic attributes of the place. There are “propitious clouds,” “auspicious breezes,” the local mountains are rich in life-giving products, and “the local customs are pure and good.” Wu also produced wise rulers such as its founders Taibo and Zhongyong. Lu Ji heaps special praise on one prominent figure from the Wu area, the Viscount of Yanling ⺞昝⫸, also known as Yanling Jizi ⺞昝⬋⫸ (Viscount Ji of Yanling). He is the famous Wu noble 35. The Yang Nine refers to a period in a cycle system that had designated an epoch (yuan ⃫) that lasted 4,617  years. Within the epoch was an allocated number of disaster years that were keyed to the alternation of yin (flood) and yang (drought). After the first 106 years of an epoch, there were to be nine drought years, which were called “Yang Nine.” After the next 374 years, there were to be nine flood years, which were called “Yin Nine.” This process continued for seven more stages. Within each epoch, there were a total of 4,560 “normal years,” and 57 “disaster years.” See Han shu 21A.984. 36. See Wu Yue chunqiu 4.1b.

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Ji Zha ⬋∬ (ca. 590–ca. 510 BCE). Ji Zha was the fourth and youngest son of the Wu king Shoumeng ⢥⣊ (r. 585–561 BCE). Shoumeng upon his death wished to have Ji Zha succeed him. Ji Zha declined in favor of his oldest brother Zhufan 媠㦲 (r. 560–548 BCE). In the first year of his reign, Zhufan proposed to abdicate to Ji Zha. Ji Zha declined the offer, and left the court to take up farming. When Zhufan died in 548 BCE, the Wu court ordered that Shoumeng’s third son Yuzhai 检䤕 take the throne, which would then eventually be handed down to Ji Zha. However, Ji Zha left the court to reside in Yanling ⺞昝, which is variously identified as located either near modern Changzhou ⷠⶆ or Danyang ᷡ春. Ji Zha is regarded as one of the ancient authorities on ritual. Confucius is reputed to have said that “Jizi of Yanling is the one in Wu who is most highly versed in ritual.”37 He is renowned for his discerning comments on a performance of the Classic of Songs when he visited the state of Lu in 544 BCE.38 Lu Ji presumably refers to his visit to the north as “casting light on the Central Domain.”39 He implies that Ji Zha was able to show the men of the north that Wu too had a rich cultural tradition that included knowledge of the ancient rites. In line 21, Lu Ji refers to the recent founder of the Wu state, the Grand Sovereign, Sun  Quan ⬓㪲 (182–252), whose ancestral home was Fuchun ⭴㗍 (modern Fuyang ⭴春, Zhejiang). He assumed the imperial throne of Wu in 229. In 221 Lu Ji’s grandfather Lu Xun served as Sun Quan’s commander-in-chief, and he led the Wu victory over Liu Bei ∱⁁ in 222. In 244, Lu Xun was appointed counselor-in-chief.40 Beginning in line 23, Lu Ji mentions the talented men who hail from the state of Wu. Although Wu has many gifted talents, the best ones come from his ancestral commandery of Wu. He shows special pride in his own Lu family in the following lines: The eight clans are not worth lavish praise, But the four lineages truly are distinguished houses. ℓ㕷㛒嵛ἰ炻⚃⥻⮎⎵⭞ˤ

According to the Wu lu ⏛抬 (Record of Wu) of Zhang Bo ⻝≫ (3rd century), the eight clans are the Chen 昛, Huan 㟻, Lü ⏪, Dou 䩯, Gongsun ℔⬓, Sima ⎠楔, Xu ⼸, and Fu ‭.41 Lu Ji considers them inferior to the four most prestigious clans of Wu commandery,

37. See Lü Youren, Li ji zhengyi, 14.423. 38. See Zuo zhuan, Xiang 29. 39. On Ji Zha see Sun Miao , “Taibo, Ji Zha rangguo shijian jianxi”; Chen Jianfang, “Ji Zha kao”; Zhang Cengming, “Ji Zha ji qi zai Wu wenhua fazhan shi shang di diwei”; Zhang Chen, “Ji Zha tanuo er ti; Zhang Chengzong, “Ji Zha ji qi guli Yanling kaolüe.” 40. On the relationship between Sun Quan and Lu Xun, see Matsumoto Yukio, “Son Go seikan to Rikushi no gunzō”; Wang Yongping, “Lu Xun yu Sun Quan zhi guanxi ji qi zhengzhi beiju zhi yuanyin kaolun”; Wang Yongping, Sun Wu zhengzhi yu wenhua shi lun, 215–34. 41. See Li Shan’s Wen xuan commentary, 28.1309. On the Wu lu see Matsumoto Yukio, “Chō Botsu Goroku kō”; Matsumoto Yukio, “Zoku Chō Botsu Goroku kō (fu Goroku kiden)”; both rpt. in Matsumoto Yukio, Gi Shin shidan no kenkyū, 835–925.

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the Gu 栏, Lu 映, Zhu 㛙, and Zhang ⻝.42 In Lu Ji’s account, men from these four clans, which included his own Lu family, were distinguished both for their civil and martial achievements. And like the founders of the Wu state, and Ji Zha, their greatest virtues were their mastery of the rites and their willingness to stand aside and yield their place to other men. Lu Ji and Lu Yun wrote a number of other pieces about their family history. Xu Gongchi designates these pieces as expressive of Lu Ji’s fuzu qingjie 䇞䣾ね䳸 or “father and grandfather complex.”43 “Complex” is much too psychological a term to apply to the case of the Lu brothers, for it usually designates a mental abnormality.44 Nevertheless, there is no question that the Lu brothers had a strong attachment to their ancestors, a feeling that they expressed frequently, especially in the pieces they composed after the death of Lu Kang and the fall of the state of Wu. For example, Lu Yun wrote around 302 the “Zukao song” 䣾侫枴 (Eulogy for my grandfather and late father) in praise of Lu Xun and Lu Kang.45 Lu Ji composed at this same time the “Er zu song” Ḵ䣾枴 (Eulogy for our two ancestors). This piece is lost, but Lu Yun mentions it in one of his letters to Lu Ji.46 In the preface to the eulogy, Lu Yun provides a history of the Lu family beginning with the You Gui 㚱⩗ clan and the Heir Designate Wan ⣒⫸⬴ of Chen who fled to Qi in 672 BCE.47 The family resided in Qi until the early Han, when “encountering much travail, their descendants dispersed, and were driven to the southern land.” Lu Yun refers here to Lu Lie 映䁰 who in the reign of Emperor Gaozu of the Former Han (r. 202–195 BCE) was appointed magistrate of Wu. He died and was buried there. His descendants reputedly settled permanently in Wu.48 Despite the great pride the Lu brothers had in their family heritage, some members of the northern elite did not hesitate to cast aspersions on them. One of the most famous insults hurled at the Lu family came from Lu Zhi 䚏⽿ (d. 312) who was from the distinguished northern family whose ancestral home was Zhuo 㵧 in Fanyang 劫春 (modern Zhuozhou 㵧ⶆ, Hebei). At a social gathering Lu Zhi asked Lu Ji the following question: “Sir, what are Lu Xun and Lu Kang to you?” Offended that Lu Zhi had violated the taboo on 42. See Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 8.490 (8/142). The group from Wu commandery should be distinguished from the four distinguished clans from the Wu state. See Zhang Chengzong, “Sanguo ‘Wu sixing’ kaoshi”; and Zhang Xuhua and Wang Zongguang, “‘Wu sixing’ fei ‘Dong Wu sixing’ bian—yu Zhang Chengzong xiansheng shangque.” 43. See Xu Gongchi, Wei Jin wenxue shi, 358. 44. See the following definition from the Oxford English Dictionary: “A group of emotionally charged ideas or mental factors, unconsciously associated by the individual with a particular subject, arising from repressed instincts, fears, or desires and often resulting in mental abnormality; freq. with defining word prefixed, as inferiority, Œdipus complex, etc.; hence colloq., in vague use, a fixed mental tendency or obsession.” OED Online. June 2012. Oxford University Press. http://www.oed.com.offcampus.lib.washington.edu/viewdictionaryentry/Entry/37671 (accessed August 14, 2012). 45. See Liu Yunhao, ed. and comm., Lu Shilong wenji jiaozhu, 6.880–910. For the 302 date see Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 275–78. 46. Liu Yunhao, ed. and comm., Lu Shilong wenji jiaozhu, 8.1049. 47. See Shi ji 36.1578. 48. See Xin Tang shu 73B.2965. See also Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 328.

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calling his grandfather and father by their personal rather than their courtesy names, Lu Ji angrily retorted, “The same as Lu Yu and Lu Ting are to you.” Hearing Lu Ji’s reply, Lu Yun turned pale. After they left the gathering, Lu Yun said to Lu Ji, “How could you go so far as to say this? He seemed not to know who our family is.” Lu Ji sternly replied, “The reputation of our father and grandfather has spread throughout the world. How could anyone not know of them? Only the son of a ghost would dare to ask such a question.”49 According to a well-known supernatural story that circulated in the Wei, Jin, Nanbeichao period, Lu Zhi’s great-grandfather, the famous Eastern Han scholar Lu Zhi 䚏㢵 (d. 192), was the issue of a union between his father Lu Chong 䚏⃭ (n.d.) and the spirit of a dead woman.50 Lu Zhi was the father of Lu Yu 䚏㭻 (182–257), whose son was Lu Ting 䚏䎥 (fl. ca. 265). Lu Ting was the father of the Western Jin period Lu Zhi who insulted Lu Ji.51 Although this story may be fictional, it is emblematic of the clash between Eastern Wu and Luoyang culture that occurred during the early Western Jin. Lu Ji was also the recipient of insults from another northerner, the famous writer Pan Yue. While Lu Ji was serving on the staff of the heir designate, he became acquainted with Jia Mi 屰媸 (d. 300),52 who was the nephew of Empress Jia 屰⎶ (d. 300) and the adopted grandson of Jia Chong 屰⃭ (217–282), one of the most powerful court officials of the early Western Jin. Empress Jia was the chief consort of Emperor Hui (r. 291–306), the father of the heir designate Sima Yu. Because Emperor Hui was developmentally disabled, Empress Jia was the real power behind the throne, and through her relatives, whom she placed in influential positions, she had de facto control over the court administration.53 Through his relationship with Empress Jia, Jia Mi occupied a prestigious position at the imperial court. He gathered around him a coterie of men who were known as the Twentyfour Friends of Jia Mi.54 They included Lu Ji and his brother Lu Yun, Pan Yue, Shi Chong 䞛ⲯ (249–300), Zhi Yu 㐗嘆 (d. 311), and Zuo Si ⶎ⿅ (ca. 250–ca. 305). In 297, Lu Ji returned to the capital to take up the position of vice director of the palace in the Department of State Affairs. In 298, to celebrate Lu Ji’s return to Luoyang, Jia Mi commissioned Pan Yue to compose in Jia Mi’s name a long poem in tetrasyllabic meter. This poem consists of eleven eight-line stanzas. Lu Ji replied with a set of eight-line stanzas matching Pan Yue’s poem.55 Pan Yue was a northerner from Xingyang 㹶春, not far from Luoyang. He was married to the daughter of Yang Zhao 㣲倯 (d. 275), who in 271 led a military expedition against Wu. In 272, Lu Kang defeated Yang Zhao’s army at Xiling. As punishment for his defeat, See Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 5.299 (5/18). See Sou shen ji 16.203–5. See Jin shu 44.1255–56. Yu Shiling dates this event to 296. See Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 123–24. For his biography see Jin shu 40.1172–74. For a detailed study see Xu Gongchi, Fuhua rensheng Xu Gongchi jiang Xi Jin ershisi you, 1–46. 53. See Jin shu 31.994. 54. Two recent detailed studies of the Twenty-four Friends are Zhang Aibo, Xi Jin shifeng yu shige—yi “ershisi you” yanjiu wei zhongxin, and Xu Gongchi, Fuhua rensheng—jiang Xi Jin ershisi you. 55. Pan Yue’s poem is in Wen xuan 24.1152–55; Lu Ji’s piece is in Wen xuan 24.1138–43. For a detailed discussion and complete translation, see Knechtges, “Sweet-peel Orange or Southern Gold.”

49. 50. 51. 52.

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Yang Zhao was reduced to the status of commoner.56 Based on his family history and his close ties to Yang Zhao, it is no surprise that Pan Yue felt some hostility to Lu Ji. Pan Yue writes his poem entirely in the voice of Jia Mi. At various places in the piece he makes disparaging remarks about Lu Ji’s ancestral state of Wu. The following lines are a good example: The three stalwarts stood like the legs of a tripod, And the Sun clan established the southern Wu. How did the southern Wu do this? It fraudulently claimed titles and declared its ruler king. The great Jin united the realm, And a benevolent breeze blew far and wide. The usurper Sun placed a jade disc in his mouth, Presented the land and returned the territory. A noble bird, gentle and refined, Soared across the Yangtze. Who was this noble bird? It was you Scholar Lu. ᶱ晬䚱嵛炻⬓⓻⋿⏛ˤ⋿⏛Ẳỽ炻ₕ嘇䧙䌳ˤ⣏㗱䴙⣑炻ṩ桐忸㎂ˤ₆⬓ 扄䑏炻⣱⛇㬠䔮ˤ⧱⧱攟暊炻ⅴ㰇侴佼ˤ攟暊暚婘炻媖䇦映䓇ˤ

The “three stalwarts” mentioned in the first line above are the leaders of the three contending states of Wei, Shu, and Wu. In the following lines, the only state that he mentions by name is Wu, which he characterizes as an illegitimate usurper regime. He calls the last Wu ruler Sun Hao ⬓䘻 (r. 264–280) “usurper Sun,” who had to humble himself before the Jin by “holding a jade disc in his mouth.” This phrase is short for “facing forward with hands tied behind the back and holding a jade disc in the mouth” 朊䷃扄䑏, which was commonly used to indicate one of the most humiliating forms of surrender.57 Following the mention of the defeat of Sun Hao, Pan Yue addresses Lu Ji directly. He compares him to a fabulous bird that leaves his home in the South and flies north of the Yangtze. The word translated here as “noble bird” is the rare word changli 攟暊, which is sometimes equated with the “vermilion bird,” the symbolic bird of the South, and thus an apt representative of the southern native Lu Ji.58 Although this looks like a compliment, Pan Yue follows with some lines in which he portrays Lu Ji as a crane who dwelled deep in a marsh by the edge of the sea, and then answered an imperial summons to present himself at the court. The implication clearly is “that the Jin was a wise and benevolent ruling house

56. See Jin shu 34.1016. For a detailed study of Pan Yue’s family background and marriage, see Wang Xiaodong, Pan Yue yanjiu, 14–41. 57. The locus classicus is Zuo zhuan, Xi 16. 58. See the anonymous “old commentary” cited in Wen xuan 15.672.

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that was able to induce worthies such as Lu Ji to come out of hiding and take a position in its administration.”59 The final insult that Pan Yue delivers to Lu Ji comes in the final stanza: The handle for establishing virtue, Lies in none other than stability and constancy. In the south the fruit called sweet-peel tangerine, Transplanted in the north becomes the coolie-orange. 䩳⽟ᷳ㝬炻卓⋒⬱⿺ˤ⛐⋿䧙㝹炻⹎⊿⇯㨁ˤ

The citrus fruits mentioned here are the gan 㝹 “sweet-peel tangerine” (Citrus nobilis), commonly called Satsuma or mandarin orange, and cheng 㨁 is the “coolie orange” (Citrus aurantium), also known as “bitter orange,” “sour orange,” or “Seville orange.”60 The gan grew only in the south.61 According to several ancient sources, when the ju 㨀, which here clearly refers to the gan, was transferred to the north, it became the zhi 㝛, or sour trifoliate orange (Citrus trifoliata).62 Pan Yue changes the names of the citrus trees, but his basic point is the same, namely that “since Lu Ji has left his southern abode, his essence has changed.” He implies that “now that Lu Ji has been transplanted from his home in the South, Lu Ji is like the noble southern sweet-peel tangerine that changes into a lesser variety of citrus. The southern aristocrat is now a vassal of a new master, the ruler of the Western Jin.”63 Lu Ji replies to this insult with the following lines: By the Han River there is a tree, It never crosses the boundaries of its native land. Yet, in the south there is metal, And the myriad states sing its praises. ょ㻊㚱㛐炻㚦ᶵ忦⠫ˤょ⋿㚱慹炻叔恎ἄ娈ˤ

The tree that grows south of the Han River is the sweet-peel tangerine to which Pan Yue had compared Lu Ji in his poem. “Southern metal” is a phrase that occurs in a song of the Shi jing (Mao 299) that praises a ruler of the state of Lu for his ability to obtain tribute from the southern states: Fluttering are those soaring owls, They land in the grove by the circular pool. They eat our mulberry fruit, 59. See Knechtges, “Sweet-peel Orange or Southern Gold,” 36. 60. See Hu Shiu-ying, Food Plants of China, 492, 496–98; Francine Fèvre and Georges Métailié, Dictionnaire Ricci des plantes de Chine, 139, 436. 61. See Hui-lin Li, Nan-fang ts’ao-mu chuang, A Fourth Century Flora of Southeast Asia, 118–19. 62. See Zhou li zhushu, 39.5b: “When the sweet-peel orange crosses the Huai River, it becomes the trifoliate orange.” For a detailed discussion of this phenomenon, see Joseph Needham and Lu Gwei-jen, Science and Civilization in China, vol. 6: Biology and Biological Technology, Part I: Botany, 104–9. 63. See Knechtges, “Sweet-peel Orange or Southern Gold,” 37.

David R. Knechtges

30 And acknowledge our fine repute. Awakened are the Huai River tribes, Who come to present their treasures: Great turtles and ivory tusks, Large jade, and southern metal.

侑⼤梃泆炻普㕤㲖㜿ˤ梇ㆹ㟹準炻㆟ㆹ⤥枛ˤㅔ⼤㶖⣟炻Ἦ䌣℞䏃ˤ⃫潄 尉滺炻⣏屪⋿慹ˤ

“Southern metal” mentioned in the final line is most likely copper or even bronze. The Wu area was well known for the Datong ⣏戭 Mountains that were rich in copper ore.64 Copper and bronze from this area were valuable tribute items that were presented to the court during the Zhou period.65 Lu Ji in the four lines cited above rejects Pan Yue’s comparison of him to the sweet-peel tangerine, which, according to legend changed into a lesser citrus tree when it was transplanted to the north. Thus, Lu Ji asserts that he is something much more valuable, southern metal, which, as the Wen xuan commentator Li Shan says, “is refined hundreds of times and never dissolves.”66 Lu Ji and other Wu natives who were recruited to the Luoyang court in the Western Jin were often referred to as “southern metal.”67 In a letter to Chu Tao 壂昞 (late 3rd century), Zhang Hua lamented that after Lu Ji and Lu Yun had left the court in Luoyang, the “southern metal had been used up.”68 Although Lu Ji and Lu Yun received a warm welcome from northern statesmen such as Zhang Hua, they were acutely aware that because they were natives of the area recently conquered by the Jin, they were often regarded as aliens and enemies in their new home in the north. Thus, Lu Ji in a petition presented to Sima Yan ⎠楔㗷 (281–311), Prince of Wu in 194, states that “I am originally a man from Wu who dwelled quietly by the edge of the sea.”69 In another petition addressed in 302 to Sima Ying ⎠楔䧶 (279–306), Prince of Chengdu, who had just appointed Lu Ji administrator of Pingyuan, Lu Ji refers to himself as “a man originally from Wu, who comes from an enemy state.”70 In 303, Sima Ying appointed Lu Ji area commander-in-chief of Hebei and placed him in command of the armies led by Wang Cui 䌳䱡 (d. 308), Qian Xiu 䈥䥨 (d. 306 ), and other northern military men. Lu Zhi, Wang Cui, and Qian Xiu objected on the grounds that Lu Ji as a visiting temporary official from a faraway place should not be assigned to this important post that placed him above other scholar-officials such as themselves.71 The eunuch Meng Chao 64. Wei Zhao 杳㗕 (204–273) locates these mountains in Guzhang 㓭惋 (northeast of modern Anji ⬱⎱, Zhejiang). See Han shu 35.1904, n 1. In addition to this location, the Taiping huanyu ji mentions the Datong Mountains ⣏戭Ⱉ which were near the ancient city of Guangling ⺋昝 (modern Yangzhou). The modern location is northeast of modern Yizheng ₨⽝, Jiangsu. See Yue Shi, Taiping huanyu ji, 94.1890, 123.2443. 65. See Shang shu zhengyi 6.12b, and Mao shi zhengyi 20A.20a. 66. See Wen xuan 24.1142. 67. See Jin shu 68.1814, 68.1832. 68. See Yu Jiaxi, Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 8.431 (8/19), Liu Jun’s commentary. 69. See Liu Yunhao, Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu, 1261. 70. See Liu Yunhao, Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu, 9.888. 71. See Sanguo zhi 58.1361, Pei Songzhi commentary.

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⬇崭 even insulted Lu Ji to his face, saying “Can a barbarian slave serve as commander-inchief?”72 It was not too long after this that Lu Ji’s enemies accused him of plotting a revolt, and he and all of the members of his family were executed. In 301, Lu Ji was imprisoned on the orders of Sima Jiong ⎠楔ℷ (d. 303) and was sentenced to be executed. Through the intercession of Sima Ying, his capital punishment was commuted to exile on the northern frontier. He avoided this punishment when a general amnesty was issued. However, at this time two of Lu Ji’s compatriots from Wu, Gu Rong and Dai Ruosi ㇜劍⿅ (d. 322), urged him to return to Wu on the grounds the “there is much travail in the Central States [the Luoyang area].” Lu Ji did not accept their advice on the grounds that his “aim was to rescue the age from its troubles.”73 This does not mean that Lu Ji did not long to return home. For example, in 296, Lu Ji expressed an intense desire to return to his homeland for a visit. During this time he wrote a series of fu that all center on the subject of “yearning for home.”74 The first of these pieces is “Si gui fu” ⿅㬠岎 (Fu on longing to return home).75 In the preface to this piece Lu Ji says he had hoped to use the excuse of an emergency to return home to Wu. However, in the fifth month of Yuankang 6 ( June 18–July 16, 296) the Di and Qiang staged revolts in Qinzhou 䦎ⶆ and Yongzhou 晵ⶆ. In the eighth lunar month (September 14–October 13, 296), the Di military leader Qi Wannian 滲叔⸜ assumed the title of emperor, and Di troops besieged Jingyang 㴯春 (west of modern Pingliang ⸛㵤, Gansu). In the eleventh lunar month (December 12, 296–January 10, 297) the Jin sent an army led by Zhou Chu ␐嗽 (d. 297), Xiahou Jun ⢷ὗ榧 (fl. late 3rd century), and others against the rebels. Zhou Chu was killed in battle. The uprising was finally put down in the first lunar month of 299.76 When the Di and Qiang insurrection occurred, Lu Ji was not able immediately to return home. He refers to this matter in the following lines: I wish for a respite from official business, I hope for a time when I can return to comfort my kin. Awaiting a cool breeze to ply my whip, I designate winter’s first month as the time to depart. ℨ䌳ḳᷳ㘯尓炻⹞㬠⮏ᷳ㚱㗪ˤ῁㵤桐侴嬎䫾炻㊯⬇⅔侴䇚㛇ˤ

While still in Luoyang, Lu Ji composed a second fu, “Huai tu fu” ㆟⛇岎 (Fu on yearning for my native land), in which he again expresses disappointment in being unable to depart for home: I regret the wasted effort in ordering the carriage readied, I am sad that it is truly hard to return home. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

See Jin shu 54.1480. See Jin shu 54.1473. For the date of this event in Lu Ji’s life see Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 237. On these pieces see Gu Nong, “Lu Ji huanxiang ji qi xiangguan zuopin.” See Liu Yunhao, ed. and comm., Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu, 2.145–47. See Jin shu 4.94–95.

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32 I grieve for the bird that nests on a southern branch, I lament the beast isolated on a separate mountain. As I recall our courtyard trees I am filled with longing, Thinking of the grass on our roads, I break into a smile.77

Ẳ␥楽ᷳ⼺⊌炻㄀㬠徼ᷳ列暋ˤ㸋㢚沍㕤⋿㝅炻⎲暊䥥㕤⇍Ⱉˤ⾝⹕㧡ẍ ぇ㆟炻ㅞ嶗勱ẍ妋柼ˤ

In winter of 296, Lu Ji was finally able to depart for Wu. He wrote “Xing si fu” 埴⿅岎 (Fu on longings while traveling) about the elation he felt as he left Luoyang and headed for his home in the South: I leave far behind me the banks of the Luo River, And float on the swift flow of the Yellow River. I follow the twists of the river long and far, And view where the coursing streams converge. After opening Stone Gate, the waters wind eastward, Flowing along the Bian Stream like a belt. They lodge in the blowing blasts of whirling winds, And are shrouded in dark clouds densely spread. The autumn winds, stern and harsh, usher in the season; Black clouds, swollen with rain, cast down shadows. Chilling air coldly blasts against our bodies, Pelting rain heavily falls soaking the ground. I watch river birds following the islets, And see mountain birds returning to their groves. Slapping against the clear waves they wash their wings, Shaded by green leaves, they warble sweet melodies. The longer I travel, the sadder my feelings; The closer I am to home, the deeper my longing. Envying these natural creatures, I feel singularly stirred; An unrelenting sadness rests in my heart. Alas, long have I been traveling away from home as an official, The years have steadily passed until this time. Crossing rivers and mountains, I entrust my feelings to the scenery, The four years spent away have been much too long. Who would not be joyful upon returning home to comfort kin? But I am so filled with emotion I cannot rejoice.78 側㳃㴎ᷳ态态炻㴖湫ⶅᷳ塼塼ˤ思㱛㚚ẍえ怈炻奨忂㳩ᷳ㇨㚫ˤ⓻䞛攨侴 㜙䶰炻㱧㰜㷈℞⤪ⷞˤ妿桬桐ᷳ佺佺炻℺㰰暚ᷳ喡喡ˤ⓮䥳倭℞䘤䭨炻䌬 77. See Liu Yunhao, ed. and comm., Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu, 2.134–35. 78. See Liu Yunhao, ed. and comm., Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu, 1.140–41.

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暚暰侴✪昘ˤ㵤㯋㵺℞唬橼炻暞暐櫙侴ᶳ㶓ˤ䜡ⶅ䥥ᷳ思㷂炻䚳Ⱉ沍ᷳ㬠 㜿ˤ㎖㶭㲊ẍ㾗佥炻供䵈叱侴⺬枛ˤ埴⻴ᷭ侴ね⊆炻⟿グ役侴⿅㶙ˤ佐⑩ 䈑ẍ䌐デ炻ず䵊䷮侴⛐⽫ˤ▇必⭀ᷳ㯠ᷭ炻⸜勷剺侴㬟勚ˤ崲㱛Ⱉ侴妿 㘗炻䚯⚃庱侴怈㛇ˤ⬘㬠⮏ᷳ⺿㦪炻䌐㉙デ侴⺿⿉ˤ

None of these three pieces mentioned above are complete. They are all extracts preserved in literary compendia. What is notable about them is that even though Lu Ji expresses strong sentiments about his intense desire to return home, he does not actually mention that his home is in Wu or the South. A more subtle statement of Lu Ji’s Wu consciousness, or what Yu Yuxian calls his “cultural attachment” (wenhua qingqing 㔯⊾⁦ね), is found in a surprising place, a poem on a feather fan.79 Titled “Yushan fu” 佥㇯岎 (Fu on a feather fan), this piece is not preserved intact. However, enough of it survives to provide a fairly good sense of its content.80 The earliest artifact that scholars have identified as a feather fan is from a Warring States Chu tomb discovered in 1978 in Tianxing Guan ⣑㗇奨, Jiangling, Hubei. The tomb dates from about 340 BCE. The upper shape of the fan was formed by horizontal pieces of wood and semi-circular pieces of bamboo. The fan cover was made by piecing feathers together. The stems of the feathers were tied to the handle with silk ribbons. The handle is about two meters long. It is likely that this fan was part of a royal regalia.81 By the end of the Han, or at least in the Wei-Jin period, there is evidence of smaller feather fans that were used for cooling. The preferred type of feather was the plume of the white crane.82 The most commonly mentioned use of this type of fan was to direct military movements. Already in the Eastern Jin period, the Yulin 婆㜿 of Pei Qi 墜┇ (2nd half of 4th century) records an account of the famous general Zhuge Liang 媠吃Ṗ (181–234) waving what is variously called a white fan or a maoshan 㮃㇯ to signal his forces in a battle against Sima Yi ⎠楔ㆧ (179–251) on the banks of the Wei River near Chang’an. Zhuge Liang is traditionally portrayed as wearing a black headcloth and carrying a white fan. Maoshan can mean either “hair fan” or “feather fan.” Sun Ji argues that it is another word for zhuwei 渰⯦, sambar-tail chowry, while Chuang Shen claims maoshan is synonymous with yushan.83 The Yulin does not survive intact, but most citations of it write baiyu shan 䘥佥㇯, thus supporting Chuang Shen’s interpretation.84 79. See Yu Yuxian, “Lu Lu Ji fu de Dong Wu qingjie,” 55–56. 80. For texts see Yiwen leiju, 69. 1214; Chuxue ji, 25.604–5; Yan Kejun, ed., Quan shanggu sandai Qin Han Sanguo Liuchao wen, “Quan Jin wen,” 97.4b–5b (2014–15); Jin Taosheng, ed., Lu Ji ji, 4.33–34; Wang Dehua, comm. and trans., Xinyi Lu Ji shiwen ji, 4.102–6; Liu Yunhao, ed. and comm., Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu, 4.244–54; Han Geping et al., ed. and comm., Quan Wei Jin fu jiaozhu, 316–17. 81. See Hubei sheng Jingzhou diqu bowuguan, “Jiangling Tianxingguan 1 hao Chu mu,” esp. 105, Plate 29–5, Photograph 22–7. 82. See Chuang Shen, Shanzi yu Zhongguo, 40. 83. See Sun Ji, “Zhuge Liang nade shi ‘yushan’ ma?”; Chuang Shen, Shanzi yu Zhongguo wenhua, 40. 84. See Pei Qi, Pei Qi Yulin, 11. Those texts that read baiyu shan 䘥佥㇯ include: Taiping yulan 702.8b, 774.7a, all citing Yulin; Wu Shu, Shilei fu, citing Yulin; Beitang shuchao 118.5a, 134.5b, citing Yulin; Chuxue ji, 35.604, citing Yulin. Those that read maoshan 㮃㇯ are: Beitang shuchao, 115.5b, citing Shishuo; Taiping yulan 687.12a,

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The zhuwei was a chowry or whisk made of the tail of the zhu. Scholars have variously identified the zhu 渰. Edward Schafer offers four possibilities: (1) “large stag” which was tribute from Suzhen 倭ヤ, a non-Han state in northeast China. Schafer is unsure whether this animal is elk or wapiti. (2) Cervus elaphus xanthopygus, Manchurian wapiti, “a close relative of the American elk.” (3) Some Chinese sources identify the zhu as the tuolu 榅渧 or “camel deer.” This is Alces alces cameloides, variously known as Siberian elk, Eurasian moose, or Siberian moose. (4) The zhu of southern China, which probably is Rusa unicolor, or sambar.85 Sun Ji ⬓㨇 identifies it as tuolu, Siberian elk.86 Fan Ziye 劫⫸䅩 argues it is the same as milu 渳渧, Elaphurus davidianus, Father David’s Deer, also known as elaphure.87 According to Sun Ji, the hair from the tail of the Siberian elk was pressed into a handle to form an implement similar to a fuzi ㉪⫸ or swatter. Although it was used to swat flying insects, it also served as a fan. Thus, in some sources it was called zhuwei shan 渰⯦㇯.88 The earliest known zhuwei, which may date from the late Six Dynasties period, is preserved in the eighth-century Shōsōin collection in Nara. It is made of persimmon wood and is 61 centimeters long. Some hair still remains. The identity of the animal from which it comes is not known.89 During the Wei-Jin period, “pure conversationalists” (qingtan jia 㶭婯⭞) held zhuwei during their conversation sessions.90 The following passage from the Shishuo xinyu is an account of one of these sessions over which Wang Dao 䌳⮶ (276–339) presided holding a zhuwei: When Yin Hao served as senior administrator to Yu Liang, he went to the capital, and Counselor-in-chief Wang Dao held a gathering for him. Huan Wen, Wang Meng, and Xie Shang were all in attendance. The counselor-in-chief personally stood up and unfastened a chowry from the curtain cord. He said to Yin, “Today I shall converse with you and analyze principles.” They then engaged in pure conversation together until the third watch of the night.91

85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90.

91.

citing Shu shu; Yiwen leiju 67.1189, citing Yulin. One version reads baimao shan 䘥㮃㇯: Taiping yulan 307.14, citing Yulin. See Edward H. Schafer, “Cultural History of the Elaphure,” 266–68. See “Yushan guanjin,” 83. See Zhonggu wenren shenghuo yanjiu, 198–204. See Sun Ji, “Zhuge Liang nade shi ‘yu shan’ ma?” See Fu Yunzi, Shōsōin kōkoki, 90–94; Wang Yong, “Shubi zakkō”; Wang Yong, “Riben Zhengcangyuan zhuwei kao.” There is a substantial scholarly literature on this subject. See He Changqun, “Shishuo xinyu zhaji (zhuwei kao)”; Bai Huawen, “Zhuwei yu Wei Jin mingshi qingtan”; rpt. Gudai lizhi fengsu mantan, 1: 233–38; Yeh Kuo-liang, “Shiwen yu lizhi (4)—Liuchao mingshi de daju: zhuwei”; Fan Ziye, “Zhuwei de gongyong yu yuanliu lüeshuo”; Fan Ziye, Zhonggu wenren shenghuo yanjiu, 197–41; Ning Jiayu, “Shishuo xinyu zhong de zhi zhu zhi feng,” Wei Jin shiren renge jingshen—Shishuo xinyu de shiren jingshen shi yanjiu, 206–15; Niu Li, “Zhuwei yu Liuchao qingtan.” See Yu Jiaxi, ed. and comm., Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 4.212 (4/22).

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Some of these pure conversationalists are portrayed as so absorbed in abstract philosophy, even when occupying important court positions, they neglected their official duties. One famous example is Wang Yan 䌳埵 (265–311), who served as president of the Department of State Affairs and minister of war. While serving as magistrate of Yuancheng, he spent all day engaging in “pure conversation.” His biography in the Jin shu says the following about him: “He was marvelously skilled in discussion of xuan, and he made discoursing on Laozi and Zhuangzi his primary activity. He always held a zhuwei with a jade handle which was the same color as his hand. . . . He successively occupied prominent positions, and among the younger literati, none failed to admire him. . . . Arrogant high-mindedness and frivolous abandon thereafter became the custom.”92 From contemporary evidence, we know that the white feather fan was a product of the Wu area. The best account of its origins and importation to the north comes from none other than Xi Han ⳯⏓ (263–306), who wrote a “Yushan fu” 佥㇯岎 (Fu on the feather fan). His grandfather was Xi Xi ⳯╄ (fl. mid-3rd century), the elder brother of Xi Kang ⳯⹟ (223–262). Xi Han wrote in the preface to his fu: Most of the scholar-officials of Wu and Chu take the wing of a crane to make a fan. Although it is said it comes from the rustic area of the South, it can be used to block the sun and ward off heat. Formerly, when Qin annexed Zhao, it copied Zhao’s headwear and robes in order to . . . courtiers.93 When the great Jin annexed Wu, it transported the feather fan [to the North] and presented it as tribute in the upper realm.94

The phrase “upper realm” (shangguo ᶲ⚳) in this period was used to designate the Central Plain area, and more specifically Luoyang. Fu Xian of the same period also wrote a “Yushan fu.” Although briefer than Xi Han’s account, he also identifies the feather fan as a Wu product: “People in Wu cut a bird’s wing to stir up a breeze. It was superior to the square or round fan, but no one in the Central States had any interest in it. After Wu was destroyed, everyone has valued it.” Here Central States again refers to Luoyang.95 A famous Wu figure who is also associated with the feather fan is Lu Ji’s compatriot Gu Rong. In 305 Chen Min 昛㓷 (d. 307) launched a rebellion from Liyang 㬟春 (modern He ␴ county, Anhui). He appointed Gan Zhuo 䓀⋻ (d. 322), great-grandson of the Wu general Gan Ning 䓀⮏, regional inspector of Yangzhou ㎂ⶆ. He briefly obtained the service of some forty prominent men from the Wu area including Gu Rong. However, Gu Rong soon turned against Chen Min. He and Zhou Qi ␐䍀 (fl. 305–310) persuaded Gan Zhuo to join the forces allied against Chen Min. Chen Min then led an army into battle against Gan Zhuo. “Before Chen’s forces could cross the Yangtze River, Gu Rong directed his troops with a white feather fan, and Chen Min’s army scattered.” Chen Min fled

92. 93. 94. 95.

See Jin shu 43.1236. The portion in ellipses indicates a missing portion of the Chinese text. See Yan Kejun, “Quan Jin wen,” 94.4b (2000). See Yan Kejun, “Quan Jin wen,” 51.5a (1751).

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to Jiangsheng 㰇Ḁ (north of modern Jurong ⎍⭡, Jiangsu) where he was killed by loyal soldiers. After defeating Chen Min, Gu Rong returned to his home in Wu.96 Lu Ji’s fu on the feather fan is among a number of pieces on this subject from Western Jin writers who may have included Pan Ni, Xi Han, Zhang Zai ⻝庱 (ca. 250–ca. 310), and another Wu native Min Hong 攼泣 (fl. 280).97 These pieces may have been written around 300 or 301.98 Lu Ji sets the scene of his poem not in his own time, but in the Warring States period at the court of King Xiang of Chu: Formerly, King Xiang of Chu convened an assembly at the Zhang Terrace. Vassal lords from east of the mountains and west of the Yellow River were there. The grand masters Song Yu and Tang Le were in attendance. They both held fans that had been made from the plumes of a white crane. The vassal lords covered their mouths with sambar tail chowries and laughed. King Xiang was displeased. Song Yu quickly raced forward and said, “I venture to ask why the lords are laughing?” 㖼㤂壬䌳㚫㕤䪈冢ᷳᶲ炻Ⱉ大冯㱛⎛媠ὗ⛐䂱ˤ⣏⣓⬳䌱ˣⒸ≺ἵ炻䘮㑵 䘥浜ᷳ佥ẍ䁢㇯ˤ媠ὗ㍑渰⯦侴䪹炻壬䌳ᶵ〭ˤ⬳䌱嵐侴忚㚘烉ˬ㔊⓷媠 ὗỽ䪹烎˭

King Xiang of Chu 㤂壬䌳, also known as King Qingxiang 枫壬, ruled from 298 to 263 BCE. The Zhang Terrace 䪈冢, also known as Zhanghua 䪈厗 Terrace, was a touring palace in the state of Chu that was constructed in 535 BCE by King Ling of Chu 㤂曰䌳 (r. 540–529 BCE). Although various sites have been proposed as its location, the most likely one is southwest of modern Qianjiang 㼃㰇 City, Hubei.99 Archaeologists have identified the ancient site of the Zhanghua Terrace as located northeast of Longwan 漵䀋 township southwest of Qianjiang City.100 In the Warring States period the area “east of the mountains” designated the area east of Mount Yao ⳌⰙ or Mount Hua 厗Ⱉ. Thus, the vassal lords who came to King Xiang’s court are from the Central Plain area of the north. Song Yu ⬳䌱 (ca. 319–298 BCE) and Tang Le Ⓒ≺ (fl. 3rd century BCE) were distinguished fu writers at the court of King Xiang. Lu Ji continues the narration as follows:

96. See Jin shu 68.1813, 100.2618. 97. For Zhang Zai’s piece see Yan Kejun, “Quan Jin wen” 85.2a–b (1949). Min Hong’s fu is preserved in Yan Kejun, “Quan Sanguo wen”, 74.9b–10a (1452). Min Hong was from Guangling in Wu. He was one of the “five outstanding men” of Wu who included Ji Zhan 䲨䝣 (253–324), Gu Rong, He Xun 屨⽒, and Xue Jian 啃ℤ (d. 323). 98. Lu Kanru dates Lu Ji’s piece to 300 as does Liu Yunhao. See Lu Kanru, Zhonggu wenxue xinian, 790; Lu Ji, Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu (ed. Liu Yunhao), 4.244, 1420. Yu Shiling dates the “Yushan fu” by Pan Ni, Fu Xian, and Zhang Zai 294 when Lu Ji served as librarian on the staff of the heir designate. However, she also gives its date of composition in 301. See Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 105, 250. Lu Yun mentions Lu Ji’s FU on a fan in one of his letters to Lu Ji which was written around 300. See Lu Shilong wenji jiaozhu, 8.1112. 99. See Tan Qixiang, “Yumeng yu Yunmeng ze,” 11n11. 100. See Fang Yousheng, “Chu Zhanghua tai yizhi diwang chutan,” and “Shilun Hubei Qianjiang Longwan faxian de Dong Zhou Chuguo daxing gongdian yizhi.”

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[The vassal lords said]: “Formerly, King Wu [of Zhou], after deep investigation, was the first to create a fan. The Wuming and Anzhong fans throughout the generations multiplied in later times. Each of them was either endowed with a round or square shape, and they presumably received their standard from the fan made of cattails. They did not use anything else but this. Why have you chosen bird plumes?” ˳媠ὗ㚘˴烉ˬ㖼侭㬎䌳䌬奥炻忈㇯㕤⇵炻侴Ḽ㖶⬱䛦炻ᶾ䷩㕤⼴炻⎬㚱 妿㕤㕡⚻炻味⍿⇯㕤䬹呚ˤ况勚☐侴ᶵ䓐炻栏⤂⍾㕤沍佥烎˭

According to the Gujin zhu by Cui Bao, the Wuming Ḽ㖶 (Five visions) fan was created by Shun. After Yao had abdicated the throne to him, Shun wished to “broaden his vision and hearing,” and he sought out worthy men to aid him in his government. Thus, he created the “Five Visions” fan. Cui Bao claims that during the Qin and Han period, nobles, ministers, and ordinary officials could use it. In the Wei and Jin, only the emperor was allowed to use it.101 Not much is known about the Anzhong ⬱䛦 fan. The Taiping yulan cites a passage from the Furen ji ⨎Ṣ普 (Collection of writings by women) that recounts an anecdote about a wife who after being divorced by her husband sent him a letter and two Anzhong fans.102 Song Yu then replies in rhyme: When something is first created it is always plain and simple, And when it is eventually refined, it must be beautiful. Thus, cooking began from heated stones, And the jade carriage was based on the spokeless cart. 5

The Anzhong fan was square but the air it created dissipated, The Five Visions fan was round but was deficient in creating a breeze. They were unlike the beauty made by these plumes, Indeed they are of outstanding substance and of good utility.

ġ

⣓∝⥳侭⿺㧠炻侴梕䳪侭⽭⤵ˤ㗗㓭䂡梒崟㕤䅙䞛炻䌱庭➢㕤廒ˤ⬱ 䛦㕡侴㯋㔋炻Ḽ㖶⚻侴桐䄑ˤ㛒劍勚佥ᷳ䁢渿炻⚢橼ὲ侴䓐歖ˤ

10

Disseminates a lustrous brilliance.

The great bird that penetrates the empyrean, Hiding in the nine-fold marsh, it sings like a phoenix; Roaming fragrant fields, it comes forth like a dragon. A peer with the divine tortoise, it expects a prolonged span; Living beyond extended years, it anticipates long life. 15

Burdened by being prized for its beautiful plumes, It has its thousand-year span reduced by a single arrow. Its body is offered to receive fashioning, Its two wings are presented to make a fan.

101. See Gujin zhu A.8a. 102. See Taiping yulan 702.10a.

David R. Knechtges

38 ġ

⼤㶑暬ᷳ῱沍炻㑕歖廅ᷳ呐呐ˤ晙ḅ䘳ẍ沛沜炻㷠剛䓘侴漵夳ˤ慄曰 潄侴怈㛇炻崭攟⸜侴ᷭ䚬ˤ䳗㆟䑏㕤伶佥炻㋓⋫庱᷶ᶨ䭕ˤ⥼㚚橼ẍ ⍿⇞炻⣷暁佭侴䁢㇯ˤ Then, when they spread out its quills,

20

They select coarse and fine, Arrange long and short. They are densely packed but not too tight; They are thinly dispersed but not too loose. It emits a sound like the singing pipe of Xiao Shi,

25

The melody rushes forth like that of the jade flute of Tairong.

ġ

⇯℞Ự侖ḇ炻ⶖ㳒䳘炻䦑攟䞕ˤ䧈ᶵ忤炻䦨ᶵ䯉ˤ䘤劍唕⎚ᷳ沜慹 䰇炻嵉劍⣏⭡ᷳ伭䌱䏗ˤ And then they carve a tooth from a giant beast, Hew the trunk of an unusual tree. They transfer the round root to a new form, But follow the natural order of its old concatenation.

30

Birds cannot distinguish whether it is real or not, Humans dare not determine whether it is false or true. It pinions wave slowly and easily, moving every so slightly; With a breeze blowing lightly and gently, it casts a beauteous sight. It comes into expression through the marvel of spontaneity,

35

And thus heat does not accumulate but is easily dispersed.

ġ

㕤㗗掌ⶐ䌠ᷳ滺炻塩⣯㛐ᷳ⸡ˤ䦣⚻㟡㕤㕘橼炻⚈⣑䦑᷶冲屓ˤ沍ᶵ 傥⇍℞㗗朆炻Ṣ卓㔊↮℞䛇兢ˤ侖⥵⥵ẍ⽖㋗炻桐桱桱ẍ✪⧱ˤ⥁冒 䃞ẍ䁢妨炻㓭ᶵ䧵侴傥㔋ˤ It is steady when held in the hand, It is true in conforming to things. The breeze it creates is beneficial, The air it circulates is calm.

40

It considers noble and mean equal, ranking them the same. Wherever it goes its breeze is cool and refreshing. Modeled on divine simplicity of the process of transformation, Carefully fashioned on proper principles, it is a marvelous sight.

ġ

℞➟ㇳḇ⬱炻℞ㅱ䈑ḇ婈ˤ℞㊃桐ḇ⇑炻℞㑕㯋ḇ⸛ˤ㶟屜岌侴ᶨ 䭨炻桐䃉⼨侴ᶵ㶭ˤㅚ曰㧠㕤忈⊾炻⮑屆⇯侴⥁奨ˤ

The vassal lords said, “Well said!” “King Xiang, looking up, tapped the rhythm stick, and the vassal lords bowed down and acknowledged their error. They all threw down their fans in the Chu courtyard, and with bird plumes in their hands returned home.” King Xiang then bid Tang Le compose the finale:

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Oh, the lovely plumes of a live bird, How they flap and flutter, drifting in the distance! By nature it is sturdy and strong in order to . . . It always spreads like a winnowing sieve, unfolds like clouds. It reverses cold and heat at the tip of the palm, Stirs the winds of the eight directions with the ends of its pinions. Drawing in a cooling chill arriving with an echoing sound, It whisks away intense heat and . . . It expels the sultry suffocation of noise and dust, It circulates the soothing calm of cool air. Ẳ歖䥥ᷳẌ佥炻⣓ỽ侑侑冯䚯䚯炰⿏≩‍ẍ⇑ˎ炻㭷䬽⻝侴暚Ựˤ⍵⭺㘹 㕤ᶨ㌴ᷳ㛓炻徜ℓ桐᷶ℕ侖ᷳ㜒ˤ⺽ↅ㵤侴枧冣炻㉪昮㘹侴ˎ⇘ˤ槭♪⠝ ᷳ櫙徘炻㳩㶭㯋ᷳ〬〬ˤ

The text of this piece is not complete, and my rendering of certain lines is tentative. However, Lu Ji’s rhetorical strategy is quite clear. The feather fan is an emblem of his Wu origins. As he portrays it at the beginning of the fu, the fan made of white crane feathers is the favored accoutrement at the southern Chu court, and is held by the famous Warring States court poets Song Yu and Tang Le. The vassal lords of the North carry a different accessory, the zhuwei. As we have seen above, the zhuwei was an accoutrement favored by the Wei-Jin conversationalists in Luoyang. The zhuwei did not exist in the Warring States period any more than did the white crane feather fan, and thus Lu Ji’s anachronistic insertion of these accoutrements in this temporal context clearly is a clever move on his part to alert the reader that his subject is not really the ancient court of Chu. Rather, his use of them has a contemporary significance. The feather fan, a product of the South, very likely represents a Wu native such as Lu Ji, and the zhuwei is a counterpart for the literati of the North, especially those who ridiculed Lu Ji and his Wu compatriots upon their arrival in Luoyang. The northern vassal lords casting away their zhuwei and returning home with feathers must be another of Lu Ji’s clever assertions of the superiority of Wu culture over that of the North. The rhymed portion of the fu has five sections, each following a separate rhyme pattern. Section 1, which consists of lines 1 through 8, sets forth the principle that all things begin from the simple, and gradually become refined. He uses the analogy of the primitive cooking of food on heated stones, and the earliest conveyance, the spokeless cart. He seems to suggest the Anzhong and Wuming fans were much too simple and crude to be effective in creating a cooling breeze. He concludes the section by noting that the feather fan is both functional and beautiful. One is tempted to read this latter claim as Lu Ji’s subtle suggestion that like the feather fan, he and his fellow Wu literati that have come to the north have talent that should be used, but this may be an overreading. In section 2, lines 9 through 18, Lu Ji describes the bird that provides the plumes for the fan. It is a high-flying avian that lives hidden in a marsh. It also has a long life. These are all

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qualities associated with the crane in traditional Chinese lore.103 Although it is blessed with long life, the crane is killed with a single arrow shot. Then its plumes are used to make a fan. In section 3, lines 19 through 25, Lu Ji describes the construction and design of the feather fan. All of the feathers are symmetrically arranged with a balance between coarse and fine, long and short. Their placement follows the aesthetic of the golden mean—nothing is done to extremes. The section concludes with a description of the melodious sounds made by the waving fan, which resound like the music of pipes and flutes. In section 4, lines 26 through 35, Lu Ji elaborates on the construction of the fan emphasizing the naturalness of its form. In the first four lines of this section, Lu Ji describes the creation of the body of the fan, which is fashioned from the tooth of a “giant beast,” most likely ivory, and wood from the trunk of a tree. The feathers are then fitted to the form following the natural concatenation of the plumes. This form is so natural birds cannot determine whether it is real or human made. The feathers of the fan move like the wings of a bird, and the fan produces a gentle breeze. Its creation is the product of spontaneous and natural (ziran 冒䃞) fashioning, and the fan is easily able to dispel heat. The final section, lines 36 through 43, is a description of the fan as it is put to use in a person’s hand. Lu Ji again emphasizes the naturalness of the fan. “It is true in conforming to things.” The airflow produced by the fan is beneficial and calming. Lu Ji also notes that the fan does not discriminate among social classes. It can provide a cooling breeze for both “noble and mean.” He concludes this section by again mentioning its “divine simplicity” and its construction through a natural process. The body of the fu is not so much an expression of Lu Ji’s local identity as it is an exposition in the style of the Wei-Jin period xuanxue thinkers.104 The Lao-Zhuang ideas of simplicity, naturalness, and spontaneity are pervasive themes in xuanxue writing in this period. However, Lu Ji is not especially known as a xuanxue thinker.105 Several Six Dynasties sources record the following story about Lu Ji’s failings at discussing arcane philosophy.106 When he made his first journey to Luoyang, he stopped in Yanshi Ύⷓ just east of Luoyang. It was getting dark, and he saw in the distance a house where he could spend the night. There he met a young man who had a dignified bearing and an aloof manner. He began to discuss arcane philosophy (xuan 䌬) philosophy with him, but Lu Ji was unable to reply or rebut him. Lu Ji then changed the subject to historical matters, and “comprehensively examined name and reality” in the manner of the logicians, and the young man was not able to understand everything and became unhappy. When dawn came the next day, Lu Ji left. He then stopped at an inn. The landlady asked Lu Ji where he spent the night. She told him that there were no villages around for several tens of leagues. The only place of note was the 103. The association of the crane with the “nine-fold marsh” first occurs in Mao shi 184, “He ming” 浜沜, “The Crane Sounds Forth.” 104. For a good analysis of some of the xuanxue features of the fu see Yu Shiling, Lu Ji Lu Yun nianpu, 251–52. 105. According to the Jin shu (54.1486), before Lu Yun went to Luoyang he had no knowledge of xuanxue. The same could also be said of Lu Ji. 106. See Yiyuan 6.53; Shuijing zhushu, Yang Shoujing and Xiong Huizhen, comm., 16.1440–41.

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grave site of the Wang family of Shanyang. Startled and surprised, Lu Ji looked back at the road he taken the previous day, and he saw nothing but empty wilderness shrouded in heavy mists. He then realized that the young man he had met was the ghost of Wang Bi. This story loses credibility not only for its supernatural, fantastic elements, but also because in another version, it is Lu Ji’s brother Lu Yun who encounters the ghost of Wang Bi.107 However, the story perhaps is another example of Lu Ji’s confrontation with a notable figure from the Luoyang area, albeit in ghostly form. The story also fits the common pattern of Lu Ji’s confrontation with the scholarly elite of the North. He at first is bested by Wang Bi in the abstract ideas of arcane learning, but was able to defeat him in the concrete facts of history and rigorous logic. Although pure fiction, the story can be read as another expression of Lu Ji’s identity. Lu Ji was not accomplished in the most prestigious intellectual activity of the northern Wei-Jin elite, xuanxue. Thus, as the story has it, before entering Luoyang, he does not fare well in his debate with Wang Bi, the acknowledged champion of xuanxue debate. Nevertheless, Lu Ji is equipped with other important intellectual skills, a mastery of the Classics, history, and mingjia ⎵⭞ logic. These were fields that had great prestige in the Wu scholarly tradition.108 According to Ge Hong 吃㳒 (283–343), who also hailed from an old Wu family, Lu Ji “detested literati who were untrammeled in their conduct, and were self-indulgent and unrestrained. He did not engage in empty, fantastic speech.”109 This suggests that Lu Ji had an aversion to the abstract speculations of thinkers such as Wang Bi and Wang Yan, who was mentioned previously as one of the most prominent xuanxue figures of the Western Jin. Thus, even though Lu Ji’s “Yushan fu” shows a tinge of xuanxue, he was still a product of a hard-nosed intellectual Wu tradition that preferred investigations of concrete reality to abstruse “obscurantism.” In the China of this period there were many southern cultures. There was the old Chu culture which was centered in Hubei and Hunan, the Min culture of Fujian, the Yue culture of Guangdong and Guangxi, the Yue culture of Zhejiang, and finally the Wu culture of Jiangsu. Lu Ji’s identity and consciousness are rooted in Wu traditions. The southern metal and the white feather fan that he uses to represent his regional identity are exclusively Wu cultural products. The extent to which his stances on intellectual matters such as xuanxue and ritual are reflections of his Wu upbringing is more difficult to determine. Nevertheless, what we learn from his writings is that his consciousness and attachment is not simply “southern” but more specifically “Wu.”

107. For a translation of the Lu Yun story see Sujane Wu, “The Biography of Lu Yun (262–303) in Jin shu 54,” 31–32. 108. See Wang Yongping, Liuchao jiazu, 327–33. 109. See Yang Mingzhao, ed. and comm., Baopuzi waipian jiaojian, 2: 751.

3 Fan Writing Lu Ji, Lu Yun and the Cultural Transactions between North and South Xiaofei Tian In 280, the Western Jin (265–317) army conquered the southern Kingdom of Wu and brought China under a single unified empire once again. In the following decade, objects and people from the Wu region flowed into Luoyang, the Jin capital in the north, attracted by the glittering court life and the power of the center. One object in particular caught the fancy of the northerners: the fan made of bird feathers, often those of a crane. Fans commonly used in the north were either square or round, made of bamboo and silk. In contrast, the white feather fan from Wu had a different shape and texture, and became a fashionable accessory among members of the Luoyang elite.1 Several poetic expositions ( fu) on the feather fan written by northerners attest to its popularity. In these writings we can often detect a sense of condescension toward the novel object coming from the conquered state. Xi Han’s ⳯⏓ (262–306) preface to his poetic exposition, for instance, has an explicitly patronizing tone:2 The gentlemen of Wu and Chu often use a fan made of feathers from a crane’s wings. Although such a fan comes from the outlying southern borders, it can nevertheless shade one from the sun and dispel heat. In the past, when Qin conquered the domain of Zhao, it brought back Zhao’s official attires to . . . its courtiers. After the great Jin subjugated Wu, it likewise took Wu’s feather fan and put it to use in the upper domain. ⏛㤂ᷳ⢓⣂➟浜侤ẍ䁢㇯ˤ晾㚘↢冒⋿惁炻侴⎗ẍ忷春昼㘹ˤ㖼䦎ᷳℤ 嵁炻⮓℞ℽ㚵炻ẍˎἵ冋ˤ⣏㗱旬⏛炻Ṏ怟℞佥㇯炻⽉㕤ᶲ⚳ˤ

Pan Ni’s 㼀⯤ (ca. 250–311) piece contains the following lines: “At first, it demonstrated its usefulness in the barbarian wasteland; / But eventually it manifests its wonder in the upper domain” ⥳栗䓐㕤勺埣炻䳪堐⣯㕤ᶲ⚳.3 The feather fan, created from a bird, travels 1.

2. 3.

Fu Xian’s ‭① (239–294) preface to his “Fu on the Feather Fan” (Yushan fu 佥㇯岎) states, “The Wu folk take the plumes from a bird’s wings to produce wind. It is superior to the square and round fans, but no one in the Central Kingdom was interested in it. After the conquest of Wu, however, it suddenly becomes a prized thing” ⏛Ṣ㇒沍侤侴㎾桐炻㖊⊅㕤㕡⚻Ḵ㇯炻侴ᷕ⚳卓㚱䓇シˤ㹭⏛ᷳ⼴炻佽䃞屜ᷳ. Yan Kejun, comp., Quan Jin wen, 51.1752, in Quan shanggu sandai Qin Han sanguo liuchao wen. For a detailed discussion of the feather fan used in this period and the rhapsodic writings on it, see David R. Knechtges’s paper in this volume. Yan Kejun, Quan Jin wen, 65.1830. Ibid., 94.2000. It is simply entitled “Fu on the Fan,” but it is clearly focused on the feather fan.

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like a bird from the “barbarian wasteland” to the “upper domain” and gains recognition there; its ascension through the social hierarchy mimics the bird’s soaring flight into the air. The trajectory of the feather fan outlined by Pan Ni can be easily associated with that of the southern elite who came to serve in the Jin court. In the mid-280s, Hua Tan 厗嬂 (ca. 250s–324), the descendant of a Wu official family, was nominated as a “Cultivated Talent” (xiucai) and arrived at Luoyang to take the examination. Emperor Wu of the Jin (236–290) designed the examination questions himself. One question stated that, after the Jin conquest of Shu and Wu, the Shu people were submissive but the Wu people frequently made trouble. The emperor wondered if this was because the Wu people were frivolous and impetuous; he also asked how Hua Tan proposed to pacify them. Hua Tan acknowledged that the Wu folk were an “agile, brave and tough” bunch, and one of his suggestions was to “make plans for its gentry so that they may soar into the clouds and get to the heavenly gate,” referring to their admission into the court.4 The bird metaphor finds a nice counterpart in the feather fan, which has become a synecdoche for the crane. Among those who soared to the heavenly gate were two brothers, Lu Ji 映㨇 (261–303) and Lu Yun 映暚 (262–303), scions of a prominent southern noble family and famous writers who left a lasting impact on early medieval Chinese literature. After the Wu was conquered, they lived in reclusion for ten years before accepting Jin’s employment and going north in 289. Just like the feather fan, they were met with a mixed welcome at Luoyang: there was genuine admiration for their talent, and there were also barely disguised hostility and contempt for “remnants of a fallen country.”5 Much has been written about the Lu brothers’ confrontation with the northern elite, the North/South conflict, and the regional consciousness exemplified in Lu Ji’s writings;6 these articles and chapters shed light on the issue of regional identity in a newly unified empire where many divergent social forces competed and contended with one another. And yet, the emphasis on the cultural tension between the North and the South in the third century tends to obscure the fact that the Lu brothers were also intensely fascinated with the northern culture: its history, architecture, and music. While the northern elite regarded them as “foreigners,” in their eyes the North was also a foreign country, and like all foreign countries, both alienating and exotic, providing endless inspiration and excitement.

4. 5.

6.

Jin shu 52.1450. Examples of both attitudes can be found in Lu Ji’s biography in the Jin History. While Zhang Hua ⻝厗 (232–300), an eminent writer and senior statesman, regarded the Lu brothers highly, Wang Ji 䌳㾇 (d. before 297), the imperial son-in-law, treated Lu Ji with arrogance. Jin shu 54.1472–73. The same Wang Ji called Hua Tan “the remnant of a fallen country” (wangguo zhi yu ṉ⚳ᷳ检) to his face. Jin shu 52.1452. Wang Ji’s father Wang Hun 䌳㷦 (223–297), a Jin general who participated in the military campaign against Wu, also addressed the Wu people thus at a drinking party held at the Wu royal palace after the conquest. Jin shu 58.1570. For instance, see Lin Wen-yueh, “Pan Yue Lu Ji shi zhong de nanfang yishi”; Satō Toshiyuki, Seishin bungaku kenkyū: Riku Ki o chūshin to shite; Tang Zhangru, “Du Baopuzi tuilun nanbei xuefeng de yitong”; and David R. Knechtges, “Sweet-peel Orange or Southern Gold? Regional Identity in Western Jin Literature.”

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Lu Ji, the more outspoken of the brothers, had a strong sense of pride about his southern heritage. Among his many works produced after his arrival at Luoyang was a “Fu on the Feather Fan,” in which he retaliates against the northern lords’ disdain for the southern object and defends its value. It is not difficult to see the feather fan as a figure for the poet himself. But as a great admirer of the northern culture, Lu Ji was a fan in another sense, as he soared into the “upper domain” and was captivated by what he saw and heard there, and his poetry demonstrates many characteristics of modern fan writing. While Lu Ji certainly did have a southern consciousness, as scholars have convincingly argued, in this paper I wish to call attention to the Lu brothers’ enthrallment with the north, with a special focus on Lu Ji’s poetic writing that reflects his nuanced fascination with the northern culture. Regional and cultural displacement leads to textual displacement, manifested in Lu Ji’s reworking of northern musical material into a “better” version in formal and ideological terms. This paper ends with a discussion of how Lu Ji’s refashioning of the north in turn influences the creation of the cultural South during the succeeding period known as the Northern and Southern Dynasties (317–589).

A Tale of Two Cities “Who are more ignorant about Roman affairs than the Roman citizens? Sadly do I say that nowhere is Rome less known than in Rome.” —Petrarch

The southern elite, including the Lu brothers, claimed to have descended from venerable northern ancestors.7 Far more important than this fantastic lineage, however, was the common cultural heritage they shared with the North, with its locus in the Eastern Zhou and Eastern Han capital, Luoyang. Few other Chinese cities at the time, perhaps with the only exception of Chang’an, could arouse as much wonder, admiration, and melancholy nostalgia as the great metropolis Luoyang, about which the Lu brothers must have read and heard so much long before they saw the physical place. Edward Gibbon reminisced about his first visit to Rome: “At the distance of twenty-five years I can neither forget nor express the strong emotions which agitated my mind as I first approached and entered the eternal City. After a sleepless night I trod with lofty step the ruins of the forum; each memorable spot where Romulus stood, or Tully spoke or Caesar fell was at once present to my eye.”8 Gibbon’s remarks nicely summarize a reader’s response to the subject of his readings that has finally materialized in front of him, and it is a pity that we do not have any record of the Lu brothers’ first impressions upon entering Luoyang. Lu Ji’s couplet—“the capital Luoyang has much wind and dust, / my pure clothes have turned into black” Ṕ㳃⣂桐⠝炻䳈堋⊾䁢䵯—is often quoted to 7. 8.

Shi ji 31.1445; Lu Yun, “Zukao song” 䣾侫枴, in Lu Shilong wenji jiaozhu, 881–85. For a discussion of this claim, see Knechtges, “Sweet-peel Orange or Southern Gold,” 42–45. The Autobiographies of Edward Gibbon, 267.

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demonstrate his distaste for the world of vanity and power at the center of the Jin empire.9 In a yuefu poem entitled “The Gentleman Longs for Someone” ( Junzi yousuosi xing ⏃⫸ 㚱㇨⿅埴), he has the speaker looking out upon the hustle and bustle of the great city from the top of a hill:10 I ordered my carriage and climbed the northern hills, There I stood long, gazing at the metropolis. How abundant were the dwellings, With numerous streets and lanes densely arrayed. The great mansions raised their tall gates; Recessed chambers intertwined in towers with eave-drains all around. Deep and limpid were the winding pools, Clear rivers were lined with flowering bushes. Spacious halls had rows of latticework windows, Perfumed rooms were strung with gauze curtains. . . . ␥楽䘣⊿Ⱉ炻⺞ữ㛃❶悕ˤ⺃慴ᶨỽ䚃炻埿⶟䳃㻈㻈ˤ䓚䫔ⲯ檀斍炻㳆㇧ 䳸旧敋ˤ㚚㰈ỽ㸃㸃炻㶭ⶅⷞ厗唬ˤ怫⬯↿䵢䨿炻嗕⭌㍍伭ⷽˤ

The hill to the north of Luoyang was the famous Bei Mang ⊿恁 or North Mang, where the noble lords of the Eastern Han, Wei and Jin dynasties were buried. This viewing point casts an ironic shadow over the scene of opulence and luxury of city life, and paves the way for the dark warning offered in the second half of the yuefu poem that “the bloom of a visage falls away with the years” and that “revelry and ease melt away one’s soul.” The opening of the above yuefu poem echoes two earlier poetic texts. One is Liang Hong’s 㠩泣 (fl. 1st century) “Song of Five Alases” Ḽ☓ᷳ㫴.11 I climb the North Mang, alas! I turn back to look at the imperial capital, alas! Tall and majestic are the royal palaces, alas! The common folk are suffering from hardship, alas! On and on, with no end in sight, alas! 昇⼤⊿刺№炻☓炰栏奥ⷅṔ№炻☓炰⭖⭌Ⲽⴔ№炻☓炰Ṣᷳ≔⊆№炻☓炰 怤怤㛒⣖№炻☓炰

The other text echoed by Lu Ji is Cao Zhi’s 㚡㢵 (192–232) “Sending off Mr. Ying” 復 ㅱ㮷, No. 1, which also begins by climbing and looking, albeit at a devastated Luoyang:12

The poem is entitled “Presented to the Wife on Behalf of Gu Yanxian” 䁢栏⼍⃰岰⨎. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 682. 10. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 662. 11. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 166. 12. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 454. 9.

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I walked up the slopes of North Mang, And gazed at the hill of Luoyang afar. How desolate Luoyang is!— Its palaces have all been burned down. . . . 㬍䘣⊿刺旒炻态㛃㳃春Ⱉˤ㳃春ỽ⭪⮆炻⭖⭌䚉䅺䃂ˤ

Lu Ji’s echoes of the earlier poems demonstrate his familiarity with the northern literary tradition as well as his innovative approach to the motif of “Luoyang seen from North Mang.” As much as a city of the living, Lu Ji’s Luoyang was a city of words and images drawn from literary works, a resonant physical place where traces of cultural memories shared by southerners and northerners alike were seen everywhere. It was this Luoyang that Lu Ji attempts to immortalize in An Account of Luoyang (Luoyang ji 㳃春姀), a work he authored after he was appointed editorial director of the Imperial Library in 298.13 It has survived only in fragments, preserved in sources such as commentaries and encyclopedias.14 Even in such a fragmented form, we can still catch a glimpse of the scope of the original work. It might have begun with a statement about the origin of the city in the classical period and about its current scale: “The city of Luoyang was designed and created by the Duke of Zhou. It spans ten leagues long from east to west, and thirteen leagues from south to north” 㳃春❶炻␐℔㇨⇞炻㜙大⋩慴炻⋿⊿⋩ᶱ慴.15 Lu Ji gives an account of the city gates, noting points of interest;16 he describes the two large imperial palace complexes in the city with their many soaring towers and terraces, which use micain window construction.17 He writes about important cultural landmarks such as the Numinous Terrace (Ling tai 曰冢), which was the astronomical observatory, or the National University (Taixue ⣒⬠). He records the Stone Classics erected in 175 at the National University with a loving precision: “There are altogether forty-six original steles. In the western row, of the steles on which were carved Shangshu, Zhou Yi and Gongyang zhuan, sixteen are still standing, but twelve have been damaged. . . .”18 Impressed with the broad avenues of Luoyang lined with elms and locust trees, he observes how the avenues were all divided into three lanes; the center lane was used by the imperial procession while all others entered the city on the left lane and departed from the city on the 13. The dating is based on a statement in Cefu yuangui Ⅎ⹄⃫潄: “After Lu Ji became editorial director of the Imperial Library, he compiled Luoyang ji in one scroll” 映㨇䁢叿ἄ恶炻㑘㳃春姀ᶨ⌟. Cefu yuangui, 560.6730. Also see Lu Ji’s chronology in Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu,1416. 14. For a collection of the fragments, see Jin Taosheng, Lu Ji ji, 183–85; Liu Yunhao, Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu, 1287–94. Neither collection, however, is complete. For citations in this paper I give early rather than modern sources. 15. Yiwen leiju 63.1133. Shi Weile ⎚䁢㦪 argues that the size of the city as recorded here shows that Lu Ji has included the surrounding areas of Luoyang rather than just the walled city itself. See “Lu Ji Luoyang ji de liuchuan guocheng yu lishi jiazhi,” 29. 16. See, for instance, the description of the Xuanyang Gate and an ice storage located there, in Taiping yulan, 68.452. 17. Yiwen leiju 63.1134. 18. Cited in Li Xian’s 㛶岊 (654–684) commentary to Hou Han shu, 60.1990.

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right.19 The width of the avenues almost certainly would have surpassed that of the Wu capital Jianye ⺢惜 (modern Nanjing), a city of a much smaller scale at this time.20 Lu Ji also makes note of public spaces such as the flourishing markets or the famous Bronze Camel Boulevard, where Luoyang’s fashionable young men gathered.21 He writes about the city’s residential quarters known as “wards” (li 慴), such as Buguang Ward 㬍⺋慴 where the prefectural liaison offices were located.22 His account seems to have extended beyond the city proper to include sites in the vicinity, such as the Songgao ⴑ檀 Mountain fifty leagues to the southeast of Luoyang.23 It is particularly fascinating to see Lu Ji measure the material city against the written city, again testifying to Lu Ji’s familiarity with the northern literature: I always wondered about “We greeted the emperor at the Chengming Lodge,” and asked Lord Zhang about it. His Lordship said, “When Emperor Ming of the Wei presided at the Jianshi Hall, people went to all court meetings through the Chengming Gate.” So the lodge where the officials on night duty stayed over was beside the Chengming Gate.24 ⏦ⷠ⿒媩ⷅ㈧㖶⺔炻⓷⻝℔炻⻝℔ḹ櫷㖶ⷅ⛐⺢⥳㭧炻㛅㚫䘮䓙㈧㖶攨ˤ 䃞䚜⺔⛐㈧㖶攨“ˤ

“We greeted the emperor” is the opening line of Cao Zhi’s poem, “Presented to Biao, Prince of Baima” 岰䘥楔䌳⼒;25 Lord Zhang refers to none other than Zhang Hua, the eminent writer and statesman who acted as the Lu brothers’ patron. An Account of Luoyang might not have been a massive tome,26 but it is the first extant account of Luoyang, written at a time when people were primarily writing geographical accounts of the writer’s native region or of faraway places with a focus on their exotic products.27 Lu Ji certainly could not claim a native’s knowledge of Luoyang. His interest in 19. Taiping yulan 195.1070. 20. Jianye served as the Eastern Jin capital and its name was changed to Jiankang ⺢⹟. Even after it was rebuilt under the Eastern Jin minister Wang Dao 䌳⮶ (276–339), it was accused of manifesting poor urban design because its streets were too winding. See Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 2.156. 21. Taiping yulan 191.l054, 158.899. 22. Taiping yulan 181.1009. 23. Cited in Li Shan’s 㛶┬ (630–689) commentary to Wen xuan, 16.731. 24. Cited in Li Shan’s commentary in Wen xuan 21.1016 and 24.1123. The latter citation reads: “Emperor Ming of the Wei constructed the Jianshi Hall” 櫷㖶ⷅἄ⺢⥳㭧. This may be a transcription error, since the Jianshi Hall was already in use during the reign of Emperor Wen (r. 220–226), father of Emperor Ming (r. 226–239). See Pei Songzhi’s (372–451) commentary in Sanguo zhi, 2.76. The Jianshi Hall was in the northern palace complex at Luoyang. 25. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 453. 26. It is recorded as consisting of “one scroll” in the “Bibliography” of the Sui shu (Sui history), 33.982. 27. See Sui shu 33.982–87. One anonymous Luoyang ji in four scrolls is recorded in the Sui shu “Bibliography” right before Lu Ji’s Luoyang ji. Although the Sui shu usually arranges the book titles in a chronological order, anonymous works tend to be placed at the beginning of a list of works on the same subject. In this case, however, it is quite possible that the anonymous Luoyang ji was the very one authored by an otherwise obscure man named Hua Yanjun 厗⺞₩. His Luoyang ji is cited a number of times in commentary and encyclopedia sources, and was probably lost in the Southern Song. Since a fragment mentions Emperor

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Luoyang was that of an outsider and a visitor attracted to a city that was at once strange and strangely familiar through his reading. We know Lu Ji had planned to write a poetic exposition on each of the capitals of the former three kingdoms, but he reportedly gave up the idea after Zuo Si ⶎ⿅ (ca. 250–ca. 305), a “[northern] lout” (cang fu ‾䇞) whom he had held in contempt, had completed a set of poetic expositions on the three capitals first, which Lu Ji found remarkable.28 Could An Account of Luoyang have been a by-product of the aborted writing plan? Or was it just a loving record of a city that had fascinated Lu Ji, who repeatedly talked about its wonders in an admiring tone in his letters to his brother Lu Yun?29 In any case, he might not have declared, like the Augustan writer Propertius, “in loyal verse would I seek to set forth these walls,” but he had certainly, as Horace would say, “built a monument more lasting than bronze.” The bronze camels on the Luoyang thoroughfare are long gone. Although the textual city created by Lu Ji has also crumbled, its fragments have survived, illuminating a southerner’s fascination with the northern metropolis. Another northern city with which the Lu brothers were deeply engaged was the city of Ye. For them Ye embodied a more recent past, as it was the headquarters of the powerful warlord Cao Cao 㚡㑵 (155–220), whose son Cao Pi 㚡ᶽ (187–226) founded the Wei 櫷 dynasty (220–265) that was eventually replaced by the Sima ⎠楔 family of the Western Jin. Cao Cao was already a legendary figure while alive: friends and foes alike were awed by his political and military genius and by his powerful personality.30 A biography of Cao Cao known as The Story of Cao the Trickster (Cao Man zhuan 㚡䝆⁛), written by an anonymous Wu author, portrays him as a cunning, ruthless man who was nevertheless incredibly charismatic.31 Lu Ji and Lu Yun were both fans of Cao Cao. At about the same time that he wrote An Account of Luoyang, Lu Ji, working in the Imperial Library, had an opportunity to go through the archives, and chanced upon Cao Cao’s last will and testament. Moved by its pathos, Lu Ji composed an elegy on Cao Cao, which was to be included in the Wen xuan, the canonical pre-Tang literary anthology compiled by a latter-day fan of the Cao family, Xiao Tong.32 However, Lu Ji’s prose preface to the elegy, especially the part that quotes from Cao Cao’s will, has become better known than the elegy itself. Framing the preface in a dialogue between himself and a fictional interlocutor, Lu Ji expresses sympathy and regret at the way in which Cao Cao succumbed to sentimentality at the end of a heroic life.

28. 29. 30.

31. 32.

Yuan of the Jin 㗱⃫ⷅ (r. 317–323) crossing the Yangtze River to the south, Hua Yanjun must have lived during, or  after, the Eastern Jin. This fragment is cited in an anonymous Yuan local gazetteer Henan zhi 㱛⋿⽿, which scholars speculate is largely based on Song Minqiu’s ⬳㓷㯪 (1019–1079) Henan zhi. See Zhang Baojian, “Song Minqiu Henan zhi kao.” Jin shu 92.2377. “Cang fu” was used by southerners to refer to northerners in this period. See Lu Ji ji, 179. It was said that during one of Cao Cao’s military campaigns, even the enemy generals bowed to him when they saw him on the battlefield, and Han and non-Han soldiers all vied to take a look at him. See Wang Shen’s 䌳㰰 (d. 266) Wei shu 櫷㚠, cited in Pei Songzhi’s commentary to Sanguo zhi 1.35. Yan Kejun, ed. Quan Sanguo wen, 75.1455–56. Wen xuan 60.2594–2601.

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As I observe how he gave his last orders to his heir and offered parental advice to his four sons, I find his plan for managing the country grand, and his instructions for glorifying the family extensive. He said, “My upholding of the law in the army was justified. As for those minor instances of anger and the grave errors I have committed, you should not emulate them.” These are the upright remarks of an enlightened man. Holding his young daughter in his arms and pointing to his little boy Bao, he said to his four grown-up sons: “I will have to burden you with them now.” At this point his tears fell. How sad! Once he had taken the entire world upon himself, but now he had to entrust his beloved children to others. . . . Nevertheless, to be so sentimental about life within the inner quarters and so intimately concerned with the affairs of his family members seems to border on fastidiousness. He also said, “My concubines and entertainers should all be accommodated on Copper Bird Terrace. A couch eight foot long enclosed with fine hemp curtains should be set up in the hall on the terrace. Every day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, dried meat and other kinds of food should be offered to my spirit. On the first day and fifteen day every month, the entertainers should give musical performances in front of the curtains. You should all go up Copper Bird Terrace from time to time and gaze at my tomb on the western mound.” Then again he said, “The remaining incense should be divided up among my consorts. Since they have nothing else to do, they may learn how to make decorated shoes and sell them. The silk bands that I have obtained in my various offices should all be put away in the storage. . . .”

Lu Ji comments on every part of Cao Cao’s will that touches him, and ends the preface with a statement that “virtuous and talented people” should “discard attachment to external things and dismiss concerns with the inner quarters.” Throughout the preface and the elegy, Lu Ji constantly employs spatial metaphors to convey a poignant contrast between the largeness of a grand life (“How lofty and expansive was his broad mind, / his great enterprise was truly prosperous” ⑐⬷⹎ᷳⲣ怰炻⢗⣏㤕ᷳ⃩㖴) and the “narrowness” of death in terms of both the dying man’s concern with an intimate interior space (mi ⭮, “fastidiousness,” also means closed, private, or secretive) and the small physical space of the body’s resting place, indicated by “a small wooden coffin” (ququ zhi mu ⋨⋨ᷳ㛐) and “a tiny piece of earth” (zui’er zhi tu 唆䇦ᷳ⛇). In the elegy Lu Ji responds to the past through reading a text that is Cao Cao’s will and testament, but his reading is animated by a vivid visualization of historical events, not just the dying scene of Cao Cao, but also an imagined scene of the women of Cao Cao’s household gazing out to his grave. In the sentence “You should all go up Copper Bird Terrace from time to time and gaze at my tomb on the western mound,” it is not immediately clear whom Cao Cao is addressing. He may very well be speaking to his sons, the executors of his will. Lu Ji deliberately takes the addressees as Cao Cao’s concubines, and conjures up a poignant scene of longing and emptiness that would become one of the most famous in classical Chinese literature and engender an entire poetic tradition of its own: They tuned the clear strings, playing music in solitude; They presented food offerings, but who would taste them?

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They lamented the quiet emptiness of the hemp soul-curtains; They resented the hazy distance of the western mound. Going up the Copper Bird Terrace, they mourned together; Their beautiful eyes gazed afar, but what could they see? ⽥㶭䳫侴䌐⣷炻忚僗䱺侴婘▿ˤつ䷸ⷛᷳ⅍㻈炻⿐大昝ᷳ勓勓ˤ䘣䇝冢侴 佌ず炻䛅伶䚖℞ỽ㛃ˤ

In envisioning the women on the Copper Bird Terrace, Lu Ji’s historical imagination turns spatial, with the terrace as the locus of the foolishness of human desires and the pathos of mortality. He also extends the largeness of Cao Cao’s grand life, stressed throughout the preface and the elegy, into the “emptiness” of the soul-curtains and the “hazy distance” of the western mound. Through the mouth of the imaginary interlocutor, Lu Ji uses the figure of space to describe human life: “To live and then die define the territories of a life” 㬣䓇 侭⿏␥ᷳ⋨➇. Here death acquires a concrete embodiment in the Copper Bird Terrace. The imaginary interlocutor questions the intensity of Lu Ji’s emotional response to a text, saying, “We feel grieved when setting eyes on the coffin at a funeral, but when we see plants growing for over a year on the grave, we no longer burst into tears” 冐╒㭗侴⼴ず炻契 昛㟡侴䳽⒕. For the interlocutor, the sight of physical reality is an essential stimulus of emotion. Lu Ji, however, demonstrates that for an imaginative reader, a text makes visible both time and space, and it does so much more vividly than any actual object: Reviewing the writing he left behind, I feel stirred, And I offer this piece to his soul with sorrow. 奥怢䯵ẍㄟㄐ炻䌣勚㔯侴づ ˤ

While Lu Ji responded to the past through reading a text, Lu Yun did so through reading a place. In 302, Lu Yun was appointed to the staff of Sima Ying ⎠楔㻩 (279–306), the Prince of Chengdu. His office took him to Ye, where Sima Ying had been stationed since 299.33 In contrast with Lu Ji, who examines Cao Cao’s will and testament (yi ling 怢Ẍ), Lu Yun examines Cao Cao’s “past deeds” (yi shi 怢ḳ) in an architectural structure: As I review the past deeds of Lord Cao, I feel that only the most thoughtful and talented in the world could be his match. He had had a rather ordinary residence constructed, which, however, is still standing even after almost a hundred years. The small hall attached to it was indestructible,34 and had to be taken down with axes. From this, one

33. According to Lu Yun’s biography, he became Sima Ying’s Right Commander ⎛⎠楔 after the Prince of Qi 滲 was killed in early 303 (Jin shu 54.1484). However, according to Lu Yun’s preface to his “Suimu fu” 㬚㙖 岎, the appointment was made in the summer of the second year of the Yongning era (302) (Quan Jin wen 100.2031). 34. Yi tang ⣟⠀ has a variant: 嫣 (also written as 娫) ⠀ or 嫣➪. A variant version of the letter is cited in Xu Kai’s ⼸拯 (920–974) notes to the entry on “娫” in Shuowen jiezi 婒㔯妋⫿: “People tried to demolish the small hall attached to the building constructed by Lord Cao but could not, so they had to take it down with axes” 㚡℔㇨䁢⯳炻✤℞嫣⠀ᶵ⎗⢆炻䚜ẍ㕏㕓ᷳ侴⶚. Xu Kai, Shuowen jiezi xizhuan, 5.47.

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Xiaofei Tian knows that his officials must have been competent and his people content with their professions. 䚩㚡℔怢ḳˤ⣑ᶳ⣂シ攟ㇵᷫ䔞䇦ˤἄ䌀⯳⎹䘦⸜ˤ㕤Ṳ㬋⸛ˤ⣟⠀ᷫᶵ ⎗⼿⢆ˤὧẍ㕏㕓ᷳ俛ˤ䇦⭂ẍ䞍⎷䧙℞借ˤ㮹⬱℞㤕ḇˤ

At Ye, Lu Yun visited the Wei palace complex, especially the three terraces built by Cao Cao: the Copper Bird, the Golden Tiger 慹嗶, and the Ice Well ⅘ḽ. Several letters he wrote to Lu Ji attest to his fascination with these sites. One day, as I was on the inspection tour, I took the opportunity to examine Lord Cao’s personal effects. There were cushions, mats, seven sets of quilts for winter and summer, and a headband with “long ears” that looked like the kind of headband we had in Wu. His royal crown and Far Roaming Hat were both there. There was a cosmetics box, which was about seven to eight inches long and over four inches tall, with no shelves or layers inside, just like the kind used by Wu commoners. One could still make out the grease on the hairbrush. His comb and toothpick were all there. There were two pieces of yellow cotton he used to wipe clean his eyes; they had some dark smudges, which were tearstains. His hand warmer, bamboo recliner, straw mat, chessboard and bookcase were also there. There were five large and small reading desks; in a book cart there was a reclining pillow, which he used for reading when lying down. He had a fan like Wu fans; his folding fans were also there. There were five bookcases. I assume you know Yangao’s bookcase—they look very much like that. His writing brushes were also just like Wu brushes; so was his ink-stone. There were five paring knives. There was a writing brush made of lapis lazuli, which is very rare. On the seventh day of the seventh month in the third year of the Jingchu era [ July 24, 239], Lady Liu broke it in half. Seeing it filled my heart with melancholy feelings. All these objects were quite plain. Now I am sending you several large writing tablets from the Ye palace.35 Previously I  have told you about the hemp soul-curtains and the place of gazing at Lord Cao’s tomb. That was when I was still Administrator at Qinghe.36 On the terrace remarkable transformations in architectural design are endless. But I have always wanted to ask Lord Cao: “Suppose the rebels were to manage to go up the terrace, and Your Lordship only used your clever schemes moving back and forth to avoid them; what would Your Lordship do if they set fire to the terrace?” In that case, I am afraid even His Lordship would not be able to stop them. To the north of Wenchang Palace there is a sky passageway, which is about ten feet away from the palace. The inner chambers are in the eastern section of the Palace. The residence to the east of the Wenchang Palace belongs to Prince of Chenliu, so I was unable to go in and take a look.37

The first part of the letter, which reads like an inventory, conveys a palpable sense of the aura of Cao Cao’s personal effects. All these objects were intimate items of daily life that had been well used by their owner. Lu Yun was clearly struck by the stains on the hairbrush 35. This sentence (Ṳ復惜⭖⣏⯢攺㔠) is ambiguous. I take ⯢攺 to be ⯢䯉. 36. Lu Yun was at Qinghe (in modern Hebei). This sentence (㗗㶭㱛㗪) may be textually corrupted. 37. The last Wei emperor, Cao Huan 㚡⣸ (246–303), was enfeoffed as Prince of Chenliu and resided in the Ye palace complex (Sanguo zhi 4.154).

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and on the cotton pads: they were “traces” (ji 嶉), not the kind of grand, intangible deeds (shi ji ḳ嶉) of a ruler, but physical marks left behind by a historical person made real by his corporeality. Lu Yun examined the objects closely, and by doing so, implicitly obtained direct access to the person of the past without the mediation of text. Throughout his description of Cao Cao’s personal effects, Lu Yun constantly evokes similar objects from Wu as points of comparison, apparently trying to make Lu Ji “see” the objects as well. The appeal to familiarity and modesty (e.g., the cosmetic box looked like those “used by Wu commoners”) brings attention to the one object that he claims to be “rare,” a writing brush made of lapis lazuli, which was preserved in the palace collection in its damaged state. The exact date on which the brush was broken—the seventh day of the seventh month—is a traditional festival celebrating the reunion of the separated heavenly lovers, the Cowherd and the Weaver Stars. We do not know how Lu Yun learned of the date and of the identity of the palace lady who broke the brush, but such intimate details point to a story that is tantalizingly withheld and to a past visibly concealed, embodied in a broken writing brush whose function, ironically, is to record and transmit. The fragmented lapis lazuli becomes a physical symbol of a past at once exceedingly close and irreparably fractured, a fact also manifested in the contemporary spatial arrangement of the palace complex: Lu Yun was unable to access the eastern quarters of the Wenchang Palace because they were being used as the residence of the abdicated Wei emperor. At the time Lu Yun was writing, Wei had ended merely a few decades earlier, and many members of the Wei royal family provided him with living connections to the past. He befriended an aspiring writer Cui Junmiao Ⲽ⏃剿, the son-in-law of Cao Cao’s grandson, Cao Zhi 㚡⽿ (d. 288). Cui admired Lu Ji’s writings so much that, according to Lu Yun, every time he saw a new composition by Lu Ji, he would declare that he wanted to destroy his ink-stone and brush and never write again.38 He also engaged in a sort of friendly competition with Lu Yun. In the summer of 302, Lu Yun composed a “Fu on Ascending the Terrace” (Dengtai fu 䘣冢岎),39 the very topic that Cao Cao himself had taken up and commissioned his sons, Cao Pi and Cao Zhi, to write on when they went up the newly constructed Copper Bird Terrace in 212.40 Lu Yun writes in his letter to Lu Ji: I went up the city gate the other day and was moved to compose a “Fu on Ascending the Terrace.” I racked my brain but still could not finish it. Then Cui Junmiao wrote a piece on the same topic. Now I have more or less brought it to an end. I could not make it good, and yet I was exhausted for days. Nevertheless, I say it is better than the two poetic expositions I sent you earlier. I wonder what you think of it though. I hope you could edit it somewhat. Just change a word or two here and there—I do not dare wish

38. Quan Jin wen 102.2045. 39. Ibid., 100.2032–33. 40. Sanguo zhi 19.557. Only two short lines have survived from Cao Cao’s “Fu on Ascending the Terrace,” but longer fragments from Cao Pi and Cao Zhi’s compositions are still extant.

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for more. I am afraid it contains some southern pronunciations, and hope you could fix it as you see fit.41

Later he forwarded Cui’s piece to Lu Ji: “I am enclosing Junmiao’s ‘Fu on Ascending the Terrace.’ It is a nice piece. He said he would revise it further and make it even better. I wonder if his revised version could actually surpass this.” It is interesting to note how the idea of laboring over and revising one’s writing is foregrounded in both letters. The fatigue and exhaustion mentioned with regard to Lu Yun’s attempt to complete his poetic exposition are evocative of the physical efforts required by the ascension of the terrace or by the construction of the terrace itself. Writing a terrace into being turns out to be no less tiring than climbing or building a terrace. Cui Junmiao’s fu is no longer extant, but Lu Yun’s has survived. It forms an interesting contrast with Cao Zhi’s piece written ninety years before, which sings the praises of Cao Cao for his great service to the Han dynasty and expresses the wish that his glory and life last forever. Lu Yun writes in his fu: “I am moved by the existence of the old objects, / and feel saddened by the absence of the former inhabitants” デ冲䈑ᷳ①⬀№炻ず㖼Ṣᷳ ḹṉ. He ends the fu by commending the last Wei emperor for understanding heaven’s mandate and abdicating to the house of Jin: Having purified the provisional Palace of Literary Glory, He vacated the Purple Tenuity as an offering,42 Relinquished the grand residence under heaven, And pledged all the worthy men within the realm. With respect and care, our Emperor carries out the way of heaven, As heaven concentrates its favor of the north in Him alone.43 We expect the prosperous dynastic fortunes to endure And enjoy the longevity of ten thousand years. 㶭㔯㖴ᷳ暊⭖№炻嘃䳓⽖侴䁢䌣ˤ⥼㘖⣑ᷳ⃱⬭№炻岒䌯⛇ᷳ湶⼍ˤ㫥⑱ 䘯ᷳ㈧⣑炻普⊿栏㕤ᷫ䛟ˤ娽㳒䤂ᷳ怈㛇№炻⇯㕗⸜㕤㚱叔ˤ

The Western Jin collapsed fourteen years later, but Lu Yun would not live to see it, for he and his brother were both executed by the Prince of Chengdu in 303, the year after he wrote the “Fu on Ascending the Terrace.” Lu Yun’s enthrallment with the north and the northern personages, especially Cao Cao, is palpable in his writings at Ye. The various literary connections with the Cao family, formed in reading and in reality, seem to have only intensified his desire to bridge the gap between the present and the past. Several times Lu Yun took some of the things left behind by Cao Cao and sent them to Lu Ji as gifts, so that Lu Ji might also partake in the aura of 41. Quan Jin wen 102.2043. 42. The Purple Tenuity is the seventh star of the North Pole and represents the imperial palace. 43. This rewrites a line from a Shi jing poem “Huang yi” 䘯䞋: “[Heaven] looks to the west with favor” ᷫ䛟大 栏 (Mao shi 241/1).

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the objects. On one occasion he sent Lu Ji two cases of “ink coal” from Cao Cao’s storage, which was to be used as ink.44 On another occasion he gave Lu Ji a much more intimate item from Cao Cao’s belongings, and one could only hope that Lu Ji had the good sense not to put the gift to actual use: “Lately I again inspected Lord Cao’s personal effects, and took one of his tooth-picks. Now I am sending it to you.”45 These letters reflect on both brothers as avid devotees of Cao Cao. Lu Yun’s report about the “hemp soul-curtain” and the “place of gazing at Lord Cao’s tomb” might very well have been in response to Lu Ji’s elegy. It seems a universal human foible to, as Cao Pi puts it, “cherish what is far away and scorn what is close at hand” (gui yuan jian jin 屜怈岌役).46 Visiting Rome in 1337, Petrarch lamented: “Who are more ignorant about Roman affairs than the Roman citizens? Sadly do I say that nowhere is Rome less known than in Rome.”47 Similarly, it takes a southerner to lovingly scrutinize the great northern cities and their famous former inhabitants, and to read and write about them. The native residents of a place, ironically, are turned into foreigners by a foreigner, who has, through his reading and writing, come to inhabit the place like home.

Fan Writing We were sojourners, as it were, in our own city, and wandering about like strangers, your books have conducted us, as it were, home again, so as to enable us to at last recognize who and where we were.48 —Cicero

One thing that connected Lu Ji and the Cao Wei rulers was Lu Ji’s intense interest in the northern court music. Cao Cao was a music connoisseur: he was said to have musicians play in the background constantly, and composed many song lyrics (yuefu) and set them to music himself.49 Almost all of Cao Cao’s extant poems are yuefu, preserved in the “Monograph on Music” (Yue zhi 㦪⽿) in the Song History (Song shu ⬳㚠) that aims to conserve court music repertoire. Cao Cao’s son Cao Pi, the founder of the Wei dynasty, and Cao Pi’s successor, Cao Rui 㚡䜧 (204–239), Emperor Ming, were both avid music lovers who actively concerned themselves with the making and performing of Wei court music, which after necessary adjustments and revisions continued to be performed in the Jin court.50 The sort 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

Quan Jin wen 102.2041. Ibid., 102.2045. “Lun wen” 婾㔯 in Dian lun ℠婾. Quan Sanguo wen 8.1097. Francesco Petrarch, Rerum familiarum libri (Letters on familiar matters), 293. Academica, Book I, p. 7. Sanguo zhi 1.54. Cao Pi and Cao Rui both composed many yuefu for court performance. For various court music reforms during Cao Pi and Cao Rui’s reigns, see Song shu, 19.534–539. For the Western Jin’s continuation and reform of Wei court music, see Jin shu, 12.676, 679, 684–85, 702–3. While the songs or at least the song lyrics for state rituals must be revised to fit the needs of a new dynasty, this is not necessarily the case with the “lighter” entertainment music.

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of music with which the Caos were enamored, in contrast with “serious” ritual music, was of the more informal kind, known as the harmony tunes (xianghe qu 䚠␴㚚) or the clear shang music (qingshang yue 㶭⓮㦪), with the songs accompanied by a string orchestra.51 Lu Ji’s poetry collection contains a large number of poems under yuefu titles; he also wrote a series of poems that are “imitations” (ni 㒔) of “old poems” (gushi ⎌娑), that is, anonymous poems of uncertain date from the second or early third century. In its early phase, the yuefu song had not yet developed its later generic specificities, and the distinction between “old poems” and “yuefu” is largely the function of sources—that is, if a poem happens to be preserved in a musical source, then it is known as a yuefu, often under the yuefu title “The Song [xing 埴] of X,” but the same text may appear elsewhere under the appellation “old poem.” Together, Lu Ji’s “imitations of ‘old poems’” and his poems under yuefu titles constitute a corpus of texts largely inspired by the northern court music tradition. It should be mentioned at the outset that there is no internal or external evidence for the dating of these pieces. While some scholars assign the “imitations of ‘old poems’” to Lu Ji’s Wu period, others prefer a post-Wu date; I agree, however, with C. M. Lai that these poems should be simply treated as “undatable.”52 Because of the special nature of Lu Ji’s imitation, which will be discussed below, I do not side with the theory that these “imitations” are to hone his writing skills; nor do I subscribe to the view that the ur-texts are “folk” literature, since none of the ur-texts would have been passed down to us if they had not been transmitted as part of the court music repertoire. In other words, whatever their “original origin,” the ur-texts became part of the “harmony tunes” or “clear shang music” performed in a court setting from the Eastern Han through the Western Jin, and it is for this reason that I suspect that Lu Ji most likely had had access to those songs en masse only after he came to Luoyang. Lu Ji’s “imitations of ‘old poems’” are characterized by a restricted sense of ni, i.e., the “practice of rewriting of the precedent text line by line in a more elevated register.”53 His yuefu poems also have precedents and respond to their precedents in complex ways. Like his “imitations of ‘old poems,’” these yuefu poems are notable for their rich, ornate diction, which, being more elaborate and rhetorically elevated than that of the ur-texts, indicates a great degree of self-conscious literary crafting. This has led many contemporary scholars to turn away from the proposal that Lu Ji’s “imitations” are a beginner’s literary exercises and look for other explanations, such as a desire to show off his talent and outdo his

51. Wang Sengqian 䌳₏嗼 (426–485) wrote: “Today’s clear shang music has originated from the Copper Bird Terrace. One cannot but long for the romantic panache of the three Wei emperors” Ṳᷳ㶭⓮⮎䓙戭晨炻 櫷㮷ᶱ䣾桐㳩⎗㆟. Cited in Yuefu shiji 44.638. Sima Guang ⎠楔⃱ (1019–1086) states, “Wei Taizu [i.e., Cao Cao] constructed the Copper Bird Terrace at Ye. He composed song lyrics himself and set them to pipes and strings. Later, a Director of Clear Shang Music was established to be in charge of it” 櫷⣒䣾崟戭晨冢㕤 惜炻冒ἄ㦪⹄塓ᷳ䭉⻎炻⼴忪伖㶭⓮Ẍẍ㌴ᷳ. Zizhi tongjian 134.898. 52. See Lai, “The Craft of Original Imitation: Lu Ji’s Imitations of Han Old Poems,” 122–24. 53. Stephen Owen, The Making of Early Chinese Classical Poetry, 261.

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predecessors.54 While such a desire might have been present in Lu Ji’s mind, I argue that his poetic practice exemplifies a southerner’s fascination, appropriation and, ultimately, “correction” of the northern musical tradition. The theory of fan literature in contemporary cultural and literary studies is particularly illuminating here. Fan literature, especially fan fiction, has been described as works that “generate variations that explicitly announce themselves as variations,” and it is the fact that “works enters the archive of other works by quoting them consciously” that distinguishes the condition of fan fiction from intertextuality, which is considered by some critics as the condition of all literary works.55 Fan fiction represents the interest of the socially subordinate, as “most fanfic authors are women responding to media products that, for the most part, are characterized by an underrepresentation of women.”56 Fan fiction scholars find Gilles Deleuze’s argument about repetition and difference particularly useful in discussing fan literature; according to Deleuze, “repetition” is not mechanical and secondary to the original, but contains within itself “a ‘differential’” that is “disguised and displaced.” Fanfic scholars use Deleuze’s theory to get away from the notion of a hierarchical relation between the original work and its new version that is conventionally denigrated as “derivative work.”57 Lu Ji’s “imitations of ‘old poems’” and yuefu songs, inspired by the northern court music, exemplify many characteristics of fan writing. Stephen Owen’s chapter on “Imitation,” focusing on Lu Ji’s set of imitations of “old poems,” states that the conditions of ni in the third century are that it is “specifically textual, responding to what is presumed to be a fixed prior text” (thus differentiated from the earlier poets’ participation in a largely oral poetic repertoire), and that it is “the only form of using prior poetic materials that requires consistent difference from its source text.”58 The requirement of difference is significant: in writing yuefu and “imitations of ‘old poems’,” Lu Ji is always repeating with a difference. On the simplest level, his rewritings elevate the linguistic register of the ur-texts; on a deeper level, he offers more politically correct versions to override the ur-texts that he feels are no longer appropriate for a unified empire. Though not a woman, he occupies the feminized position of a social subordinate, both as a subject in the Jin court, and as a southerner from a conquered state; and yet, by rewriting the northern musical tradition and consciously, explicitly making it “better,” he attempts to intervene in the dominant culture. Lu Ji’s imitations generate more imitations in the fifth century: as Derrida says, “the archive is never closed.”59 Lu Ji’s “imitations of ‘old poems’” have been discussed by many scholars; in contrast, his yuefu poems have received much less attention, and yet they show greater ingenuity in transforming existing lyrics. I will discuss two examples. 54. See, for instance, Zhao Hongling, Liuchao ni shi yanjiu, 105–18; Chen Enwei, Moni yu Han Wei liuchao wenxue shanbian, 208–10. 55. Abigail Derecho, “Archontic Literature: A Definition, A History, and Several Theories of Fan Fiction,” 65. 56. Ibid., 71. 57. Ibid., 73–74. 58. Owen, The Making, 261–62. 59. Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, 68.

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The first example is “The Song of Perambulating the East and West Gates” (Shun dong xi men xing 枮㜙大攨埴).60 There is no earlier yuefu under exactly the same title; instead, we have “The Song of West Gate” and “The Song of East Gate,” both preserved in the Song shu.61 The Song shu version of “West Gate” reads: I went out West Gate,62 I paced brooding: If I don’t make merry today, What moment am I waiting for? As for making merry— to make merry one must seize the moment. Why sit in troubled sadness, Should we wait for some year to come? Drink pure ale, Roast the fatty ox, Call to those your heart enjoys, Who can release worries and sadness. Man’s life does not last a full hundred years, He worries always about living a thousand. If the daylight is short and the nights are long, Best to go roaming with a candle in hand. Since I’m not the immortal Qiao the Prince, It’s hard to expect such a long lifespan. Since I’m not the immortal Qiao the Prince, It’s hard to expect such a long lifespan. Man’s lifespan is not of metal and stone, How can you expect long-fated years? If you’re greedy for goods and begrudge spending, You’ll be only mocked by later ages.

60. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 269. Shun here is interchangeable with xun ⶉ, to walk about, to patrol. 61. Song shu 11.617–18, 11.616. There is a “Que dong xi men xing” ⌣㜙大攨埴 beginning with the words “Wild geese” that is attributed to Cao Cao, but it is preserved only in the much later Yuefu shiji 37.552. A citation from the sixth century work Gujin yuelu ⎌Ṳ㦪抬 by the monk Zhijiang 㘢⋈, which in turn cites from Wang Sengqian’s Ji lu Ặ抬, states that the “Que dong xi men xing” by Cao Cao beginning with the words “Wild geese” “is not transmitted today” ( jin bu chuan Ṳᶵ⁛), a phrase very different from the statement, “not sung today” ( jin bu ge Ṳᶵ㫴), which, also frequently used in Ji lu, indicates that the lyrics were still extant but the music had been lost. Yuefu shiji might have a reliable source for this yuefu, though it is dubious. 62. Stephen Owen’s translation, The Making, 182.

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↢大攨炻㬍⾝ᷳˤṲ㖍ᶵἄ㦪炻䔞⼭ỽ㗪ˤ⣓䁢㦪炻䁢㦪䔞⍲㗪ˤỽ傥⛸ ォ⿓櫙炻䔞⽑⼭Ἦ勚ˤ梚愯惺炻䁁偍䈃ˤ婳␤⽫㇨㬉炻⎗䓐妋ォㄪˤṢ䓇 ᶵ㺧䘦炻ⷠ㆟⋫㬚ㄪˤ㘅䞕侴⣄攟炻ỽᶵ䥱䆕忲ˤ 冒朆ẁṢ䌳⫸╔炻妰㚫⢥␥暋冯㛇ˤ冒朆ẁṢ䌳⫸╔炻妰㚫⢥␥暋冯㛇ˤ Ṣ⢥朆慹䞛炻⸜␥⬱⎗㛇ˤ屒屉ッや屣炻Ữ䁢⼴ᶾ▌ˤ

A variant version recorded in Song shu is identical with the above version in the first four stanzas but ends with the following stanza: Off you go, passing like clouds, battered wagon and run-down nag—push ’em yourself.63 埴⍣ᷳ炻⤪暚昌炻⺲干你楔䁢冒㍐ˤ

Yuefu shiji records the first Song shu version, which is supposed to be the performance text used by Jin court musicians; it also records an alternative version that is believed to represent the “original lyrics” (benci 㛔录):64 I went out West Gate, I paced brooding: If I don’t make merry today, What moment am I waiting for? When it comes to making merry, When it comes to making merry, We must seize the moment. Why be in troubled sadness, Should we wait for some year to come? Brew the fine ale, Roast the fatty ox, Call to those your heart enjoys, Who can release worries and sadness. Man’s life does not last a full hundred years, He always worries about living a thousand. If the daylight is short and the nights are long, Best to go roaming with a candle in hand. Go roaming, off you go, passing like clouds, Battered wagon and run-down nag, your store.65 63. Song shu 11.617–18. 64. Yuefu shiji 37.549. Stephen Owen’s translation, with modification of the penultimate line, in The Making, 183. 65. See Owen’s discussion of the two ending lines in The Making, 183–84. Here I have chosen to render the

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↢大攨炻㬍⾝ᷳˤṲ㖍ᶵἄ㦪炻䔞⼭ỽ㗪ˤ忖䁢㦪炻忖䁢㦪炻䔞⍲㗪ˤỽ 傥ォ⿓櫙炻䔞⽑⼭Ἦ勚ˤ慨伶惺炻䁁偍䈃ˤ婳␤⽫㇨㬉炻⎗䓐妋ォㄪˤṢ 䓇ᶵ㺧䘦炻ⷠ㆟⋫㬚ㄪˤ㘅䞕劎⣄攟炻ỽᶵ䥱䆕忲ˤ忲埴⍣⍣⤪暚昌炻⺲ 干你楔䁢冒⃚ˤ

After summarizing the content of “West Gate,” Wu Jing ⏛䪞 (670–749) in his Yuefu guti yaojie 㦪⹄⎌柴天妋 observes, “There is also a ‘Song of Perambulating the East and West Gates’ in three- and seven-syllable line, which inherits the theme of lamenting [the passage of] time and cherishing the day, very much resembling it [West Gate].”66 Below is Lu Ji’s version: I go out West Gate, I gaze at heaven; The Sun Valley is empty, the Yanzi Mountain full. I am moved by the morning dew, I am saddened by human life: It flows past like this, how can it be stopped? I take my lesson from the mulberry door spindle, And the crickets are singing, If I do not enjoy today, the year is marching on. Before it gets dark, While we are still at a time of peace, I set out a banquet in the grand hall to entertain my associates. Playing the flute, loud and clear; Strutting the melancholy harp— We take pleasure today and enjoy it to the full. ↢大攨炻㛃⣑⹕炻春察㖊嘃Ⳏⴓ䙰ˤデ㛅曚炻ずṢ䓇炻必侭劍㕗⬱⼿ ˤ 㟹㧆ㆺ炻坳坨沜炻ㆹṲᶵ㦪㬚倧⼩ˤ徐㛒㙖炻⍲㗪⸛炻伖惺檀➪⭜⍳䓇ˤ 㽨㚿䫃炻⻰⑨䬷炻⍾㦪Ṳ㖍䚉㬉ねˤ

A quick comparison of Lu Ji’s poem with the anonymous “West Gate” shows the extent to which he deploys literary learning. The Sun Valley where the sun rises and the Yanzi Mountain where the sun sets are mythological places that have appeared in various literary sources such as the Han fu and the Chu ci. Morning dew is a common metaphor for human mysterious phrase, ru yun chu ⤪暚昌, differently, having in mind the usage of “chu” in the carpe diem poem “Cricket” (Xishuai 坳坨) in the Classic of Poetry: “If I do not make merry now, / days and months are passing by” Ṳㆹᶵ㦪炻㖍㚰℞昌. See Maoshi zhengyi 6A.3b. Nevertheless, what matters more in these yuefu/old poems are perhaps verbal echoes and sound associations rather than how a line is exactly written down in “only one realization of a virtual network of material and associations.” The Making, 183. 66. Cited in Yuefu shiji 37.549. The citation is slightly different in the Mao Jin 㮃㗱 (1599–1659) edition: “In the yuefu of the various poets, there is also a ‘Song of . . .’” This variant makes it clear that there is no anonymous original for this yuefu title. See Ding Fubao, Lidai shihua xubian, 30.

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life seen in many sources, from Han shu to Cao Cao’s “Short Song” (Duan ge xing 䞕㫴埴) and Cao Zhi’s “Seeing off Biao, Prince of Baima,” with which Lu Ji was certainly familiar.67 Much more notable is the allusion to Confucius’s remark, “What is gone by flows past just like this [river],” in the Analects.68 The third stanza contains two textual echoes. The first, “mulberry door spindle,” is a reference to Zhuangzi: the virtuous Yuan Xian lived in dire poverty, and “used mulberry as his door spindle,” but he was happy nevertheless, playing music to amuse himself.69 The second allusion is to the Shi jing poem, “Cricket,” which contains the lines: “The crickets in the hall: / the year is drawing to a close. / If I do not make merry now, / days and months are passing by.”70 Interestingly, the verb used in the last line, “days and months are passing by,” is chu, which is exactly the same as the one used in the enigmatic phrase, ru yun chu ⤪暚昌 (passing like clouds), in the variant version of “West Gate,” whose faint verbal echo of the ancient carpe diem poem is brought out explicitly in Lu Ji’s poem. The next stanza does not contain any specific textual reference, but “I set out a banquet in the grand hall to entertain my associates” is a more elegant rewriting of the stanza about drinking pure ale and roasting fatty ox in “West Gate.” In contrast with “those your heart enjoys,” Lu Ji uses yousheng, a phrase that appears in a Shi jing poem;71 instead of the more corporeal description of food—“fatty ox”—which might seem low, Lu Ji chooses to describe the spatial setting of the party, which is literally a “high” hall. The literary reference in the last stanza takes this apparently straightforward carpe diem poem in an uncertain direction. Zhang Heng’s ⻝堉 (78–139) “Fu on the Western Capital” (Xijing fu 大Ṕ岎) satirizes the lavish and sensual indulgences of the Western Han rulers and the nobility: “They take pleasure today: ‘There is no time to worry about what will happen after us’” ⍾㦪Ṳ㖍炻忹「ㆹ⼴.72 Does Lu Ji’s song imply, by repeating Zhang Heng’s phrase verbatim, this “Après moi le déluge” mentality? If so, then the song is no longer a clear and simple call to seize the day, but contains a self-critique that deconstructs its surface message, and casts an ominous shadow over the earlier statement, “while we are still at a time of peace.” Such ambiguity is not found in “West Gate,” which induces no guilt about the pleasures it promises. The great Eastern Han scholar Cai Yong 哉怽 (133–192) had dismissed the lyrics of the clear shang music, saying that “their words are not worth collecting and recording” ℞娆ᶵ嵛㍉叿.73 One of the songs he criticizes is “Going out West Gate” (Chu guo ximen ↢悕大攨), which, given the fluidity of poem titles in early medieval times, may very well 67. “Human life is like morning dew—what’s the point of making yourself suffer like this” Ṣ䓇⤪㛅曚炻ỽᷭ 冒劎⤪㬌 (Han shu 54.2464). 68. Analects 9/16 (Lunyu zhushu 9.7b). 69. From the chapter “Rang wang” 嬻䌳, in Zhuangzi jishi, 9.975. 70. See Note 65. 71. “Although I have brothers, they are not as good as my associates” 晾㚱⃬⻇炻ᶵ⤪⍳䓇 (Mao shi 164/5). 72. Yan Kejun, Quan Hou Han wen, 52.763. 73. Cited in Yuefu shiji 44.638.

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be our “West Gate.” Lu Ji, however, transforms “West Gate” into a more literary and highbrow song. One thing that deserves mention is that Lu Ji seems to have followed the variant Song shu version, as his poem has five stanzas rather than six, and the more literary image of “mulberry door spindle” seems to be a transformation of the reference to the speaker’s poverty—“battered cart, run-down nag,” which only appears in the variant Song shu version (or the alternative version in Yuefu shiji). The variant Song shu version also includes a distinctive three-three-seven syllable line stanza, which is adopted throughout Lu Ji’s poem. Lu Ji seems to be very fond of this particular metrical pattern. In the preface to another yuefu, “The Soccer Song” ( Juge xing 杈㫴埴), Lu Ji writes: According to my investigation, the Han palace complex had a Hanzhang Soccer Field and a Numinous Mushroom Soccer Field. Ma Fang of the Latter Han built his residence right beside a public street,74 so connected towers, linked pools and walled soccer field crowded the roadside. The “Soccer Song” presumably refers to this. In addition, the Prince of Dong’e writes in his poem: “With many riders one after another, they struck the [fur-ball and] rang sticks.”75 Perhaps this line refers to the soccer game? The form that mixes three-syllable line with seven-syllable line, though an extraordinary treasure and a prized vessel, would not be valued if it does not encounter an appreciative person. I hope to encounter an appreciative person to convey my feelings [through this form]. ㊱㻊⭖敌㚱⏓䪈杈⭌ˣ曰剅杈⭌ˤ⼴㻊楔旚䫔炻⬭⌄冐忻炻忋敋ˣ忂㰈ˣ 杈❶⻴㕤埿嶗ˤ杈㫴⮯媪㬌ḇˤ⍰㜙旧䌳娑忋榶㑲⢌炻ㆾ媪币杈᷶ˤᶱ妨 ᶫ妨炻晾⣯⮞⎵☐炻ᶵ忯䞍⶙炻䳪ᶵ夳慵ˤ栀忊䞍⶚炻ẍ㈀シ䂱ˤ

With the passion of an outsider, Lu Ji “investigates” the physical cityscape of Luoyang as well as the northern poetic landscape to find out about the origin of the “Soccer Song.” Lu Ji does not elaborate on why he finds this particular metrical form so attractive, although it is worth noting that a contemporary northern piece rewriting one of the “Nine Songs” from Chu ci—the classic southern poetic anthology—adopts precisely the same metrical form.76 Strikingly, Lu Ji positions himself as an “appreciative person” who understands the true value of a northern metrical form. He compares the form to a prized vessel, through which he conveys his feelings, and hopes to find a similarly appreciative reader for his song composed in this form. This preface in many ways embodies Lu Ji’s view of the northern musical tradition—an “extraordinary treasure” that is underappreciated—and his high expectation for his own writings in the northern tradition.

74. Ma Fang (d. 101) and his brother were known for their lavish lifestyle. They “constructed grand mansions, with towers and pavilions overlooking the avenues going on and on” ⣏崟䫔奨炻忋敋冐忻炻⻴ṁ埿嶗. Hou Han shu 24.857. 75. The Prince of Dong’e is Cao Zhi. He writes in “Song of Famous Metropolis” (Mingdu pian ⎵悥䭯): “Continuously we struck the fur-ball and rang sticks” 忋侑㑲杈⢌. Lu Ji’s quotation may be abbreviated from the five-syllable line. 76. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 261.

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The next example to be discussed is Lu Ji’s transformation of the “Song of Joining the Army” (Congjun xing ⽆幵埴). There are two extant precedents using the same title: the first are two song fragments credited to the famous Wei court musician Zuo Yannian ⶎ⺞⸜ (fl. early to mid-3rd century); the second is a set of five poems as well as two fragments by the prominent poet Wang Can 䌳䱚 (177–217).77 The first song fragment by Zuo Yannian is preserved in Tang and Song encyclopedias.78 How joyful to be in the army! We dash forward on a pair of piebald horses. The saddle dazzles one’s eyes, The dragon steed gallops without urging. ⽆幵ỽ䫱㦪炻ġᶨ槭Ḁ暁楩ˤ朵楔䄏Ṣ䚖炻漵樌冒≽ἄˤ

The second is cited in Shen Jian’s 㰰⺢ Yuefu guangti 㦪⹄⺋柴, which is in turn cited in Yuefu shiji: How they suffer—those serving on the frontier! In one year they are drafted three times. Three sons go to Dunhuang, Two sons arrive at Longxi. All five sons fight afar, their wives are pregnant at home.79 劎⑱怲⛘Ṣ炻ᶨ㬚ᶱ⽆幵ˤᶱ⫸⇘㔎䃴炻Ḵ⫸娋晜大ˤḼ⫸怈櫍⍣炻Ḽ⨎ 䘮㆟幓ˤ

Wang Can’s poems were not all composed at the same time. Of the set of five poems anthologized in the Wen xuan, the first poem was written in early 216 in celebration of Cao Cao’s victory over Zhang Lu;80 the second through fifth poems were traditionally dated to late 216 when he followed Cao Cao on a campaign against Wu (and he was to die of illness during the return journey).81 The opening poem of the Wen xuan series begins with the couplet: There are suffering and joy in joining the army; It all depends on whom you join. ⽆幵㚱劎㦪炻Ữ⓷㇨⽆婘ˤ

77. The five poems are entitled “Poems on Joining the Army” (Congjun shi) in the Wen xuan (27.1269–73), but Yuefu shiji includes them as yuefu. This shows the lack of boundary between a shi poem and a yuefu song at this stage. 78. Chuxue ji 22.537. In this version mu 䚖 (eyes) reads bai 䘥 (white). Taiping yulan, 358.1775. 79. Yuefu shiji 32.475. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 411. 80. Sanguo zhi 1.46. 81. See Li Shan’s commentary to Wen xuan 27.1270.

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Comparing this couplet with Zuo Yannian’s fragments, we find that Wang Can seems to have combined the “joy” and “suffering” respectively appearing in the opening line of each of Zuo Yannian’s songs. This might indicate a trope in writing about military life: either one sings of the macho pleasure of being a soldier, or one laments the hardship of campaigns and evokes longing for home and wife. Notably, four of the five Wen xuan poems by Wang Can describe campaigns against Wu, and one of Wang Can’s two fragments, with its description of warships and river battle, can be identified as being about a southern campaign as well.82 In contrast, Zuo Yannian’s second fragment contains place names such as Dunhuang and Longxi, both being places on the northwestern frontier of the Han empire (modern Gansu) where military action traditionally took place between the Han army and the Xiongnu forces. Lu Ji’s “Song of Joining the Army” presents an interesting contrast with these aforementioned poems: How they suffer—those on a faraway campaign! Swept along to the farthest edge in four directions.83 To the south they ascend the Five Peaks; To the north they defend the Great Wall. Valleys are deep, bottomless pits; Lofty mountains are many and steep. When climbing, they strive to hold on to the towering trees; Leaving behind foot tracks as they cross sand desert. The heat of summer is miserable enough; Chilly autumn wind, stern and cruel. Fresh blooms are scorched on summer branches; Cold ice freezes rushing currents. Tartar horses gather like clouds; Yue banners everywhere like profuse stars. Flying blades cast endless shadows; Sounding arrowheads sing in harmony. Even at breakfast they don’t take off their armor; When resting at evening, they still carry the halberds. How they suffer—those on a faraway campaign, Striking their chests, they grieve; yet can do nothing about it. 劎⑱怈⼩Ṣ炻桬桬䩖⚃忸ˤ⋿昇Ḽⵢ⵼炻⊿ㆵ攟❶旧ˤ㶙察怰䃉⸽炻ⲯⰙ 櫙ⴗⲐˤ⤖兪㒨╔㛐炻㋗嶉㴱㳩㱁ˤ昮㘹⚢⶚㄀炻㵤桐♜ᶼ劃ˤ⢷㡅䃎歖 喣炻⭺⅘䳸堅㲊ˤ傉楔⤪暚Ⱇ炻崲㕿Ṏ㗇伭ˤ梃扺䃉䳽⼙炻沜捹冒䚠␴ˤ 㛅梇ᶵ⃵ℹ炻⢽〗ⷠ屈ㆰˤ劎⑱怈⼩Ṣ炻㑓⽫ず⤪ỽˤ 82. “The towered warships ride on great waves; we thrust our halberds into the enemies” 㦻凡ⅴ㳒㲊炻⮳ㆰ ⇢佌嘄. See Taiping yulan 351.1746. 83. A variant version of this line reads: 桬档䩖大㱛. See Yiwen leiju 41.750.

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Lu Ji repeats the structure of the opening line of one of Zuo Yannian’s songs (“How they suffer . . .”), but it is not difficult to see the dramatic difference between the two poems in terms of linguistic register. Lu Ji’s poem is also stylistically more ornate than Wang Can’s poems because of its heavy parallelism and minimum narration. The most important difference is that, if each of Zuo Yannian’s and Wang Can’s poems focuses on one region—either North or South, Lu Ji deliberately creates the totality of experience of “the soldier” fighting for the empire, not the unique experience of any particular historical person, by incorporating both north and south in his poem (although he mentions “the four directions” at the start, it soon becomes clear that east and west are not part of the picture). Skillfully employing parallel structure, he pairs south and north in the second couplet; subsequently, geographical and climate characteristics respectively associated with the south and the north crop up: trees vs. desert, heat vs. cold. The parallel structure of the couplets conditions the reader to split geographical features that may be found in the same location, to divide seasonal changes that are universal—valleys and mountains; summer heat and autumn cool; spring blossoms and winter ice—and to identify each set with the south or the north. As a consequence, the south and the north are not only identified with heat/cold associations but take on certain geological traits as well, and these geological traits are in turn related to gender traits, e.g., valley = yin/female; mountain = yang/male. In this aspect, Lu Ji was one of the first to begin a long process of the making of the cultural South and North.84 Lu Ji is writing the poetry of a unified empire—no longer the North against the “southeastern barbarians” (dongnan yi 㜙⋿⣟), or the South against the northern “bandits” (kouzei ⭯屲).85 In fact, toward the end of his poem, Lu Ji explicitly brings up the identities of the northern/southern foes: they are now displaced to “Tartar” (hu), the traditional reference to northern non-Han peoples, and to “Yue,” the name for the southern non-Han peoples living to the south of the Yangtze River. Through such an ingenious displacement, Lu Ji suggests that it is ethnic and cultural identity, not regional identity, which is and should be the issue in a unified empire. In the last example to be discussed in this section, we have the old lyrics to a yuefu title that may seem at first glance to have little overt connection to Lu Ji’s poem under the same title, but Lu Ji’s poem is based on the old theme and contains implicit verbal echoes. The original yuefu in question is entitled “Song of Yuzhang” (Yuzhang xing 尓䪈埴).86

84. For a detailed discussion of the making of the north and south in the Six Dynasties, see Chapter 7 in Tian, Beacon Fire and Shooting Star: The Literary Culture of the Liang (502–557), 310–66. 85. “Southeastern barbarians” are what Wang Can calls the Wu people in No. 3 of his “Joining the Army.” “Bandits” is how the Wu describes Cao Cao’s army in one of Wu’s state ritual songs, “Ke Wancheng” ⃳䘾❶. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 545. 86. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 264; Yuefu shiji 34.501. The English translation is by Owen, The Making, 133–34. The text of this song is corrupted; I use Lu Qinli’s version here. Lu Qinli appends a note: “The Siku [quanshu] version of Yuefu shiji has filled many lacunae; it is unknown on what textual basis [they did that].”

Xiaofei Tian

66 When the white poplar first grew, It was right there on Camphorwood Mountain. Above, its leaves brushed the blue clouds, Below, its roots reached to the Yellow Springs. In cool autumn, in the eighth or ninth month, A man of the mountains brought an ax. My . . . how gleaming bright, Hacked away . . . Root and trunk had been broken apart, It fell over among the rocks of the cliff. The great craftsman brought ax and saw, With rope and ink he made the two ends even. Once it was carried four or five leagues, The branches and leaves were destroyed. . . . Happened to be [burned] for a boat.87 My person is in the palace of Luoyang, My roots are on Camphorwood Mountain. Send my regards to my leaves and branches— When shall we be rejoined again? My life, a hundred years . . . . . . together. Who would have thought that the craft of ten thousand Would cause me to be separated, trunk from root?

䘥㣲⇅䓇㗪炻ᷫ⛐尓䪈Ⱉˤᶲ叱㐑曺暚炻ᶳ㟡忂湫㱱ˤ㵤䥳ℓḅ㚰炻Ⱉ⭊ ㊩㕏㕌ˤㆹ♿ỽ䘶䘶炻㡗句♿♿♿ˤ㟡㟒⶚㕟䳽炻栃Ὰ⵾䞛攻ˤ⣏⋈㊩㕏 丑炻抠⡐滲ℑ䪗ˤᶨ槭⚃Ḽ慴炻㝅叱冒䚠㋸ˤ♿♿♿♿♿炻㚫䁢凇凡䅼ˤ 幓⛐㳃春⭖炻㟡⛐尓䪈Ⱉˤ⣂嫅㝅冯叱炻ỽ㗪⽑䚠忋ˤ⏦䓇䘦⸜♿炻冒♿ ♿♿ᾙˤỽシ叔Ṣⶏ炻ἧㆹ暊㟡㟒ˤ

The “yuzhang” 尓䪈 in the title of the song is a camphor tree, but also the name of a Han commandery (in modern Jiangxi) in the South. In The Making, Owen points out that this yuefu song makes use of the same thematic material as an exposition in Lu Jia’s 映屰 (ca. 240–170 BCE) chapter “On Material” (Zi zhi 屯岒), with a tree cut and fashioned as timber (cai 㛸) appearing as “a figure of human ‘talent,’ cai ㇵ炾㛸.”88 Lu Jia’s exposition stresses that “circulation” (tong 忂) is essential to both tree and talented people: the common poplar is being used in state ceremonies because it grows close to the capital while the fine camphorwood wastes away in the wilderness. The yuefu song, however, describes 87. Fan 䅼 (burn) has a textual variant pan 垈 (coil, twist), which makes better sense: “happened to be bent/ twisted for a boat.” Yuefu shiji 34.501. 88. Owen, The Making, 130–33.

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a poplar growing in the Camphorwood Mountain that laments being cut and destroyed as timber, separated from its native place and from its “branches and leaves.” That a tree growing in the southern mountains is cut down and sent to the capital to be timber (cai) would be a resonant theme for Lu Ji, a southern talent (cai) relocated to “the palace of Luoyang.” His “Song of Yuzhang” is a remarkable, and subtle, reworking of the theme.89 Sailing in a boat by isles on the clear river, I gaze at the shadowy north slopes of the high mountain afar. River and land present different routes; A loved one is going on a distant quest. The three briar trees once rejoiced in sharing the same trunk;90 The four birds are saddened by flying off into different woods.91 Since ancient times people have enjoyed gathering; To lament parting does not begin with this day and age. How long are we lodgers in this world? The sun is declining, with no still shadows. The road traveled has already been very long; The path ahead is creeping up on me with the years. Time is fast approaching twilight; It flows on and on, few could forbid it. Why is it then that with time passing so fast, I should cling to misery and sadness? With far-reaching aspiration, my entanglement with external things is shallow; Yet I cannot help it if my immediate sentiments run deep. Go on then, and may you keep good fortune; When the shadow is gone, I will follow up with sound. 㯶凇㶭ⶅ㷂炻态㛃檀Ⱉ昘炻ⶅ映㬲徼年炻ㆧ奒⮯怈⮳ˤᶱ勲㬉⎴㟒炻⚃沍 ず䔘㜿ˤ㦪㚫列冒⎌炻つ⇍寰䌐Ṳˤ⭬ᶾ⮯⸦ỽ炻㖍㖫䃉 昘ˤ⇵嶗㖊⶚ ⣂炻⼴⟿晐⸜ὝˤὫὫ唬㙖㘗炻ṡṡ歖⃳䤩ˤ㚟䁢⽑ẍ勚炻㚦㗗㆟劎⽫ˤ 怈䭨⫘䈑㶢炻役ね傥ᶵ㶙ˤ埴䞋ᾅ▱䤷炻㘗䳽两ẍ枛ˤ

89. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 657. Yuefu shiji 34.502–3. 90. Three briar trees sharing the same trunk as a figure for three brothers is a common trope. See “Shangliutian xing” ᶲ䔁䓘埴 in Lu, p. 288. Zhou Jingshi’s ␐㘗⺷ (ca. 4th century?) Biographies of Filial Sons ⬅⫸⁛ (a lost text) records a story about three brothers who wanted to split family property; upon seeing three briar trees sharing the same trunk, they were moved to change their mind. Yiwen leiju 89.1548. Wu Jun’s ⏛⛯ (469–520) Xu Qixie ji 临滲媏姀 records a similar story, but the jing tree becomes a zijing tree (bauhinia). 91. One morning Confucius heard a woman weeping nearby. His disciple Yan Hui remarked that this was the sound of those being parted. He explained that the mother bird of Wan Mountain had made a wailing sound just like that when her four young birds, having fledged, set off in different directions. Confucius sent someone to investigate and it turned out that Yan Hui was right. Shuo yuan shuzheng 18.647–48.

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In the opening couplet the poet brings out the contrast between river and mountain. Sailing on the currents and gazing at the “shadowy slopes,” that is, the northern side of a mountain, he implicitly creates a contrast between his native South, represented by the “clear river,” and the northern landscape where he is heading.92 One recalls Lu Jia’s description of the relocation of the cut trees: “They drift on the currents of mountain rivers; they come out of the mysterious wilderness; following the course of the Yangzi and Yellow rivers, they arrive near the capital” 㴖㕤Ⱉ㯜ᷳ㳩炻↢㕤⅍⅍ᷳ慶炻⚈㰇㱛ᷳ忻炻侴忼㕤 Ṕⷓᷳᶳ.93 The timber theme of the yuefu song is, however, compressed into one line in Lu Ji’s poem: “The three briar trees once rejoiced in sharing the same trunk” ᶱ勲㬉⎴㟒. The word, trunk (zhu 㟒), is a verbal echo of the yuefu song: “. . . to be separated, trunk from root” (li gen zhu 暊㟡㟒), and the poet is clearly hinting at his fate of being severed from his loved ones with whom he once shared the same trunk. But the image of a cut tree is diffused in the next line into the image of woods (lin), and the timber metamorphoses into a bird, a freer, more active agent than a tree. The bird is also able to make sound (yin) that can be heard by those at home, and this is precisely what the speaker promises to his loved ones at the end of the poem: “When the shadow is gone, I will follow up with sound.” That is, when he is away, he will send letters. Jing, here translated as [the poet’s] shadow, also means “sunlight.” The poet plays with light and shadow throughout the poem: in the opening couplet he gazes at the shadowy slopes of a high mountain (gaoshan yin); at the middle point of the poem, the sun speeds by “with no still shadows” (wu ting yin); two lines later, it is approaching twilight (mu jing); in the last couplet the sunlight and the poet’s shadow cast by the sun are gone, and in the darkness where sight fails, the poet turns to the sound of words, which in a self-referential twist points to this poem itself. The shift from light to dark mimics the course of the sun, of time, and of human life; it also mirrors the poet’s relocation from the south to the north, for the South, symbolized by “vermillion brightness” (zhuming 㛙㖶), is the land of the sun and summer, and the North is considered a country of cold winter governed by the God of Dark Mystery (xuanming 䌬⅍).94 As the poet himself is “approaching twilight” both in temporal and spatial terms, his heart is heavy with ambivalence: Why is it then that with time passing so fast, I should harbor such misery?

92. In another poem Lu Ji identifies himself as a “man of water country” (shuixiang shi 㯜悱⢓). See “In Reply to Zhang Shiran” (Da Zhang Shiran shi 䫼⻝⢓䃞娑). Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 681. 93. Xinyu jiaozhu 101. English translation by Owen, The Making, 131. 94. See, for instance, the Western Han work Huainanzi 㶖⋿⫸: “The south is of the fire element, its god is the Fiery God, whose assistant is Vermillion Brightness” ⋿㕡䀓ḇ炻℞ⷅ䀶ⷅ炻℞Ỹ㛙㖶. Huainan honglie jijie 3.88. “Dark Mystery” is the name of the god of winter as well as the god of the north. See Li ji zhushu 17.8a.

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With far-reaching aspiration, my entanglement with external things is shallow; Yet I cannot help it if my immediate sentiments run deep. 㚟䁢⽑ẍ勚炻㚦㗗㆟劎⽫ˤ怈䭨⫘䈑㶢炻役ね傥ᶵ㶙ˤ

In the first couplet, we hear the echo of the familiar rhetorical question in the carpe diem songs of the north: “Human life is short, why be sad and not make merry?”95 The second couplet provides an answer to the question: the poet has “far-reaching aspiration,” which takes him on the journey; in the meantime, however, he cannot help but feel “immediate sentiments”—attachment to his loved ones. In this poem, Lu Ji keeps to the old yuefu theme of leaving loved ones behind and seeking fortune in the capital city, but also transforms it into something more complicated in terms of the feelings he seeks to express. The poem is not a simple, straightforward celebration of the timber/talent’s good fortune, nor is it a simple, straightforward lamentation of the timber/talent’s separation from his native soil. Feeling the pressure of passing time and desiring to achieve his noble aspiration, the poet voluntarily undertakes the journey, even though he is pained by his longing for home; and yet, as he advances on the journey that is compared, in a reversal of a commonplace metaphor, to human life (“the path ahead is creeping up on me with the years”), the poet is driven by the force of his rhetoric to a dead end in darkness. The poem turns out to be an uncanny prophecy for Lu Ji.

Boating Song: Cultural Transactions between the South and North The emperor, upon seeing the turbulent waves [of the Yangtze River], heaved a sigh, saying, “Alas, this is truly how heaven separates the South and North!” He subsequently turned around and withdrew the troops. — Sima Guang, Zizhi tongjian 70.2225

In the previous section we discuss Lu Ji’s transformation of the northern yuefu tradition by rewriting it, much in the same way as a fan writes fan fiction: take the established theme, plot and character, extend them, develop them, and give them a very personal twist. The raising of linguistic register is a prominent feature of these writings; in addition, Lu Ji’s poems are much more complicated and nuanced than the ur-texts. Of the poems analyzed, “The Song of Joining the Army” and “The Song of Yuzhang” in particular are informed by Lu Ji’s trajectory from south to north and his obsessive concern with both. In this section, I will discuss another of Lu Ji’s songs inspired by the northern yuefu, “The Song of Oars” (Zhaoge xing 㢡㫴埴), and its further transformation in the hands of a group of Northern 95. For instance, “Enjoy to the fullest, amuse your heart, / why be pressed by gloomy thoughts” 㤝⭜⧃⽫シ炻 ㇂㇂ỽ㇨従 (“Nineteen Old Poems” III); “The ‘Dawnwind Hawk’ harbors misery; / the ‘Cricket’ laments a hard-pressed life. / Clear your mind of worries, set your feelings free, / what’s the point of constraining yourself?” 㘐桐㆟劎⽫炻坳坨 ⯨Ὣˤ唑㹴㓦ね⽿炻ỽ䁢冒䳸㜇 (“Nineteen Old Poems” XII). Lu Ji has written “imitations” of both of these “old poems.” Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 329–30, 332.

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and Southern Dynasties poets. As we will see, literary and cultural changes and geopolitical shifts are closely connected; the creation of a southerner in the North in celebration of the newly unified empire is rewritten to celebrate the new South by northerners in the South; it finally goes back to the North, and is turned by northerners into an erotic fantasy about the “Southland” (Jiangnan 㰇⋿). It is not hard to see why Lu Ji chose this northern yuefu title for rewriting. Its precedent, attributed to Emperor Ming of the Wei (or alternatively to Zuo Yannian), sings of a military campaign against Wu:96 The emperor spreads the great cultivation, His merit matches Heaven and tallies with the Earth God. While the yang energy produces and nurtures, the yin destroys; The shadow cast by the sundial moves in response to the stars. The civil virtue is applied at the appropriate time; The martial power punishes those who disobey. Chonghua performed the dance of shield and ax, And the people of You Miao submitted to Gui.97 The ignorant rebels of Wu and Shu98 Roost beside the Yangtze River and in perilous mountains. Miserable are the emperor’s people, Who look up but find no one to rely on. The emperor feels compassion for them; His heavenly wrath is stirred overnight. We set out from Our palace at Xuchang, Lining up battleships beside the long embankment. The next day we ride on the waves, The song of oars is sad and poignant. The Taichang banners brush the white sun; Numerous standards and pennons are displayed. Bearing standards and axes, The army will demonstrate its power in their land. Punishing the criminals, bringing comfort to the people, We shall clear up Our southeastern territories. 96. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 416. 97. Chonghua is an appellation of Emperor Shun, a legendary sage emperor in antiquity, whose surname was Gui. “You Miao,” or the “Three Miaos,” is the name of a tribal people in the south supposedly brought into submission by Shun. 98. This is the reading in Song shu 21.621 and Yuefu shiji 40.593. Lu Qinli adopts the variant reading “Wu zhong lu” ⏛ᷕ嘄 (the rebels of Wu) here.

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䌳侭ⶫ⣏⊾炻惵Ḧ䧥⎶䣯ˤ春做⇯昘㭢炻㘟㘗ㅱ⹎䦣ˤ㔯⽟ẍ㗪㋗炻㬎≇ Ẹᶵ晐ˤ慵厗准⸚㇂炻㚱剿㚵⽆⩗ˤ埊䇦⏛嚨嘄炻楖㰇㢚Ⱉ旣ˤ⑨⑨䌳⢓ 㮹炻䝣ẘ有ὅ⿁ˤ䘯ᶲつサ㕗炻⭧㖼⤖⣑⾺ˤ䘤ㆹ姙㖴⭖炻↿凇Ḷ攟㴎ˤ 佴㖍Ḁ㲊㎂炻㢡㫴ずᶼ㵤ˤ⣏ⷠ㉪䘥㖍炻㕿⸇䳃姕⻝ˤ⮯㈿㕬冯戆炻䆧⦩ 㕤⼤㕡ˤẸ伒ẍ⺼㮹炻㶭ㆹ㜙⋿䔮ˤ

The extant version of Lu Ji’s “Song of Oars” is apparently a fragment of the original poem:99 Sunny and warm is the day in late spring, The weather is soft and pleasant. Great auspice is augmented on the Festival of the Primal Si,100 We go on an outing on the Yellow River to cleanse ourselves. The dragon boat floats with its heron prow; Plumed streamers are hanging with their flowery decorations. Riding the wind, illuminated by the flying light, Leisurely we roam and play in mid-current. Famous performers sing solo, unaccompanied by music, Boatmen intone the song of oars to their heart’s content. Fishing lines, thrown out, sink into the great river; Stringed arrows fly into purple clouds. . . . 怚怚㙖㗍㖍炻⣑㯋㝼ᶼ▱ˤ⃫⎱昮⇅⶛炻㾗䨊㷠湫㱛ˤ漵凇㴖浩椾炻佥㕿 ✪喣向ˤḀ桐⭋梃㘗炻徵态㇚ᷕ㲊ˤ⎵嫛㽨㶭ⓙ炻㥄Ṣ䷙㢡㫴ˤ㈽䵠㰰㳒 ⶅ炻梃丛ℍ䳓曆ˤ

What Lu Ji describes here, instead of the navy’s preparations for going to war, is a joyful celebration of the Festival of the Primal Si (Chu si or Shang si), which, beginning in the Wei, was observed on the third day of the third month. On this day, the people of Luoyang would go to the Yellow River to purify themselves. It was an important festival for royalty, nobility and commoners alike, judged by the large number of poems composed on the occasion (many of which were written by imperial command), and by the depiction of the festival in poetic expositions and prose pieces.101 99. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 660. Yiwen leiju 42.757; Yuefu shiji 40.593. 100. I follow the Yiwen leiju and Yuefu shiji versions of this line by adopting long (augment) rather than jiang 旵 (bestow). 101. Lu Ji’s older contemporaries Chenggong Sui ㆸ℔䴷 (231–273) and Zhang Xie ⻝⋼ (d. 307) each wrote a “Fu on Lustration at Luoyang” (Luo xi fu 㳃䤲岎). Quan Jin wen 59.1795, 85.1951. The biography of Xia Tong ⢷䴙 (courtesy name Zhongyu ẚ⽉), a native of Wu and Lu Ji’s contemporary, records how Xia went to Luoyang to buy medicine for his ailing mother and chanced on the festival celebration: “The people in Luoyang, from princes and dukes on downward, all went out riding their carriages, which advanced side by side and flowed on continuously, to perform the lustration rite by the South Pontoon Bridge. The men’s crimson official robes dazzled the road; the women were dressed in splendid bright-colored brocade and silks.” “Xia Zhongyu’s Unofficial Biography” ⢷ẚ⽉⇍⁛, cited in Yiwen leiju 4.63. Also see Xia Tong’s biography in Jin shu 94.2429–30. Interestingly, Xia Zhongyu was said to have astounded his northern aristocratic audience, not only by his superb boating skills, but also by his singing of southern airs on the Yellow River.

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Lu Ji’s poem has a strikingly different focus from the Wei court yuefu: instead of a military song sung by the navy on the eve of war, his is a celebration of a festival in a time of peace and prosperity. The militant banners of the Wei army, including the Taichang banner usually indicating an imperial procession, are turned into the more ornate and less somber streamers decorated with feathers in Lu Ji’s version. The imperial presence in the Wei yuefu is displaced on a verbal level to the mention of “dragon boat.” While dragon may be a symbol of the emperor, a dragon boat could simply refer to a large boat decorated with the figure of a dragon. Both texts contain a self-referential mention of the “song of oars.” In the Wei yuefu, “the song of oars is sad and poignant,” evocative of battle and death; Lu Ji’s version, on the other hand, depicts a picture of singing at ease, and the song of oars takes on a casual and carefree air. With the couplet, “Bearing standards and axes, / the army will demonstrate its power in their land,” the Wei yuefu hints at the violence of war; Lu Ji’s version displaces violence to birds and fish. The ultimate point of departure lies in the opening lines. The Wei yuefu shows that a ruler, who is a match for heaven and earth, contains within himself both yang and yin forces, the former for the protection and cultivation of life, the latter for punishment and destruction. While the Wei yuefu emphasizes the martial (wu) power of a ruler, Lu Ji’s extant version begins with chichi, a compound descriptive of the warmth of the spring sun, and develops along the line of “the yang energy” that “produces and nurtures.” Noticeably, in the second line of the poem, Lu Ji uses rou jia (soft and pleasant), a compound from Shijing which usually depicts a person.102 By using the phrase to describe the weather of the day, Lu Ji gives it a moral quality that agrees with the human agency acting in accordance with the spring season. Once again, Lu Ji’s poem exemplifies the poetics of a unified empire, in which the only violence should ideally be directed at the non-human world of the birds and fishes as well as the often dehumanized “barbarians.” Based on the limited textual corpus we have of Eastern Jin (317–420) poetry, there seems to have been a hiatus in composition of the old Wei/ Western Jin yuefu titles during the fourth century. The early fifth century, with the southern elite’s renewed access to northern musical and textual repertoire, saw a revival of interest in writing in the tradition of the earlier yuefu and “old poems.”103 However, if Lu Ji was still able to enjoy the yuefu songs as a live music tradition being carried on in the Jin court, this might not have been the case in the early fifth century. In other words, the contemporary writers’ relation to the Wei/Western Jin yuefu corpus, or at least to a large part of it, might have become purely textual at this time. Xie Lingyun 嫅曰忳 (385–433) and his cousin Xie Huilian 嫅よ忋 (407–433) both wrote a series of “imitations” of Lu Ji’s yuefu in the restricted sense of the word ni mentioned earlier; but in regard to the “Song of Oars,” it is a piece written by a prominent writer of the

102. See, for instance, “All People” (Zhengmin 䂅㮹), Mao shi 255. 103. See Xiaofei Tian, “Chapter Three: From the Eastern Jin through the Early Tang,” in Kang-i Sun Chang and Stephen Owen, ed. Cambridge History of Chinese Literature, vol. 1, 228–29.

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day, Kong Ningzi ⫼䓗⫸ (d. 425),104 that provides a link between Lu Ji’s version and the later versions produced in the sixth century.105 A noble man takes delight in the gentle season, Myriad things depend on the sunny time of year. The Supreme One bestows profuse blessings; On the first si day, he orders water games. The Granary and the Armory watch over the bridges; The Master of Foreign Dances sets up plumed streamers. On tall masts are raised soaring sails, Feathered canopies conceal flowering branches. Archery officers stir distant reverberations; A lovely woman intones elegant lyrics. I have no chance to “go against the current,”106 [Coming upon] the flow, I am filled with sadness and longing.107 I look up at the arrow-string that disappears into the clouds; Then I look down, pulling the line sinking in the water. The riverbank is inundated with fallen feathers, Fresh fish fill up the shore. The heron prow fills the River God’s attendants with awe, The boats raise waves, shocking Pingyi.108 Although the evening sun is setting in the west, . . . is endless. ⏃⫸㦪␴䭨炻⑩䈑⼭春㗪ˤᶲỵ旵䷩䣱炻⃫⶛␥㯜⪱ˤᾱ㬎ㆺ㧳㠩炻㕬Ṣ 㧡佥㕿ˤ檀㩋㈿梃ⶮ炻佥味供厗㝅ˤἥ梃㽨忠枧炻⧇⧍⎸㶭录ˤ㲅㲬䶔䃉 ↮炻㫋㳩ボ㚱⿅ˤẘ䝣供暚丛炻ᾗ⺽㰰㱱䴚ˤ⥼佥㻓忂㷂炻歖㝻ᷕ⠓✣ˤ 浩沍⦩㰇ἧ炻㎂㲊榕楖⣟ˤ⢽⼙晾⶚大炻ˎˎ䳪䃉㛇ˤ

Kong’s opening line reproduces the grammatical structure of that of the Wei yuefu, but shifts its focus from the ruler to the “noble man” (junzi). The “soft and pleasant” spring weather in Lu Ji’s opening couplet (“Sunny and warm is the day in late spring, / The weather is soft and pleasant” 怚怚㙖㗍㖍炻⣑㯋㝼ᶼ▱) reappears in Kong’s version as the “gentle season” and the “sunny time of the year.”

104. Kong Ningzi was well known for his literary talent in the early fifth century, but fell into obscurity later on. He had a sizable literary collection in fifteen scrolls, from which only two poems, both of them being yuefu (including “The Song of Oars”), and a few fragmented prose pieces, are extant. 105. I will not discuss Bao Zhao’s 欹䄏 (414?–466) “In Place of ‘The Song of Oars’” (Dai Zhaoge xing ẋ㢡㫴 埴) here because, like many of Bao Zhao’s yuefu, it deliberately deviates from the tradition, as indicated by the word “dai” in its title. 106. This is an allusion to the Shi jing poem “Reeds and Rushes” 呡吕 (Mao shi 129). 107. Xin 㫋 should perhaps be emended to lin 冐. 108. Pingyi is the name of the Yellow River god, but is also used to refer to water deities in general.

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It is interesting to observe Kong’s intricate transformation of Lu Ji’s second couplet (“Great auspice is augmented on the Festival of the Primal Si, / We go on an outing on the Yellow River to cleanse ourselves” ⃫⎱昮⇅⶛炻㾗䨊㷠湫㱛). Kong Ningzi echoes Lu Ji on a verbal level by taking yuan and si, respectively the first and fifth character of the first line of Lu’s couplet, to make a new combination: yuan si (the first si); the phrase yuan ji (great auspice) in Lu’s couplet becomes fan zhi, “profuse blessings.” And if we look at the variant version of Lu Ji’s first line (“Great auspice is bestowed on the Festival of the Primal Si” ⃫⎱旵⇅⶛), we find that Kong keeps the verb jiang (bestow) in the same position of his own first line. The next four lines of Kong’s poem rework Lu Ji’s couplets in much the same way, maintaining the sense of the earlier text with many verbal echoes. The phrase “plumed streamers” is repeated in the sixth line; “flying light” ( fei jing) becomes “soaring sails” ( fei fan). The major difference is that, while Lu Ji focuses on depiction of water in these lines, Kong Ningzi complements the water scenes with land and sky scenes. The following couplet turns to sound and rewrites Lu Ji’s couplet (“Famous performers sing solo, unaccompanied by music, / Boatmen intone the song of oars to their heart’s content” ⎵嫛㽨㶭ⓙ炻㥄Ṣ䷙㢡㫴) word by word with two notable differences: Kong drops the self-referential “song of oars,” and changes the sound of singing in the first line to that of shooting arrows. The latter difference intensifies the effect of parallelism, as variation not only occurs on the verbal level but also in terms of sense: between male (“archery officers”) and female (“lovely woman”), martial (hunting) and civil (singing). The next couplet, “I have no chance to ‘go against the current,’ / [Coming upon] the flow, I am filled with sadness and longing,” has no counterpart in Lu Ji’s poem. We do not know whether this is because a corresponding couplet is missing from Lu’s current version or because Kong has added a new couplet. In any case, this is an interesting couplet because it implies that the speaker is gazing at a fair woman singing on the other side of the river but finds it impossible to follow her. Instead, he has to content himself with just looking. His gaze first moves up, then down: “I look up at the arrow-string that disappears into the clouds; / then I look down, pulling the line sinking in the water.” This couplet presents a neat reworking of Lu Ji’s fishing/shooting couplet, with which Lu’s poem comes to an abrupt stop, clearly excised by the encyclopedia editors in its earliest source. A following couplet, which may or may not have a counterpart in Lu Ji’s now-fragmented original text, expands the fishing/shooting couplet to describe the rich gains of the day. The two “extra” couplets at the end of Kong’s poem give us an idea of how Lu Ji’s version might have ended. The last line is ambiguous because of the textual corruption. It is tempting to fill the lacunae with a phrase such as “our joy or pleasure,” but wuqi also has the meaning of “no time has been set for something,” such as in the five-syllable line from the second century: “Once we are separated, there is no time for us to meet again” ᶨ⇍㚫䃉㛇.109

109. This line is from the Fei Feng 屣沛 stele text. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 176.

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One wonders if the poet might be alluding to his unfulfilled desire for the fair woman singing the “song of oars.” Kong Ningzi’s poem furnishes a good example of the line-by-line imitation of an original poem still being practiced in the early fifth century; it also turns out to be an important link in the tradition of “The Song of Oars.” The next extant version, composed by Xiao Gang 唕䵙 (503–551), demonstrates a remarkable continuity as well as a new take on the theme.110 My home is by the Xiang River; I am good at singing water-chestnut songs. In the rising wind, I know how to paddle through the waves; I am capable of rowing the boat in deep waters. Leaves tangle, as water plants are being pulled; Filaments float from the broken lotus root. Water splashing on my make-up, one suspects light sweat; My dress is soaked, as if having been cleansed on purpose. Laundering silk makes the currents turbid for a while; The color of washed brocade becomes fresh again. Along with Zhao Feiyan, We would ask Li Yannian:111 Of all the songs ever sung to strings and pipes, Which one is superior to the “Song of Oars”? ⥦⭞ỷ㸀ⶅ炻厙㫴㛔冒ὧˤ桐䓇妋㥄㴒炻㯜㶙傥㋱凡ˤ叱Ḫ䓙䈥勯炻䴚桬 䁢㉀咖ˤ㾢⥅䔹唬㯿炻㱦堋Ụ㓭㷼ˤ㴋䲿㳩㙓㽩炻㰘拎刚怬歖ˤ⍫⎴嵁梃 䅽炻ῇ⓷㛶⺞⸜ˤ⽆Ἦℍ⻎䭉炻婘⛐㢡㫴⇵ˤ

For an educated premodern Chinese reader, any mention of the Xiang River would be liable to evoke the pair of poems from the “Nine Songs” in the Chu ci: “The Goddess of the Xiang” (Xiang jun 㸀⏃), and “The Lady of the Xiang River” (Xiang furen 㸀⣓Ṣ). And yet, the woman in Xiao Gang’s poem is no deity. Goddesses, especially water goddesses, do not have wet, ruined make-up. The water drops on the woman’s face resembling a light sweat forcefully calls the reader’s attention to her corporeality, and takes her far away from the otherworldly realm of the Chu ci. Instead of engaging in festive celebration, she seems to be picking lotus on the river. In the southern yuefu songs, lotus (lian, punning with lian ㄸ, passion) and the filaments in lotus roots (si, punning with si ⿅, longing) are commonplace images associated with romantic love. The entangled (luan) leaves and the floating filaments in Xiao Gang’s poem create a scene with erotic undertones. Whatever the woman is doing in the poem, Xiao Gang’s poem is a far cry from the earlier “songs of oars,” even 110. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 1907; Yiwen leiju 42.757; Yuefu shiji 40.594. 111. Zhao Feiyan (d. 7 BCE) was the empress of Emperor Cheng of the Han (r. 32–7 BCE); she was a famous dancer. Li Yannian was the court musician favored by Emperor Wu of the Han (r. 140–87 BCE).

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though one can nevertheless detect their influence. The Primal Si Festival is about cleansing and purifying oneself; here it reappears as the washing of silk and brocade. The selfreferential mention of the “song of oars” also returns in the last couplet of the poem. The final lines of the poem, evoking two legendary Han dynasty court performers, remind the listener/ reader that the foregoing section of the poem is a song presentation; in other words, the function of the last two couplets is very similar to that served by the traditional “musician’s ending” of a yuefu song, in which the musician pulls back from the content of the song, addresses the audience directly and wishes the audience happiness and a long life. Such a “musician’s ending” breaks the spell of the song, declares the end of performance, and foregrounds the fictionality of the narrative of the yuefu song. In the poems by Lu Ji and Kong Ningzi, singing is one of the many festive activities taking place on the river; but in his version, Xiao Gang zooms in on the female singer, and his yuefu effectively becomes the song she sings. “The Song of Oars” had started out as a northern song about undertaking a military campaign against the south, but it migrated to the south in the fifth century and became a favorite music title for the Southern Dynasties poets, who saw the possibility of conflating it with other southern motifs: picking lotus or water-chestnuts, washing silk, or just pleasure boating in general.112 Xiao Gang’s poem is representative of the transformation. Moving the site of the song to the Xiang River, he evokes the Chu ci, the classic poetic anthology of the South, and infuses the poem with a powerful southern aura by bringing together all the southern motifs mentioned above. By making the woman in his poem a secularized Xiang River goddess and a skilled court singer on a par with the legendary performers of the Han, and by claiming the superiority of “The Song of Oars,” now repackaged as a southern song, Xiao Gang asserts the cultural supremacy of the southern court. In the same way a southerner and an outsider like Lu Ji became a fan of northern cultural tradition, northerners are fascinated by the southern music, and unsurprisingly their attention is focused on those songs that can particularly conjure up a southern aura. After Yang Kan 伲Ἣ (d. 548), a stalwart northern general and a music connoisseur, defected to Liang in 529, he “composed two tunes, ‘Lotus-picking’ and ‘Song of Oars,’ which struck people as quite original” 冒忈慯咖㢡㫴ℑ㚚炻䓂㚱㕘农.113 Both titles appear in the extant corpus of one of the best-known northern poets, Lu Sidao 䚏⿅忻 (530–581). His “Song of Oars” is as follows:114 112. Silk-washing has a southern association because of the legend of the silk-washing southern belle, Xi Shi, from Yue. For other versions of “Song of Oars” by southern poets, see Yuefu shiji 40.594–95. The title itself also frequently appears in Southern Dynasties poems, such as Shen Yue’s 㰰䲬 (441–513) “Song of South” (“Jiangnan qu” 㰇⋿㚚, Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 1621) and Xu Mian’s ⼸≱ (466– 535) “Song of Picking Water-chestnuts” (“Cailing qu” 慯厙㚚, Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 1811). Lotus and water-chestnuts were not exclusively southern plants, but they were made “southern” in literature as part of the cultural campaign in the Southern Dynasties. See Tian, Beacon Fire and Shooting Star, 346–58. 113. Nan shi 63.1547. It appears that Yang Kan created two new musical tunes rather than wrote lyrics to old tunes. 114. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 2628; Yuefu shiji 40.595.

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The autumn River is so clear one can see its bottom; Girls of Yue are so beautiful they can topple a city. Their boats side by side, they pick water plants together; And they are known as the loveliest in the world. Fallen blossoms flow with jeweled earrings; A light breeze stirs the aromatic pouch strings. Sashes hang low, “joint branches” drenched; Oars raised, magnolia light. Passing on a soft whisper by the wind,115 Sending deep feelings with the current—116 Who could tie up the brocade hawser, And go off at dusk to the river isle? 䥳㰇夳⸽㶭炻崲⤛⽑⁦❶ˤ㕡凇ℙ慯㐀炻㚨⼿⎗ㄸ⎵ˤ句剙㳩⮞䎍炻⽖⏡ ≽楁主ˤⷞ✪忋䎮㽽炻㢡冱㛐嗕庽ˤ枮桐⁛䳘婆炻⚈㲊⭬怈ねˤ婘傥䳸拎 乄炻唬㙖晙攟㯨ˤ

As in Xiao Gang’s poem, the world of nature and the world of artifice become entangled, as the girls’ earrings drop into the currents and are mixed with the fallen blossoms, and their sashes are soaked. The scene is wet, and heavy with erotic undertones. But unlike Xiao Gang’s poem that uses the first-person monologue, Lu Sidao’s version adopts the perspective of a fascinated onlooker fantasizing about the girls from afar. Noticeably, the girls in Lu’s poem never sing—there is no self-referential mention of “song of oars” as in all previous poems to this title; instead, the girls whisper some indistinct words. It is hard to know who addresses the question to whom in the last couplet, and the question itself might be the very content of the whisper made by the girls or one of the girls—or by the onlooker himself to the girls. As a natural barrier for all northerners coveting the South, the Yangtze River always presented a significant military advantage for the south. When Cao Pi, on a campaign against the Wu, came upon the Yangtze River, he reportedly said, “Alas, this is truly how heaven separates South and North!” He then turned around and withdrew the troops.117 In the line that reads, “Sending deep feelings with the current,” however, the depth and width of the Yangtze River are displaced to human passion. The term yuan qing literally means “faraway feelings / feelings from afar,” measuring the physical distance between the northern poet and the land of his erotic fantasies. The question about who could go off with the Yue girls is a real question, a challenge, and an invitation; readers of the poem—Lu Sidao’s contemporary male northern audience for this song—are included in the game.

115. Wenyuan yinghua 㔯剹劙厗 has a variant for Shunfeng 枮桐: “Avoiding the others” 性Ṣ. Wenyuan yinghua 203.1004. 116. Ji ⭬ reads song 復 in Wenyuan yinghua. 117. Zizhi tongjian 70.2225.

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Conclusion This chapter begins with a discussion of two southerners going North, and ends with that of a northerner dreaming of going South. The sixth century was a long way away from Lu Ji and Lu Yun; nevertheless, the North-South dynamic continued to be at work throughout the Northern and Southern Dynasties. I have discussed the making of the cultural images of the North and South during this period elsewhere. This chapter seeks to demonstrate the intricacies of the cultural transactions between the North and South. Lu Ji intervenes in the contemporary dominant culture—the northern culture—through his prolific “fan writings” that eventually become part of the Chinese literary canon. Lu Ji is one of those poets who mark a turning point in literary history by effecting extraordinary transformations of previous works, but, once the turn is made, are gradually neglected. Looking at his poems re-situated in their context, we might understand why his poetry was so admired in the Southern Dynasties: it turns the five-syllable-line poetry, still a relatively low genre at his time, into a sophisticated poetry with nuances and finesse, with close attention to the crafting of words and phrases more prevalently than any poet before him. The Southern Dynasties poets still had access to that cultural world of the earlier period and were much better able to appreciate Lu Ji’s transformation of it. This helps us understand why Lu Ji’s literary reputation suffered after the Tang. He was writing as a fan, and fan writings are contingent on the original texts. The appreciation of Lu Ji’s works therefore much depends on the reader’s familiarity with the literary and cultural world with which Lu Ji was fascinated; and yet, only a small fragment of that world has survived, and even that small fragment is largely indebted to Lu Ji’s writings: his works had made it seem noteworthy in the first place. In his “Fu on the Feather Fan,” the fan becomes a synecdoche for the crane, who is “burdened by its beautiful plumes, like the one carrying a precious jade,118 / its lifespan of a thousand years is compromised by one single arrow” 䳗㆟䑏㕤伶佥炻㋓⋫㬚᷶ᶨ䭕. Going north to serve in the Jin court, Lu Ji stayed on at a perilous time when many of his fellow southerners resigned and went home.119 The figure of the crane, an immortal bird killed for the sake of its plumes, becomes an omen of the Lu brothers’ tragic end, casting a dark shadow on the image of the white fan.

118. This refers to a proverb, “A man may be guiltless, but he has committed a crime by carrying with him a precious jade” ⋡⣓䃉伒炻㆟䑏℞伒. Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhengyi, the tenth year of Duke Huan, 7.7b. 119. For instance, Zhang Han ⻝侘, a scion of a prominent Wu family, returned to Wu before the situation in Luoyang deteriorated (Jin shu 92.2384). The brothers Zhang Xie and Zhang Zai ⻝庱 also resigned from their posts (Jin shu 55.1518–24).

4 Plaint, Lyricism, and the South Ping Wang

In one of the most memorable passages of the preface of Zhong Rong’s 挦ⵠ (468–518) Shi pin 娑⑩ (Gradations of poets), he theorizes about the physiology of human activities related to poetry—its making and chanting. The movements of things in the outside world and the alternations of seasonal phenomena have an impact on humankind. Humans are stirred by and driven to poetry. When friends gather for a wonderful occasion, poetry is the natural medium for expressions of conviviality. In contrast, when people are separated from their own kind, they take refuge in voicing “plaint.” At this point in his analysis, Zhong Rong devotes a significant amount of space to the enumeration of all types of “plaintive personas and sad situations.” The reader notices that Zhong Rong’s real interest is in poetic responses to “separations” rather than “gatherings,” as the rhythm of his writing hastens with the piling of parallel structures. At wonderful gatherings, one relies upon poetry to express conviviality; when separated from his group, one takes refuge in poetry to voice plaint. Thereupon, the Chu vassal abandoned his realm, and the Han consort took leave of her palace; also, bones were exposed across the fields, and souls were chased about like tumbleweeds; still more, a soldier picked up his spear to guard the frontier where the killing atmosphere permeated the borders; then, a lone man traveled in bitter cold, wearing his summer clothes, and a widow cried in her boudoir till her tears ran dry;1 yet again, a brave man untied his pendant and left the court without ever looking back, and a young girl who, upon the tilting of her eyebrows, became the favored one and who, at her second glance, caused the fall of a state. All of these, in various cases, shock and sway the human heart and soul. Were it not through poetry and its presentation, how could one display their meaning? Were it not by extended chanting, how could one release such emotion? Therefore, it is said that “Poetry can be used to express fellowship; poetry can be used to express one’s plaints.” It allows the destitute and the wretched to find a way to be at peace. It allows those who dwell in seclusion to not brood. Nothing comes better than poetry. ▱㚫⭬娑ẍ奒炻暊佌㈀娑ẍ⿐ˤ军㕤㤂冋⍣⠫炻㻊⥦录⭖炻⍰橐㨓㚼慶炻 ㆾ櫪徸梃咔炻ㆾ屈ㆰ⢾ㆵ炻ㆾ㭢㯋晬怲炻⠆⭊堋╖炻⫨烪曄烬敐㶂䚉ˤㆾ ⢓㚱妋䎖↢㛅炻ᶨ⍣⾀⍵烊⤛㚱㎂嚦ℍ⮝炻ℵ䚤⁦⚳ˤ↉㕗䧖䧖炻デ唑⽫ 1.

I opt for the variant reading shuang ⫨ (widow) over shuang 曄 (frost), which would render the line as: “In a frost-covered boudoir, [the woman] let her tears run dry.”

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曰炻朆昛娑ỽẍ⯽℞佑炻朆攟㫴ỽẍ慳℞ね烎㓭㚘烉ˬ娑⎗ẍ佌炻⎗ẍ ⿐ˤ˭ἧ䩖岌㖻⬱炻⸥⯭有ぞ炻卓⯂㕤娑䞋ˤ2

This passage, a kind of poetry in itself, lists types of heart-wrenching scenes that any human being would fear for him/herself but with which he/she could readily empathize. For Zhong Rong and his contemporaries, direct encounters with such extreme human conditions would have been unlikely, but the writer would have experienced them vicariously through his own enumeration of them, which would in turn have moved others. The human experiences that engender poetry are embodied in Zhong Rong’s text, and the extreme emotions brought forth by war are particularly aestheticized through the images of men and women whose unthinkable sufferings such as desertion, dislocation, and separation are now a source of “stimulation and shock.” In the same way, the dramatic rise and fall of a talented gentleman or an enchanting beauty are of a comparable appeal due to their extreme nature. The complex and profound emotions associated with these archetypal extremes of the human experience, according to Zhong, can only be released through the “extended chanting” of poetry. It is also through poetry that the meaning of such events can be comprehended. Therefore, poetry can be used as a means to qun 佌 or to “express fellowship.” When an individual is isolated, he verbalizes his plaints by making poetry. Poetry becomes a two-way valve, both giving form to the extreme encounters of an individual with the outside world and providing release to the conflicts one has with him/herself, both of which are cases of “being separated from the group.” We can trace most of the references in this passage to an earlier text. The woman who caused the fall of a state at a second glance is an image Li Yannian 㛶⺞⸜ (d. ca. 87 BCE) creates of his sister when promoting her to Emperor Wu. The phrase “tilting eyebrows” refers to Ode 106, which offers a description of a beautiful person. The figures are generalized in this context. However, the phrase “Chu vassal” can only refer to Qu Yuan ⯰⍇ (ca. 340– 278 BCE). The “Han consort” in the parallel structure should be a definite reference to a specific person as well; there is no consensus, though, on who she is. Some hold that the pair of references “most likely alludes to Qu Yuan and to Lady Ban 䎕; their linkage here makes almost explicit the identification of slandered minister with slandered lady.”3 There are some grounds for this, as Lady Ban’s name is associated with several poetic writings of “plaint.”4 However, there are also some problems with this identification. The title of Lady Ban was jieyu ⧽⥌ or Ὴẫ, which is rank two in the fourteen-rank system of the imperial harem. Lady Ban’s position in court was “theoretically above that of the nine ministers.”5 A literal translation of her title jieyu would be “Favorite Beauty.” The term qie ⥦ Zhong Rong uses here usually refers to a woman of much lower status, unless it is used by a woman with reference to herself in a self-deprecating way. It is unlikely that Lady Ban would have been called 2. 3. 4. 5.

Liang shu 49.696; Yan Kejun, “Quan Liang wen,” 55.3276a; Cao Xu, Shi pin ji zhu, 47–54. Paul Rouzer, Articulated Ladies, 123. Shipin jizhu, 50. David Knechtges, “The Poetry of an Imperial Concubine: The Favorite Beauty Ban,” 128.

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a qie. Many Chinese commentators have suggested a Han court lady named Wang Qiang 䌳㩋, better known as Wang Zhaojun 䌳㗕⏃, to be Qu Yuan’s counterpart by citing her marriage to the Xiongnu Chanyu by Emperor Yuan and her subsequent “plaints.” This issue is actually much more complicated than a simple choice between Lady Ban and Wang Qiang. In fact, there is no choice to be made. As I will demonstrate through this study, in the end, the line between Lady Ban and Wang Qiang becomes blurred through the joint forces of historiographical manipulation, poetic representation, textual re-creation, popular imagination, and ideological indoctrination from the first to the fifth centuries. Moreover, there are more women from the Han court involved in the whole story than just Lady Ban and Wang Qiang. Their names and lives inspired different aspects of what would become a long and evolving process. Eventually, what best represents these lives is a collective story that feeds into and may have even given rise to a poetic subgenre called yuan ⿐ or “plaint.” At least four members of this group are worth noting. Each is a “Han woman” who has written some plaintive poetry or is associated with “plaint” poetry due to her experience of leaving the Han court/palace. In chronological order, they are: Liu Xijun ∱䳘⏃ (fl.  110–105 BCE), Wang Qiang, more generally referred to as Wang Zhaojun (fl. 48–33 BCE), Lady Ban (48–2 BCE), and Cai Yan 哉䏘 (ca. 177?–239?). The lady leading the list, despite her historical importance and veracity, is, ironically, the least known. Around the year 108 BCE, Liu Xijun, a true Han princess, was sent away to marry into a barbarian land called Wusun 䁷⬓ in exchange for potential peace for her homeland. Her life story in the foreign land is a poignant one, as portrayed in the Han shu. When Princess Xijun arrived in Wusun, she had a palace and chambers constructed as her residence. After one year, she had an audience with Kunmo at a banquet. She bestowed cowries and brocades on the king’s close attendants. Kunmo was old; moreover, he could not communicate with Xijun in her language. The Princess became sad and made a song on her own . . .When the [Han] emperor heard about this, he felt sorry for Xijun and dispatched envoys to visit her, bearing gifts and supplies such as curtains and brocades. ℔ᷣ军℞⚳炻冒㱣⭖⭌⯭炻㬚㗪ᶨℵ冯㖮卓㚫炻伖惺梚梇炻ẍ⸋ⷃ岄䌳 ⶎ⎛屜Ṣˤ㖮卓⸜侩炻婆妨ᶵ忂炻℔ᷣずォ炻冒䇚ἄ㫴㚘ɃɃ⣑⫸倆侴ㄸ ᷳ炻攻㬚怋ἧ侭㊩⷟ⷛ拎三䴎怢䂱ˤ6

The above passage is from the Han shu’s chapter on Wusun, one of the smaller nomad states in the Western Regions that nevertheless had an important role to play in the Han Empire’s foreign policies. Despite the Han’s intention, first raised by Zhang Qian ⻝槓 (d. ca. 114 BCE), to make an alliance with Wusun in order to contain the Xiongnu, Wusun wavered; its loyalty tilted toward the Xiongnu. When Xijun was married into Wusun as the wife on the right, the wife on the left, closer to and holding a powerful sway over the aged king Kunmo 㖮卓, was a Xiongnu woman. She was probably the reason why the Han princess Xijun remained 6.

Han shu 96B.3903.

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a wife in name only to Kunmo. Right before Kunmo passed away, he married Xijun to his grandson Cenzou ⰹ昔. Xijun thought this proposal indecent and protested to the Han emperor. All she got in return was an edict that read: “Comply with their customs. Our wish is to form an alliance with Wusun in order to annihilate the Xiongnu” ⽆℞⚳὿炻 㫚冯䁷⬓ℙ㹭傉.7 This cold reply is in stark contrast with the Han emperor’s supposed lian ㄸ (compassion) for her, seen in the above passage. Xijun was very much abandoned by the Han, her own family. The fact that a Han princess could be sacrificed like this was hardly an accident. Xijun’s father, the Prince of Jiangdu 㰇悥䌳 (modern Yangzhou, across the Yangtze from Nanjing), had rebelled against the court and subsequently committed suicide in 121 BCE to avoid punishment. Xijun grew up without knowing her father, yet was somehow made to bear the consequence of his crime thirteen years later. Being married into the cold, barren northland and forced to leave her warm, fertile southern homeland would be the worst nightmare of any young woman, let alone a Han princess. The deserted and dislocated Han princess lived by herself and died lonely on the western borderland, leaving behind only one daughter. No one knows exactly how she felt, but the compiler of the Han shu attributed a song to her, approximating her thoughts on her life and the suffering she had to endure. My family married me [off ] to the edge of the empire. Far away to a strange state governed by the King of Wusun. The yurt became my chamber, and felt, my wall. Meat was the staple food, and koumiss my drink. Yearning to dwell in my homeland, my heart aches. I wish to become a yellow goose and fly back home. ⏦⭞⩩ㆹ№⣑ᶨ㕡炻怈㈀䔘⚳№䁷⬓䌳ˤ䨡⺔䁢⭌№㕫䁢䇮炻ẍ倱䁢梇№ 愒䁢㻧ˤ⯭ⷠ⛇⿅№⽫ℏ 炻栀䁢湫洈№㬠㓭悱ˤ

This song about homesickness ends with a wish to return by means of or in the form of a yellow goose. An ambiguous image, huanghu 湫洈 is likely a written variation of the binome honghu 泣洈, which simply means “great bird.” The color modifier huang would be more desirable when read than heard—it has a richer semantic dimension, as opposed to hong, which is a mere phonetic. The change should be a natural one, since the two words are nearly homophonic. Birds, especially geese, are familiar images in “old poems” of laments over separation or sorrowful thoughts in general. The center of the poem, however, is made up of images that are supposed to be unfamiliar and evoke feelings of alienation. A Han person is the targeted audience, but one does not need to be Han to understand the foreignness, because the final couplet foregrounds a “regularity” or “normalcy” that is sorely missed. The descriptions of the Xiongnu lifestyle are general and, to a great extent, clichés that accord more with the Han imagination than the Xiongnu reality.8 The most intriguing 7. 8.

Ibid., 96B.3904. The intertextuality between historic and poetic languages will be discussed elsewhere.

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line in this piece, however, is the opening couplet, especially the first line. The sound effect becomes evident with a phonological reconstruction: ŋa ka kaC ŋaiB γei then ʔit puaŋ.9 When read out aloud, this line sounds like a choked-up sigh that is released only briefly with the caesura № γei in the middle and the dental plosive “th”. The consonants of this line are: the velar nasal “ŋ,” the two voiceless velar stops “k,” the velar nasal again, the velar frictive “γ,” the glottal stop “ʔ,” a labial stop “p,” followed by another velar nasal. The last syllable is bracketed between a labial stop and velar nasal. These “stops” and “nasals” sound like a series of blockages in the throat, so much so that utterance is made impossible. The effect of a frustrated expression is intensified by the five “a,” an open vowel, which best embodies a cry phonetically. What we hear, therefore, is not a coherent statement as the translation gives us, but an inaudible, broken-down cry that is in the end silenced. In a way, this represents Xijun’s life. There are other interesting oppositions in which Xijun is on the losing side. On the semantic level, the concatenation of ⭞ ka and ⩩ kaC brings out the irony of a woman’s being married off. It means two things for a woman: first, she is abandoned by her parents and sent out of a place she has called home since birth; then she must “find a home” in a new place. If the new home is a familiar and welcoming place, then the first act of abandonment would just be fortune in disguise. Otherwise, the woman would experience double abandonment, and this turns out to be the case for Princess Xijun. Her abandonment by her Han family was real, not just symbolic. And her new home was actually an alien land. Xijun’s story represents possibly the greatest misfortunate a woman can face. What adds to this irony is that Xijun was princess in her own land. Xijun’s failure to win the heart of the old Wusun king ran parallel to the Han’s weakness in its diplomatic competition with the Xiongnu. After Xijun died, leaving behind a daughter, the Han sent another princess, also from Chu and this time the granddaughter of the former rebel king Liu Wu ∱ㆲ (?–154 BCE), to be Cenzou’s second Han wife. Her name, Jieyou 妋ㄪ (dates unknown), literally “dispelling sorrow,” reveals a conscious departure from the life of Xijun. The name sounds like an effort to preempt the sorrowful fate of a neglected woman married into a foreign land. When Cenzou passed away, Jieyou became the wife of his brother, who was dubbed the “Obese King” (Fei Wang 偍䌳). It turned out that he favored Jieyou and she bore three sons and two daughters who all became prominent members of the Wusun court. Throughout the account of Wusun history, fertility is implicitly cited as the sign of a woman’s success. Jieyou’s children eventually had a role to play in the tri-state politics among the Xiongnu, the Han, and Wusun. Her eldest son, Yuanguimi ⃫屜有, proposed to marry a Han princess. Jieyou’s niece was chosen to be given in marriage and the Han court prepared a grand ceremony to receive the three hundred or so future attendants of the Han princess who had been dispatched from Wusun. They were put up in a lodge in the emperor’s park, the Shanglin ᶲ㜿, and the bride-to-be, 9.

The reconstruction is based on Axel Schuessler, Minimal Old Chinese and Later Han Chinese: A Companion to Grammata Serica Recensa.

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Xiangfu 䚠⣓, whose name literally means “assisting her husband,” was taught the Wusun language. There was also a musicians’ performance at the Peace and Joy Lodge ⸛㦪奨. This is probably when the pipa was first introduced to the Han emperor.10 On the long journey of Princess Xiangfu and her entourage to Wusun, musicians played the pipa on horseback for entertainment. The image of the pipa, often seen in the embrace of the beautiful yet wistful legendary figure Wang Zhaojun, became an important symbol for Han-Xiongnu interaction. (Wang Zhaojun’s story conflated the lives of women involved in Han foreign diplomacy before her. This will be addressed later in the paper.) Surprising news reached Princess Xiangfu’s group while they were taking a break in Dunhuang from the long journey. The Obese King had passed away, and his nephew, Nimi 㲍有, had inherited the state as well as Jieyou, who was in fact the stepmother of Nimi, who was the son of Cenzou by his Xiongnu wife. Nimi was called the “Wild King” (Kuang Wang 䉪䌳), and he gave Jieyou a son. Due to this sudden change of succession, Princess Xiangfu was ordered to return to Chang’an, and her marriage was called off.11 Politics involving Han women, at times bloody, continued in the Wusun state. Jieyou, together with her capable female attendant, Feng Liao 楖⪥, a historian and a ceremony master whose official title had been Jieyou’s envoy, were the key players there. They gained some leverage for the Han over Wusun, not without some ups and downs including one failed assassination attempt, and eventually over the Xiongnu as well. The influence of the Han court in the Western Regions was strengthened. In old age, Jieyou sent a memorial to the Han emperor, requesting to return so that she might die in Han territory. Her wish was granted. She was finally welcomed back in the year 55 BCE.12 Yuanguimi and Chimi had both died from illness. The Princess sent a memorial saying that in her old age, she yearned for her old land and wished to return so as to be buried in the Han land after death. The emperor pitied her and welcomed her back. The Princess and three of her sons and daughters arrived together in the capital. This year was the third year of Sweet Dew. When the Princess was turning seventy, she was bestowed land and houses with maids and attendants. She was very well taken care of and supported. The ceremony with which she had an audience with the emperor was equal to that of a true Han princess. Two years later, she passed away. The three grandsons of the Han stayed to guard her tomb. ⃫屜有ˣ泇有䘮䕭㬣炻℔ᷣᶲ㚠妨⸜侩⛇⿅炻栀⼿㬠橠橐炻吔㻊⛘ˤ⣑⫸ 攼侴彶ᷳ炻℔ᷣ冯䁷⬓䓟⤛ᶱṢᾙἮ军Ṕⷓˤ㗗㬚炻䓀曚ᶱ⸜ḇˤ㗪⸜ᶼ ᶫ⋩炻岄ẍ℔ᷣ䓘⬭⤜⨊炻⣱梲䓂⍂炻㛅夳₨㭼℔ᷣˤ⼴Ḵ㬚⋺炻ᶱ⬓⚈ 䔁⬰⡛⠻ḹˤ13

The story of Princess Jieyou should be considered together with that of her predecessor in order to understand the Han shu poem attributed to Liu Xijun two hundred years after 10. 11. 12. 13.

Han shu 96B.3907. Ibid. Ibid., 96B.3904–8. Ibid., 96B.3908.

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Xijun lived. This is a poem not just about Xijun, but about a group of women who had embarked on a long and collective journey. The journey begins with Xijun’s unspeakable sorrow and uncontrollable sobbing, poeticized in the Han shu. It is a piece that purports to be an appropriate expression of Xijun’s emotions. Jieyou’s return to the Han in her old age seems to be a wish-granting event. It is with some solace that the historian tells the story, presenting the collective success achieved by these women in Han foreign diplomacy and Wusun domestic politics. Princess Jieyou’s return to Chang’an seems to bring this journey full circle. Yet the completion of the circle is missing in the poetic representation, as the poem ends on an open-ended longing. And the irony is that Princess Jieyou was not actually able to return to her hometown in the strict sense, because, like Xijun, she came from the South, which had rebelled against Chang’an. The sorrowful singing in the voice of the “feeble lord,” the literal meaning of Xijun’s name, in the Chu plaint or sao 槟 style overpowers the narrative of a long and difficult journey leading to some feeble success. Xijun’s song is, in a way, the true representation of the weakness of the Han. Although her story is not an appealing or triumphant one, her voice as represented by the poem is far-reaching. Despite the fact that we have no way to tell whether the sorrowful song was actually sung by Liu Xijun, in later anthologies her name is attached to the lyrics as if she were the author. She also came to be called Princess of Wusun 䁷⬓℔ᷣ. Her image took shape as a mixture of Han and Wusun identity, her Chu origin gradually erased during the historical process of writing, reading, and imagining. The song, written in the sao style, preserved her Chu voice, but her presence in Chinese history is “negligible,” since much of the facts and fantasies about her life, together with those of her Chu female kin, were cannibalized and used to weave a much larger cultural legend about a heroine by the name of Wang Zhaojun, an embodiment of beauty, loyalty, and virtue. Wang Zhaojun’s status in the Chinese cultural imagination cannot be exaggerated.14 Her story, mirroring the lore of Qu Yuan in multiple dimensions, grew into a gigantic body of literary material that culminated in the Yuan drama Han gong qiu 㻊⭖䥳 (Autumn over the palaces of the Han) by Ma Zhiyuan 楔农怈 (fl. ca. 1250–1321). This monumental construction started in early medieval times. Relevant accounts are found in the Xijing zaji 大Ṕ暄姀,15 Shishuo xinyu ᶾ婒㕘婆 (compiled by Liu Yiqing ∱佑ㄞ [403–444] et  al. around 440), Qin cao 䏜㑵, and Hou Han shu ⼴㻊㚠 (compiled by Fan Ye 劫䝙

14. The best study of the Wang Zhaojun legend is Hing Foon Kwong, Wang Zhaojun, une héroïne chinoise de l’histoire à la légende. For a short bibliography, see Monks, Bandits, Lovers, and Immortals: Eleven Early Chinese Plays, ed. and trans. with an introduction by Stephen H. West and Wilt L. Idema, 464. 15. The dating of Xijing zaji is still an unresolved issue. Some scholars have dated it to as late as the Qi-liang period, while others have attributed it to the Western or Eastern Jin. No matter how different the opinions are, scholars seem to agree that this is a post-Han or Six Dynasties work. See William H. Nienhauser, Jr., “Once Again, the Authorship of the Hsi-ching Tsa-chi (Miscellanies of the Western Capital)”; David R. Knechtges, “The fu in the Xijing zaji”; rpt. in Court Culture and Literature in Early China.

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[398–445] around 425–445).16 The dates of Xijing zaji and Qin cao are most difficult to determine. Nienhauser dates the Xijing zaji to the second half of the fifth century.17 Roughly, by the turn of the sixth century—that is, Zhong Rong’s time—Wang Zhaojun’s story seems to have been firmly established. It is hard to pin down the exact relationship among these accounts, since there were probably many more than what have come down to us. A general sense of the themes surrounding these accounts is, however, possible. A salient example is the Han-Hu relation, which probably became particularly relevant due to Jin’s fall to the Xiongnu in 317. Since Wang Zhaojun had been married off to a Xiongnu leader three and half centuries earlier, her life became a safe, fertile field in which to speak about contemporary issues in the fourth and fifth centuries. Let us first turn to the account found in the Qin cao, which is a collection of stories about zither tunes. It is usually attributed to Cai Yong 哉怽 (133–192). But the “Bibliography/ Monograph on Art and Writings” of the Sui and Tang histories mentions a certain Kong Yan ⫼埵 (258–320) from the Jin dynasty as its compiler. A tetrasyllabic poem titled “Song of Plaint, Estrangement, and Longing” ⿐㚈⿅ょ㫴, attributed to Wang Zhaojun, is prefaced by a long, chunky narrative: Wang Zhaojun was the daughter of Wang Rang from Qi. When she turned seventeen, her appearance was breathtaking. And she came to be known throughout the state. Rang, seeing that Zhaojun, despite her grace and beauty, never stole a look outside her gate or window, thought Zhaojun was extraordinary. When people came to propose marriage, Rang never accepted. Instead, Rang presented Zhaojun to Emperor Yuan. Due to distance, Zhaojun was not favored immediately. She was ranked among the ladies in the emperor’s harem. Five or six years passed before Zhaojun started to feel estranged and plaintive. She would make a show that she cared not for her body or looks. Every time when Emperor Yuan visited the harem, he would overlook her and pass by her chamber. Later, the Chanyu dispatched envoys to participate in the Han court’s celebration. Emperor Yuan arranged for performers and musicians. He also ordered everyone from his harem to come out in fine makeup. Zhaojun had been plaintive and indignant for a long time due to her not being summoned as one of the emperor’s close attendants. [Taking this opportunity,] she went out of her way to adorn herself with elaborate makeup and put on elegant clothing. She dazzled and looked fabulous. After all present had been seated, Emperor Yuan addressed the envoy: “What would make your khan happy?” The envoy replied: “Treasures and curios are rather complete [where I come from]. It is just that our women are ugly and not the same as those from the central kingdom.” The Emperor then asked the women of his harem: “We wish to have one woman presented to the Chanyu. Whoever wishes to depart, please rise.” Upon hearing this, Zhaojun sighed, crossed her mat and presented herself: “I have been fortunate enough to be recruited to your harem. As I am coarse and ugly, lowly and shabby, 16. Fan Ye served as a consultant to Liu Yigong ∱佑〕. In 432, Fan Ye was demoted to Xuancheng ⭋❶ grand protector, and it was then that he started to compile the Hou Han shu. See also Nienhauser, “Once Again, the Authorship of the Hsi-ching Tsa-chi,” 227. 17. Ibid., 229.

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I cannot satisfy Your Majesty’s heart. I sincerely wish to depart.” This happened in front of the Chanyu’s envoy. Though the Emperor was greatly alarmed and extremely regretful, he could no longer put a stop to it. For a long time, he sighed and said to himself: “I have made a mistake.” Subsequently, he gave Zhaojun to the Chanyu. When Zhaojun arrived in the land of the Xiongnu, the Chanyu was beside himself with joy. He thought the Han had treated him graciously. Hence he indulged in wine and pleasure. In addition, he sent envoys to repay the Han with a pair of white jade discs, ten thoroughbreds, and other treasures from his barbarian land. Zhaojun resented that Emperor Yuan had failed to show favor in the beginning. In her heart, she was not happy. Besides, she yearned for her homeland. Thereupon she made a song called “Song of Plaint, Estrangement, and Longing,” which reads as follows: . . . Zhaojun had a son whose name was Shiwei [Abandoned by the World]. When the old Chanyu passed away, Shiwei succeeded the throne. [As a Hu person, when his father dies, he marries his own mother.] Zhaojun asked Shiwei: “Would you like to be Han or Hu?” Shiwei answered: “I would rather be Hu.” Zhaojun, upon hearing this, swallowed poison and died. The entire state of the Chanyu came to her funeral. In the land of the Hu, there is a lot of withered grass, and yet Zhaojun’s tomb alone is always covered in green grass. 䌳㗕⏃侭ˤ滲⚳䌳䨘⤛ḇˤ㗕⏃⸜⋩ᶫ㗪ˤ柷刚䘶㻼ˤ倆㕤⚳ᷕˤ䨘夳㗕 ⏃䪗㬋改渿ˤ㛒▿䩢䚳攨㇞ˤẍ℞㚱䔘㕤Ṣˤ㯪ᷳ䘮ᶵ冯ˤ䌣㕤⬅⃫ⷅˤ ẍ⛘怈㖊ᶵ⸠䲵ˤ⎐⁁⼴⭖ˤ䧵Ḽℕ⸜ˤ㗕⏃⽫㚱⿐㚈ˤ‥ᶵ梦℞⼊⭡ˤ ⃫ⷅ㭷㬟⼴⭖ˤ䔷䔍ᶵ忶℞嗽ˤ⼴╖Ḷ怋ἧ侭㛅屨ˤ⃫ⷅ昛姕Έ㦪ˤᷫẌ ⼴⭖⥅↢ˤ㗕⏃⿐。㖍ᷭˤᶵ⼿ἵ↿ˤᷫ㚜ᾖ梦ˤ┬⥅䚃㚵ˤ⼊⭡⃱廅侴 ↢ˤᾙ↿⛸ˤ⃫ⷅ媪ἧ侭㚘ˤ╖Ḷỽ㇨栀㦪ˤ⮵㚘ˤ䍵⣯⿒䈑ˤ䘮〱冒 ⁁ˤょ⨎Ṣ慄旳ˤᶵ⤪ᷕ⚳ˤⷅᷫ⓷⼴⭖ˤ㫚ᶨ⤛岄╖Ḷˤ婘傥埴侭崟ˤ 㕤㗗㗕⏃╇䃞崲ⷕ侴⇵㚘ˤ⥦⸠⼿⁁⛐⼴⭖ˤ䰿慄⋹旳ˤᶵ⎰昃ᶳᷳ⽫ˤ 婈栀⼿埴ˤ㗪╖Ḷἧ侭⛐㕩ˤⷅ⣏樂〼ᷳˤᶵ⼿⽑㬊ˤ列ᷭ⣒〗㚘ˤ㚽⶚ 婌䞋ˤ忪ẍ冯ᷳˤ㗕⏃军⊰⤜ˤ╖Ḷ⣏〭ˤẍ䁢㻊冯ㆹ⍂ˤ䷙惺ἄ㦪ˤ怋 ἧ侭⟙㻊ˤ復䘥䑏ᶨ暁ˣ榧楔⋩⋡ˣ傉⛘䎈⮞ᷳ栆ˤ㗕⏃【ⷅ⥳ᶵ夳忯ˤ ⽫⿅ᶵ㦪ˤ⽫⾝悱⛇ˤᷫἄ⿐㚈⿅ょ㫴㚘ḹḹˤ㗕⏃㚱⫸㚘ᶾ忽ˤ╖Ḷ 㬣ˤ⫸ᶾ忽两䩳ˤ↉䁢傉侭ˤ䇞㬣⥣㭵ˤ㗕⏃⓷ᶾ忽㚘ˤ㰅䁢㻊ḇ烎䁢傉 ḇ烎ᶾ忽㚘ˤ㫚䁢傉俛ˤ㗕⏃ᷫ⏆喍冒㭢ˤ╖Ḷ冱吔ᷳˤ傉ᷕ⣂䘥勱ˤ侴 㬌⠂䌐曺ˤ

As an introduction to a poem, this preface is almost too long. Its 378 characters dwarf the poetic text proper, which contains ninety-six characters. As a narrative, it is rather complete and shows signs of intended moral instructions about female chastity and loyalty. These lessons are not always subtly put or carefully hidden. Instead they seem to openly intrude into the flow of the story and the moral agenda causes some inconsistencies and unexpected twists and turns in the narrative, especially the closing paragraph. The first two thirds (i.e., 248 characters) of the narrative is comparatively more coherent. One salient example of an intrusive moral overtone comes toward the end of the story, right before Zhaojun’s suicide. The tetrasyllabic couplet “As a Hu person, when his father dies, he marries his own mother” ↉䁢傉侭䇞㬣⥣㭵 generalizes about the Hu marital customs and

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lodges a vehement protest through Zhaojun’s suicide. Such heavy-handed moralization calls to mind the Lienü zhuan ↿⤛⁛ (Biographies of women), a newly added category of biographies in the Hou Han shu. Fan Ye evidently named this section after an earlier work compiled by the Western Han imperial librarian Liu Xiang ∱⎹ (79–8 BCE).18 Female chastity is one of the central themes in the biographies, revealing a particular concern over the malicious influence the distaff family had had on the rule of the Han. Ban Gu commented on the purport of Liu Xiang’s work as follows: Liu Xiang observed that the customs had gradually become excessive and lax. Moreover, the Zhao [sisters], Wei [Zifu], and their like all rose from lowly and humble backgrounds, yet they transgressed the rites and regulations. Liu Xiang believed that the king’s instructions ought to start from the inner chambers and reach outward, from near to far. Therefore, he selected records of worthy consorts and chaste women from the Odes and Documents. They can be seen as models in an effort to make the state prosperous and the household prominent. He also included those pernicious and depraved women who had caused chaos and demise. Following a certain order, he compiled the Biographies of Women into eight fascicles. The purpose was to admonish the emperor. ⎹䜡὿⻴⤊㶓炻侴嵁ˣ堆ᷳⰔ崟⽖岌炻巘䥖⇞ˤ⎹ẍ䁢䌳㔁䓙ℏ⍲⢾炻冒 役侭⥳ˤ㓭㍉⍾娑㚠㇨庱岊⤫屆⨎炻冰⚳栗⭞⎗㱽⇯炻⍲⬥⪾Ḫṉ侭炻⸷ 㫉䁢↿⤛⁛炻↉ℓ䭯炻ẍㆺ⣑⫸ˤ19

It is worth noting that Ban Gu and his subject, Liu Xiang, have much in common. They are both, to a certain extent, what they criticize—members of the distaff family—which shows how deep-rooted and pervasive the “women” problem was at the Han court. Liu Xiang was the grandson of Liu Bijiang ∱彇䔮, who was a grandson of Liu Jiao ∱Ṍ, King Yuan of Chu 㤂⃫䌳 (?–179 BCE), who had his government seat in Pengcheng ⼕❶ (modern Xuzhou). A half-brother of Liu Bang ∱恎 (256–195 BCE), the founder of the Han dynasty, Liu Jiao was reportedly very talented and extremely fond of learning. When he was young, Liu Jiao studied the Odes with Musheng from Lu 欗䧮䓇, Baisheng 䘥䓇, and Duke Shen 䓛℔ and Fuqiu Bo 㴖᷀ỗ, who was a disciple of Sun Qing ⬓⌧ (aka Xunzi 勨⫸, ca. 313–238 BCE). After the Qin burned documents, these studentscholars parted ways until Liu Jiao was enfeoffed as the King of Chu.20 King Yuan appointed his fellow students to be his court gentlemen. King Yuan also sent his own son and Duke Shen to study with their former teacher, Fuqiu Bo, who had been residing in Chang’an. Duke Shen stood out in his learning of the Odes and was made Court Doctorate. His teachings started to be well accepted and were dubbed the Lu 欗 school of the Odes. King Yuan followed suit in putting out his own commentaries, which were then called King Yuan’s school of the Odes. Occasionally, one would encounter a version of King Yuan’s Odes.21 18. For an account of early biographical writings on women, see Sherry J. Mou, Gentlemen’s Prescriptions for Women’s Lives. 19. Han shu 36.1957–58. 20. Shi ji 50.1987; Han shu 36.1921. 21. Han shu 36.1922.

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Unfortunately, Liu Jiao’s grandson Liu Wu’s ∱㬎 (fl. 168–144 BCE) reported abandonment of learning and resort to violence to gain power initiated the slow demise of the Chu Kingdom. Liu Wu ended up killing himself in a failed rebellion against the Han court. Liu Bijiang’s family avoided the disaster, as he had been in the capital. The Chu Kingdom was allowed to continue until another reported attempt at rebellion. Then it was completely abolished. Liu Xiang was not directly affected by his uncle Liu Wu’s actions, but he must have known about the fate of his aunt Liu Xijun, a daughter whom Liu Wu had left behind. Although Liu Xiang, his father and grandfather all resided in the capital, they were on the very edge of the court power circle. Their marginal status could have been a result of choice, or force, or a combination of both. The historical accounts Ban Gu presented insist on the Capital Liu family’s22 loyalty and sagacity and praised them for choosing of their own accord to stay out of the power struggle. The account of King Chu of Yuan’s household by Sima Qian is much shorter than that by Ban Gu. While Sima Qian’s was a terse account of the demise of the Chu Kingdom, Ban Gu’s was an elaborate narrative of not only the Pengcheng Liu family but also of the Capital Liu family, as Ban added a separate biography of Liu Xiang and his son, Liu Xin ∱㫮 (d. 23). Many details are also provided for Liu Xiang’s grandfather, Liu Bijiang, who is said to have been fond of reading the Odes and capable of writing.23 Ironically, the actual reason that the Capital Liu family was able to survive after one of their own rebelled in Chu was that Liu  Bijiang’s grandmother had been related to Empress Dowager Dou 䩯⣒⎶ (?–135 BCE).24 Ban Gu, as a historian and a member of the distaff family, carried a double role, because he was actually part of the problem of which he was so critical. The Liu family’s eventual quiet survival at court as scholars and librarians is very similar to the fate of the Ban family of historians. When Ban Gu’s great-grand aunt, Lady Ban, lost the favor of Emperor Cheng ㆸⷅ (r. 33–7 BCE) to the lowborn Zhao sisters, Lady Ban wisely chose to withdraw from the competition and volunteer to guard the imperial tomb site. She spent the rest of her life in loneliness. Not much is known about the actual condition or details of her life, but much imagination and versification has been devoted to how she might have felt emotionally.25 When Ban Gu wrote biographies of members of the distaff family, he understandably favored Lady Ban by giving her a voice, through which she explains herself. What she says through poetry allows her to rise above the other court ladies who do not have a voice. The historic rise and fall of Lady Ban was no different from that of Zhao Feiyan 嵁梃䅽 or any other court lady who was lucky enough to be favored yet later abandoned during the reign of Emperor Cheng. A dozen or so women passed through the stage of being favored. As a result of historiography, the Zhao sisters came to be seen as evil women, and one of them is 22. 23. 24. 25.

I use “Capital Liu family” to distinguish them from the Pengcheng Liu family that rebelled against the court. Han shu 36.1926. Shi ji 49.1972–75, Han shu 97A.3942–45. For a study of the literary pieces attributed to Lady Ban, see Knechtges, “The Poetry of an Imperial Concubine.”

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blamed for the healthy Emperor Cheng’s sudden death at the age of forty-four. Standing at the opposite end of the spectrum from this evil woman, who was eventually forced to take her own life, is the virtuous Lady Ban of the Han shu. This is by no means accidental. The court women’s being favored and then often abandoned is ultimately the result of the way the court was organized around the absolute power of the emperor, but it is easy to find fault with those who are at the center of the action, such as the emperor himself and whichever lady he favors at a certain point. If Empress Xu 姙䘯⎶ were ever given a voice, she might very well have regarded Lady Ban as the cause of her woe. We are often reminded that the Zhao sisters stole the emperor from Lady Ban, but the thief was actually Lady Ban’s own maid, a lowborn woman called Li Ping who had arrived before the Zhaos.26 As a matter of fact, Lady Ban and Zhao Feiyan seem to share more similarities than differences. They both rose rapidly from a low status to the second-highest rank of jieyu Ὴẫ or ⧽⥌ (Favored Beauty). They both had to yield to the emperor’s favor for younger versions of themselves. They were both blamed for some inner court struggle. How they came to be known so differently to history is not merely a matter of coincidence. In Stephen Owen’s study of the Han shu “Biography of Lady Li,” he points out the real “jealous slanderer” might very well be Ban Gu, the Confucian historian whose “subtle words” had the power of revocation and demotion.27 Likewise, his words may also have had the power of promotion and propagation. Considering that the Zhaos and the Lis, two notorious distaff families, had to pay for their enviable sudden fortune with the unavoidable high price of “extermination of the entire clan,” the Bans were the lucky ones. They stand tall in history because they endured “quiet suffering,” which was performed through poetic texts inserted in a history that they collectively compiled. Lady Ban’s “lonely death” was vindicated. The significance of her vindication goes beyond herself. It is the vindication of an entire distaff family whose surname is Ban, because the greatest contention between these distaff families seems to hinge on their “status,” whether they are wei ⽖ (lowborn) or liangjia 列⭞ (of a good family). The way Lady Ban speaks—her quotations from classics and other ancient sources such as the gu tuhua ⎌⚾䔓 (ancient illustrations)28—makes her more of a historian than a consort. She also warns Emperor Cheng about his image as a benighted emperor who indulges in sensual pleasures. In this rhetoric, the reader sees Ban Zhao 䎕㗕 (45?–117?) instead of Lady Ban. The reported response from the Empress Dowager was “delight,” and the Emperor is said to “have desisted from his actions.”29 Lady Ban reportedly persevered in her remonstration by chanting the Odes and setting herself up as an example by abiding by ancient rituals when she was in the presence of the emperor.30 In her biography, Lady Ban is

26. Han shu 97B.3984. 27. Owen, “One Sight: The Han shu Biography of Lady Li,” in Knechtges and Vance, Rhetoric and the Discourses of Power in Court Culture, 245. 28. Han shu 97B.3983. 29. Ibid., 97B.3984. 30. Ibid.

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turned into both a teacher of womanly virtues and an upright minister, the roles played by her great-grandniece, Ban Zhao, and her great-grandnephew, Ban Gu. Ban Zhao’s construction of a virtuous Lady Ban is based on her self-image. One notices that the personal name Zhao 㗕, meaning “to illuminate” and “to teach,” describes very well the duty of an ideal imperial lady as well as a historian. Lady Ban’s action of imparting lessons to Emperor Cheng would suitably be called zhaojun 㗕⏃ (illuminating the emperor). Zhaojun, interestingly, is also the style name given by Ban Gu, or possibly by his sister, Ban Zhao, to a woman known as Wang Qiang 䌳㩋, who is mentioned briefly in the basic annals of Emperor Yuan (r. 48–33 BCE), in the year 33 BCE: “Emperor Yuan bestowed upon Wang Qiang, a court lady-in-waiting, the title of [Huhanye’s] Empress” 岄╖Ḷ⼭姼㌾⹕䌳㩋䁢敤㮷.31 In “Accounts of the Xiongnu,” a section in which fuller descriptions are found, the character of Wang Qiang’s personal name is written differently as 䇮. It is also stressed that Wang Qiang comes from a “good family” (liang jiazi 列⭞⫸). The fact that the family background of an imperial consort needs to be of a certain class is a concern of the historian, who might be reacting to an opposite situation. It is in the “Xiongnu account” that Wang Qiang is given the style name Zhaojun or “illuminating the emperor.”32 Her title among the Xiongnu is “Pacifying Hu Empress” (Ning Hu Yanzhi ⮏傉敤㮷).33 The connotation of both titles, “to illuminate the emperor” and “to pacify the Hu,” reveals a Han historian’s perspective. Wang Qiang bore one son to Huhanye and two daughters to Huhanye’s son by a different wife.34 Moreover, a third-century commentator named Wenying 㔯䧶 noted the hometown of Wang Zhaojun: “She was originally from Zigui in Nanjun (modern Yichang in Hubei)” 㛔⋿悉䦕㬠Ṣ.35 This ascription is certainly different from the Qin cao preface’s claim of a Qi 滲 (modern Shandong) origin, which happens to be its compiler Kong Yan’s ⫼埵 hometown. The great liberty Qin cao takes with the Han shu materials about Wang Zhaojun’s life is not unusual. Despite the many variations, several common concerns do come out strongly. For example, the prejudices against the Xiongnu or Hu manifest themselves not only in the portrayal of the Chanyu as a simple-minded person, but also in a malicious misrepresentation of the Xiongnu marital practice through an accusation of incest. Zhaojun, on the other hand, serves as a persona through whom virtue is performed via suicide. Her capacity for yuan or “being plaintive,” first in a somewhat subversive gesture, then in a powerful manipulative action, and eventually in words, is seen as part of her virtue, which is eventually evidenced by the green grass that grows on her tomb amidst the withering grasses all around. The poem, composed of 96 characters, is only a quarter of the 387-character-long preface. Far from being the focus, the poem reads as it has been fashioned after the commentaries by the historian, in which the Odes are quoted to approximate feelings and mete out judgment. In this case, the profuse 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

Ibid., 9.297. Ibid., 94B.3803. Ibid., 94B.3806. Ibid., 94B.3808. Ibid., 9.297–98.

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references to the Odes pieces, seemingly diffuse, are centrifugal, as they mostly deal with the emotion of being “away from home or separated from parents.”36 Read this way, this piece comes very close to the six-line poem attributed to Liu Xijun or Princess Wusun. They are poetry about the depressive mood associated with displacement. If anything, this piece has one more dimension than Xijun’s piece in that the emperor is brought into the picture for ridicule and remonstration. Autumn trees are lush and thick; their leaves have turned sallow. There is a bird dwelling on that hill, coming to perch on the mulberry trees. His plumes are well nourished; his appearance is bright and glorious. He ascends into the clouds; he lingers about the secluded room. The detached palace is far and wide; his body is weakened and withered. His will is thwarted and feeble; he cannot make the upward flight. Although he is fed and provided for, his heart is unsettled. How is it that he alone suffers such change and divergence from the normal? Flittering and fluttering are the kites from the distant land of Western Qiang. The mountains are high; the rivers billow on and on. Alas! Father! Alas! Mother! The road to home is far and wide. Oh! Woe! Oh! Painful! My melancholic heart is sad and wounded. 䥳㛐厳厳炻 37 ℞叱厶湫ˤ 38 㚱沍嗽Ⱉ炻普㕤劆㟹ˤ 39 梲做㮃佥炻⼊⭡䓇 ⃱ˤ㖊⼿⋯暚炻忲ῂ㚚㇧ˤ暊⭖䳽㚈炻幓橼㐏啷ˤ⽿⾝㈹ℿ炻ᶵ⼿柉 枷ˤ 40 晾⼿棏梇炻⽫㚱⼲⽐ˤㆹ䌐Ẳỽ炻㓡⼨嬲ⷠˤ侑侑ᷳ涘炻怈普大 伴ˤ檀Ⱉⲑⲑ炻㱛㯜㲙㲙ˤ䇞№㭵№炻忻慴え攟ˤ▂␤⑨⑱炻ㄪ⽫ィ ˤ

In the Hou Han shu, the character for Wang Qiang’s personal name underwent yet another transformation: 㩋 (Han shu “Basic Annals”) > 䇮 (Han shu “Accounts of Xiongnu”) > ⫁ (Hou Han shu). The acquisition of a “woman” or “female” radical in the Hou Han shu is a semiotic statement in which Qiang shifts from being a mere name and becomes a category. This new character ⫁ not only denotes Wang Qiang’s femininity but also her beauty and the unfair treatment she received, because the new character connects Wang Qiang with an ancient beauty named Mao Qiang 㮃⫁. Through this slight change of the radical, the historian Fan Ye writes another woman’s life into the life of Wang Qiang, who is otherwise 36. See “I am going back to visit my parents” 㬠⮏䇞㭵 (Legge, tr., The Book of Poetry, 7), the final line of Ode 2, the recurring lines of Ode 121 containing the phrase 䇞㭵. Zhu Xi’s commentary reads these poems as a wish to return home and serve one’s parents. Qu Wanli, Shijing quanshi, 6, 204. 37. Yiwen leiju 30.538. 38. Cf. Ode 2: “Its leaves were luxuriant;/ The yellow birds flew about” 䵕叱厳厳/湫沍Ḷ梃. See Legge, tr., The Book of Poetry, 6. 39. Cf. Ode 121, stanza 3: “Suh-suh go the rows of the wild geese,/ As they settle on the bushy mulberry trees./ The king’s business must not be slackly discharged,/ And [so] we cannot plant our rice and maize;/ How shall our parents get food?/ O thou distant and azure Heaven!/ When shall we get to our ordinary lot?” 倭倭 沯埴炾普㕤劆㟹炾䌳ḳ有䚔炾ᶵ傥咢䧣䱙炾䇞㭵ỽ▿炾ええ呤⣑炾㚟℞㚱ⷠ. See Legge, tr., The Book of Poetry, 184. 40. Cf. Ode 28 䅽䅽.

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known for two things: a good family background and marriage into the Xiongnu. Besides giving Wang Qiang beauty, this new life also gives her the same bitter fate Mao Qiang suffered as a result of her own competition with Xishi 大㕥, another of the “Four Greatest Beauties.” Xishi’s story is strikingly similar to that of the later Wang Zhaojun. She also sacrificed herself to bring peace to her home country by occupying the attention of the king of the enemy state. Such espionage strategy is commonly practiced and theoretically well expounded upon, especially during the Western Han, when the powerful Xiongnu caused much trouble on the borders. The use of women as a diplomatic weapon is well illustrated in the following passage attributed to Jia Yi 屰婤 (200–168 BCE): Order twenty or thirty women whose faces are powdered white, whose eyebrows are painted black, whose clothes are made of embroidered silk, to serve the [Xiongnu guests]. Make it that some are playing the fighting game and some are playing the catching game. While performing these barbarian games, they accompany the Xiongnu at their meals. The emperor also orders the Music Bureau to favor them with musicians who play windpipes and beat rattle drums. Then have tumblers and magicians come forth as well. During the intervals, dancers rise up to dance. Then, there are also drum-beating and puppet shows. When it is getting late, the western barbarian music is played. The women, holding them by the hand, help the important guests to go to the inner rooms; following each other, they support and escort some dozen of them. Make the envoys and those who surrender enjoy such treatment at times and be happy. Throughout the entire Xiongnu state, those who hear about it and desire this would tell each other about it. Hence everyone gets anxious and is only afraid that he would be the last to come for this. This way, we [successfully] spoil the [Xiongnu’s] ears. This would be yet another enticement. Ẍ⨎Ṣ‭䘥⡐湹炻三堋侴ἵ℞➪侭Ḵᶱ⋩Ṣ炻ㆾ唬ㆾ㎄炻䁢℞傉㇚炻ẍ䚠 梗ˤᶲἧ㦪⹄⸠`ᷳỮ㦪炻⏡䯓溻木炻Ὰ㊰朊侭㚜忚炻准侭巰侭㗪ἄˤ⮹ 攺㑲溻炻准℞„Ṣ㖼㗪ᷫ䁢ㆶ㦪㓄ㇳ傍⻲ᶲ⭊ᷳ炻⼴⨎Ṣ⃰⼴㈞ἵᷳ侭⚢ ⋩检Ṣ炻ἧ旵侭㗪ㆾ⼿㬌侴㦪ᷳ俛ˤᶨ⚳倆ᷳ侭夳ᷳ侭炻ⶴ䚙䚠⏲炻ṢṢ ⾋⾋炻ⓗ⿸℞⼴Ἦ军ḇ炻⮯ẍ㬌⢆℞俛ˤᶨ梴ˤ41

According to this logic as presented by Jia Yi, it is possible that Wang Qiang was given up as an enticement to corrupt and demoralize the Xiongnu. The loss of a court lady like Wang Qiang may very well have been inconsequential to Emperor Yuan in comparison to the strategic gain. However, the Hou Han shu compiler Fan Ye wielded great liberty in rewriting Wang Qiang’s biography by imagining Emperor Yuan’s regret in a highly dramatized scene. Zhiyashi was the son of Wang Zhaojun. Zhaojun’s style name was Qiang, and she came from the Southern Commandery. As a daughter of a good household, she had formerly been selected for Emperor Yuan’s harem. When Huhanye visited the court, the Emperor promised to bestow five court ladies upon him. Zhaojun had become deeply sad and indignant after not being summoned by the Emperor after several years since her initial entrance to the court. At this time, she appealed with the harem commissioner to have herself placed among the ladies to be dispatched. At the farewell banquet, 41. Jia Yi, Xin shu, 4.75–76.

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Fan Ye’s Hou Han shu is notorious for introducing unverifiable elements. This biography contains some bizarre and inconsistent narrative details. Regarding this, Wang Guanguo 䌳奨⚳ ( jinshi 1119) raised some convincing objections.43 What is interesting to me is that this account conceals a sardonic attack on Emperor Yuan in the disguise of Wang’s biography. Emperor Yuan’s lust for Wang Qiang, after seeing her beauty, reduces him to essentially the same state as the barbarian Xiongnu Chanyu. This plot is repeated in the Shishuo xinyu and the Xijing zaji with an additional detail concerning a bribe-taking court painter.44 Wang Qiang has now emerged from being merely a “daughter from a good family” to become a woman of “dazzling beauty” and “shining virtue” who puts her lord to shame and regret. Her name, recorded as Zhaojun in the Hou Han shu and as Mingjun 㖶⏃ in the Shishuo xinyu, may mean a number of different things: “enlightened lord,” “enlightened lady,” or “to enlighten the lord.” The ambiguity calls attention to the sharply diverging image between herself and her lord, Emperor Yuan. The focus of this story is no longer Han-Hu relations, but rather the matter of rulership. The historical Emperor Yuan was hapless but not particularly dissolute. His Empress, Wang Zhengjun 䌳㓧⏃ (71 BCE–13 CE), who was Wang Mang’s 䌳卥 (45 BCE–23 CE) aunt, has a name that is only one character different from that of Wang Zhaojun or Mingjun. In addition, her family came from Qi 滲.45 Wang Zhengjun’s biography in the Han shu is placed at the end of the list of distaff family members and right before the biography of Wang Mang. Zhao 㗕 is also used in the title of Emperor Yuan’s two favored ladies: Fu (Zhaoyi Fu shi 㗕₨‭㮷) and Feng (Zhaoyi Feng Yuan 㗕₨楖⩃). Each bore Emperor Yuan a son. When the two sons were made kings, their mothers were given the title zhaoyi 㗕₨

42. Hou Han shu 89.2941. 43. Shishuo xinyu jianshu 19.666–67. 44. See ibid. 19.665; Mather, A New Account of Tales of the World, 363–65; Nienhauser, “Once Again, the Authorship of the Hsi-ching Tsa-chi,” 227–30. 45. Han shu 97B.4013–15.

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(“resplendent appearance”) so as to differentiate them from other court ladies. Zhaoyi was one rank above jieyu and one below Empress Dowager.46 It was actually Emperor Yuan’s son, Emperor Cheng, who made himself famous through the women upon whom he doted. If anything, the image of a benighted and indulgent emperor best fits the historical Emperor Cheng rather than his father. There were many other women in the shadow of the brilliant Wang Zhaojun, including Empress Wang Zhengjun, Lady Ban, Princess Xijun, and a woman surnamed Wang who was given to the Xiongnu. The voice that tells Wang’s story is also the voice through which Wang tells her own story. In this sense, Wang Zhaojun’s is a case that runs parallel with that of Qu Yuan, as long as they are treated not as two historical personages but rather as one heuristic construction. Their shared suicidal endings are necessary to their proclaimed chastity and loyalty. The later development of the Wang Zhaojun legend would take a different trajectory due to her gender. She would need to be reclaimed by the Han emperor. For the purpose of this paper, there is an even more important further parallel between Wang Zhaojun and Qu Yuan—the voice they assume and the language they acquire in telling their own story. Their story is one of injustice and wrongs. Their voice is a plaintive one. The plaint is at its best when it is spoken in the southern style, which I will show to be the sao and then the wuyan Ḽ妨 or pentasyllabic form, the latter being a variation of the former. To a large extent, Lady Ban chimes in with her plaint as well, and in her character the abandoned consort and the exiled courtier would join forces. If the Qin cao piece contains a gratifying story with an anticlimactic tetrasyllabic song, the following piece corrects the imbalance. This is the “Wang Mingjun ci” 䌳㖶⏃录 attributed to Shi Chong 䞛ⲯ (249–300), as found in the Wen xuan 㔯怠. Shi Chong is a Jin figure known less for his poetry than for his wealth and women. His connection to some of the poems might have to do with the musicians he hosted and the need to compose lyrics. One of the musicians, whose name is mentioned most frequently, is Green Pearl 䵈䎈, who shares many traits with the Wang Zhaojun figure. Wang Mingjun was originally Wang Zhaojun. The change was made because zhao is a taboo character, due to the fact that it was Emperor Wen’s [Sima Zhao ⎠楔㗕, 211– 265, posthumous Emperor Wen of Jin 㗳㔯℔] personal name. When the Xiongnu were powerful, they requested to marry Han women. Emperor Yuan [r. 48–33 BCE] gave them Zhaojun, a woman of good upbringing from his harem. Earlier, when Princess [Xijun] married into Wusun, she had ordered musicians to play the pipa for her as they rode horseback so as to ease her sorrowful thoughts on the road. The way in which they sent off Mingjun must have been similar. Their making of new tunes was mostly plaintive and sad. Therefore, I commit them to paper. 䌳㖶⏃侭炻㛔㗗䌳㗕⏃炻ẍ妠㔯ⷅ媙㓡䂱ˤ⊰⤜䚃炻婳⨂㕤㻊ˤ⃫ⷅẍ⼴ ⭖列⭞⫸㗕⏃惵䂱ˤ㖼℔ᷣ⩩䁷⬓炻Ẍ䏝䏞楔ᶲἄ㦪炻ẍㄘ℞忻嶗ᷳ⿅ˤ ℞復㖶⏃炻Ṏ⽭䇦ḇ炻℞忈㕘㚚炻⣂⑨⿐ᷳ倚炻㓭㔀ᷳ㕤䳁ḹ䇦ˤ

46. Ibid., 97B.3999–4000.

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96 Lyrics of (by) Mingjun I was originally a Han girl. Now on my way to be married into the Chanyu’s court: Before my words of farewell were finished, The front riders had already raised their banners. My grooms-in-attendance all broke into tears. Horses, in their yokes, were saddened and started to neigh. Sorrow and affliction twisted the five innards. Tears soaked the vermilion tassels. Traveling on and on, the day was late When we arrived at the Xiongnu town. They invited me into their round yurt. They conferred upon me the title of Yanzhi. A different kind—this is not where I find peace. Although honored—this is not what I take pride in. Taken and disgraced by both father and son. Facing them, I was ashamed and shocked. To kill my person was not easy. Silently, I dragged on with my life. Dragging on, what was the meaning of my life? Thoughts entangled, I was filled with indignation. How I wished to borrow the wings of flying geese That I might ride on a distant journey. The flying geese heeded me not, Leaving me standing alone, in distress. In my former days, I was a zither in a casket. Now I become a blossom grown on a pile of dung. Youthful glory was not enough to bring me joy. I would rather be a blade of autumn grass. Leaving my words behind for future generations: Marrying into a distant land played havoc with my emotions. 明君辭

ㆹ㛔㻊⭞⫸炻⮯怑╖Ḷ⹕ˤ录始㛒⍲䳪炻⇵槭⶚㈿㕴ˤ⁽⽉㴽㳩暊炻廭楔 ずᶼ沜ˤ⑨櫙 Ḽℏ炻㲋㶂㽽㛙主ˤ埴埴㖍⶚怈炻忪忈⊰⤜❶ˤ⺞ㆹ㕤䨡 ⺔炻≈ㆹ敤㮷⎵ˤ㬲栆朆㇨⬱炻晾屜朆㇨㥖ˤ䇞⫸夳昝彙炻⮵ᷳ㄂ᶼ樂ˤ 㭢幓列ᶵ㖻炻満満ẍ劇䓇ˤ劇䓇Ṏỽ俲炻䧵⿅ⷠㅌ䙰ˤ栀`梃泣侤炻Ḁᷳ ẍ忸⼩ˤ梃泣ᶵㆹ栏炻ữ䩳ẍ⯷䆇ˤ㖼䁢⋋ᷕ䏜炻Ṳ䁢䲆ᶲ劙ˤ㛅厗ᶵ嵛 㬉炻䓀冯䥳勱⸞ˤ⁛婆⼴ᶾṢ炻怈⩩暋䁢ねˤ47

47. Wen xuan 27.1290–92.

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Although much longer than Xijun’s piece, the “Lyrics of Mingjun” invokes similar themes: displacement, homesickness, and alienation in a strange land. In addition, it pairs well with the Xijun song in register, much more than with the Qin cao song. It is tempting to see an evolutionary process in genre from the sao to the tetrasyllabic and then the pentasyllabic, given the chronological sequence established by the dates of the authors, Ban Gu, Cai Yong, and Shi Chong. However, this is not necessarily the case, and I believe it is not the case. I see the sao and the pentasyllabic, both poetic forms that encapsulate a lively and somewhat colloquial language, as belonging to one tradition that is markedly different from the tetrasyllabic. Shi Chong’s piece provides a valuable window into the features of the pentasyllabic in its early stage, as well as evidence of “impersonation” and “ventriloquism.” In the preface, we are given an explanation of the reasons why Zhaojun is also called Mingjun. It is also here that Xijun becomes associated with Zhaojun through a type of music played on the pipa. Xijun’s piece in the sao style came from Chu, her native kingdom. This piece in Wen xuan’s “yuefu” 㦪⹄ section was later collected in Guo Maoqian’s 悕努ῑ (1041–1099) Yuefu shiji 㦪⹄娑普, listed as one of the “lament tunes” (yintan qu ⏇㫶㚚). Quoting a work called Music Records of Yuanjia (425–453) ⃫▱㈨抬 compiled in the fifth century by Zhang Yong ⻝㯠 (410–475), Gujin yuelu’s ⎌Ṳ㦪抬 compiler Zhijiang 㘢⋈ (fl. 568) informs us that there are four “lament tunes,” two of which are called “Wang Mingjun” 䌳㖶⏃ and “Chu Consort’s Lament” 㤂⤫⏇. The lyrics of both “Wang Mingjun” and “Chu Consort’s Lament” are listed under the name Shi Chong.48 By Tang times, scholars of music believed that Shi Chong wrote the lyrics of “Wang Mingjun” for his favorite woman, Green Pearl,49 whose musical talent is drowned out by her beauty and virtue. Her story is told in Shi Chong’s biography: Shi Chong has a female performer called Green Pearl. A skilled flautist, she was beautiful and voluptuous. Sun Xiu [d. 301] had his man seek after her. Shi Chong had been residing in his Jingu Villa.50 When this happened, he was at the belvedere, looking down upon the clear stream. Women were serving on the side. Sun Xiu’s man came with the message. Chong called out his maidens, altogether several dozen and all perfumed with thoroughwort or musk oil and donned in silk and gauze, to show the messenger: “Take your pick.” The messenger said: “All your attendants are indeed gorgeous, but I was asked to seek for Green Pearl in particular. I don’t know which would be her.” Chong was furious: “Green Pearl is my favorite. You can’t have her.” The messenger said: “My lord is well-versed in classics and familiar with current events. You should give long-term consideration to illuminate the issue at hand. Please think more carefully.” Chong said: “No.” The messenger left and returned. Chong still did not give his permission. Xiu was furious and advised Sima Lun to execute Chong and his nephew Ouyang  Jian  .  .  . [When the day came,] Shi Chong turned to Green Pearl and said: “I  have incurred this disaster for you.” Green Pearl wept and said: “I should then 48. Yuefu shiji 29.424. 49. Ibid., 29.425. 50. It is northwest of Luoyang. For a discussion of Shi Chong’s villa(s), see David R. Knechtges, “Jingu and Lan ting: Two (Or Three) Jin Dynasty Gardens.”

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repay [my lord] by dying in front of him.” Upon saying this, she threw herself off the belvedere and died. ⲯ㚱⤻㚘䵈䎈炻伶侴导炻┬⏡䫃ˤ⬓䥨ἧṢ㯪ᷳˤⲯ㗪⛐慹察⇍棐炻㕡䘣 㵤冢炻冐㶭㳩炻⨎Ṣἵ“ˤἧ侭ẍ⏲ˤⲯ䚉↢℞⨊⥦㔠⋩Ṣẍ䣢ᷳ炻䘮喲 嗕湅炻塓伭䷈炻㚘烉ˬ⛐㇨㑯ˤ˭ἧ侭㚘烉ˬ⏃ὗ㚵⽉渿⇯渿䞋炻䃞㛔⍿ ␥㊯䳊䵈䎈炻ᶵ嬀⬘㗗烎˭ⲯ≫䃞㚘烉ˬ䵈䎈⏦㇨ッ炻ᶵ⎗⼿ḇˤ˭ἧ侭 㚘烉ˬ⏃ὗ⌂⎌忂Ṳ炻⮇怈䄏怯炻栀≈ᶱ⿅ˤ˭ⲯ㚘烉ˬᶵ䃞ˤ˭ἧ侭↢ 侴⍰⍵炻ⲯ䪇ᶵ姙ˤ䥨⾺炻ᷫ⊠ΐ娭ⲯˣ⺢ˤⲯ媪䵈䎈㚘烉ˬㆹṲ䁢䇦⼿ 伒ˤ˭䵈䎈㲋㚘烉ˬ䔞㓰㬣㕤⭀⇵ˤ˭⚈冒㈽㕤㦻ᶳ侴㬣ˤ51

The above episode reads in more than one way like a variation on the Wang Zhaojun story as recorded in the Qin cao preface, especially the scene in which a powerful man is forced to give up his favorite woman. The lives of both women end in suicides, despite their different relationships with their lords. That one woman would perform the other woman’s sorrow by singing a song about the other’s sorrow is incredible. Shi Chong and Green Pearl are more likely to be two characters performed in relation to the lore of Wang Zhaojun and Emperor Yuan, rather than the performers of Wang Zhaojun’s legend. Green Pearl would indeed be the perfect impersonator of Zhaojun’s fate and feelings. The other piece attributed to Shi Chong brings in yet another woman. This is the song of the famed “Chu consort” (Chu fei 㤂⤫). A rare vegetarian in Chinese history, the Chu consort’s family name was Fan 㦲, and she was also known as “Lady Fan of King Zhuang” (Chu  Zhuang Fan ji 㤂匲㦲⦔). She is known for her various remonstrations with the king. First, Lady Fan abstained from eating meat to protest King Zhuang of Chu’s 㤂匲䌳 (r. 613–590 BCE) indulgence in hunting. King Zhuang took this hint and abstained from hunting. And then Lady Fan criticized Yuqiu 嘆᷀, a minister of the King, for not promoting worthy men. She denounced Yuqiu’s nepotism by citing her own record of promoting nine worthy consorts to the King during her eleven years of tenure. By not being jealous and putting her own private needs after the King’s needs, Lady Fan or the Chu Consort established a good name in the Eastern Han texts. She was given the credit for Chu’s prosperity under King Zhuang and included in the “Worthy and Enlightened” 岊㖶 section of the Biographies of Women.52 Curiously, the song associated with Lady Fan is titled “Chu Consort’s Lament” 㤂⤫㫶, an apparently well-known and representative song of Chu in the third century. Lu Ji’s 映㨇 (261–303) “Wu qu xing” ⏛嵐埴 starts with the following lines: Consort of Chu, for a moment stop lamenting; Maid from Qi, please pause your singing. All of you, please listen quietly To my singing of the Wu song. 㤂⤫ᶼ卓㫶炻滲⧍ᶼ卓嫛ˤ⚃⛸᷎㶭倥炻倥ㆹ㫴⏛嵐ˤ53 51. Jin shu 33.1000. 52. Lie nü zhuan 2.34–35. 53. Wen xuan 28.1308.

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As Lu Ji’s Wu song would be propaganda for Wu, the “Chu Consort’s Lament” should represent the best of Chu.54 When regional tunes are first introduced to the central court, they describe the land and its exemplary people. In the case of Chu, Lady Fan’s virtue occupies a commanding place in Chu’s lament. Lament of the Consort of Chu, by Shi Chong Mighty is the Great Chu. It occupies a land of ten thousand li. To the north, it firmly grasps Square Town.55 To the south, it joins with Crossed Toes.56 To the west, it touches Ba and Shu-Han.57 To the east, it is wrapped in the oceans. Five Marquis and nine earls. Their territories are thus governed. How commanding and formidable is King Zhuang! As deep as a ravine, as solid as a mountain. Crystal beads hang from the tassels of his crown; Cotton puffs are ear plugs. Hiding brilliance, covering the glare, Reticent and reserved, he carefully watches himself. From the inner courts, he appointed Lady Fan; For foreign affairs, he assigned Master Sun Shu’ao. Graceful and elegant, Lady Fan Embodied the way and practiced trustworthiness. She demoted Yuqiu; She promoted nine consorts. In doing so, she abolished the devious and the glib; She broadly opened the path for the heirs of the good family. Abstaining from pleasure, denying favor; Occupying the high position, she didn’t begrudge it. Not begrudging is truly hard; Indeed she had insights into intimations. Transformation starts from the close and nearby. This is evident with the inner quarters. In resplendence, she assisted the hegemonic enterprise; The king’s virtue reached far and his might spread. The host of consorts, the array of ministers; 54. 55. 56. 57.

Ibid. Square Town is in modern Henan. East of Hanoi, in modern Vietnam. In modern Sichuan.

Ping Wang

100 The magnificent law is hereby beheld. They resemble the rivers, lakes, A hundred streams that all return to the [ocean]. The myriad kingdoms present songs. His person obliterated, his name soared. 楚妃歎　石崇 唑唑⣏㤂炻嶐⛇叔慴ˤ⊿㒂㕡❶炻⋿㍍Ṍ嵦ˤ大㑓⶜㻊炻㜙塓㴟㵀ˤ Ḽὗḅỗ炻㗗䔮㗗䎮ˤ䞗䞗匲䌳炻㶝㷇ⱛⲁˤℽ㕺✪䱦炻⃭串⠆俛ˤ 构⃱㇊㚄炻㼃満〕⶙ˤℏ⥼㦲⦔炻⢾ả⬓⫸ˤ䊿䊿㦲⦔炻橼忻Ⰽᾉˤ 㖊䳨嘆᷀炻ḅ⤛㗗忚ˤ㜄䳽恒ἆ炻⺋┇Ẍ傌ˤ√㬉㈹⮝炻⯭ᷳᶵ⏅ˤ ᶵ⏅⮎暋炻⎗媪䞍⸦ˤ⊾冒役⥳炻叿㕤敐数ˤ⃱Ỹ曠㤕炻怩⽟㎂⦩ˤ 佌⎶↿彇炻⺷䝣㳒夷ˤ嬔⼤㰇㴟炻䘦ⶅ①㬠ˤ叔恎ἄ㫴炻幓㰺⎵梃ˤ58

Based on the content of the song, there are no laments. The tan in the title, therefore, might be referring to some aspect of the Chu tune or music. Shi Chong’s eulogy appears to be odd among the group of later constructions under the title of “Chu Consort’s Lament.” They not only change the focus of Lady Fan’s virtue to a sorrowful fate—this change draws her closer to other ladies such as Wang Zhaojun and Lady Ban, so much so that the image of the Chu consort starts to merge with those of the other ladies. Together their similarity forms a familiar type that can be dubbed “the beauty with a sorrowful fate.” Virtue fades into the background and only finds its last vestige in the name “Zhaojun.” It is their plaint, or the imagination and impersonation of their plaint, that the poets and lyricists were particularly interested in engaging. Besides the “Chu Consort’s Lament,” a yuefu title called “Plaint Ballad” ⿐娑埴 is categorized as one of the five Chu tunes (Chu diao 㤂婧). Wang Sengqian 䌳₏嗼 (426–485), in his Jilu ㈨抬 (Records of musicians), names the five titles as: “White Hair Ballad” 䘥柕 ⏇埴, “Mount Tai Ballad” 㲘Ⱉ⏇埴, “Mount Liangfu Ballad” 㠩䓓⏇埴, “Eastern Martial Pipa Ballad” 㜙㬎䏝䏞⏇埴, and “Plaint Ballad.” The instruments used include the reed-pipe, flute, clappers, zither, lute, pipa, and twenty-five-string zither. According to Zhang  Yong, the string instruments are often played at the beginning of the Chu tunes. There are also seven reprises of a cappella songs. Among the additional titles are “Guangling Ballad” ⺋昝㔋, “The Greater Barbarian Reed-Whistle” ⣏傉䫛沜, “The Lesser Barbarian Reed-Whistle” ⮷傉䫛沜, and “Flowing Chu” 㳩㤂.59 Under “Plaint Ballad,” there are two representative titles, one associated with Lady Ban60 and the other associated with Bian He ⌆␴. The “Plaint Ballad” attributed to Lady Ban is a ten-line pentasyllabic piece, written in the persona of a palace lady. It describes a round fan made of newly cut silk. The emperor keeps the fan close at hand during the hot summer and casts it into a box in the winter. The fan is clearly a symbol of the palace lady, who in her 58. Yuefu shiji 29.435–36. 59. Ibid., 41.599. 60. See Knechtges, “The Poetry of an Imperial Concubine,” 130–31.

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prime is favored and in her old age abandoned. This is very much in line with Lady Ban’s life story, but at the same time this story is general enough to apply to all court ladies and even women’s fate in general. Bian He’s story evokes the worst nightmare of a man serving the emperor and in a different way recalls Lady Ban’s fate, i.e., the fate of a loyal and virtuous servant being slandered and rejected by his lord. In addition, Lady Ban and Bian He choose to exert control over their own lives by leaving the emperor. Lady Ban volunteered to guard the imperial tomb ground, while Bian He rejected the emperor’s employment. Of course, they only did so after much suffering and after establishing their trustworthiness in the end. Bian He made a song called “Trust Established, One Withdraws: A Song of Plaint” ᾉ䩳徨⿐㫴. Bian He was a commoner of Chu. He used to farm in the mountains. Once he came across a jade matrix and presented it to King Huai of Chu. The King had it examined by Master Yuezheng who said it wasn’t jade. The king, supposing that Bian He was trying to deceive him, ordered that one of his feet be cut off. When King Huai passed away, King Ping succeeded the throne. Bian He again presented his jade matrix. King Ping again thought he was deceiving him and had Bian He’s other foot cut off. When King Ping passed away, his son was made King of Jing [Chu]. Bian He again was about to make a presentation, but this time he feared being punished again. Instead, clasping his jade, he went into the mountain and wailed. Night and day, he did not stop. When his tears ran dry, he wailed blood. Mount Jing crumbled upon his wailing. The King of Jing had this investigated. Bian He followed the King’s messenger and presented his jade. The King had the matrix cut open and indeed found jade inside. The King conferred upon Bian He the title of Marquis of Lingyang. Bian He declined and made a song: ⌆␴侭炻㤂慶㮹ˤⷠ⯭Ⱉ侽䧖炻⚈⼿䌱䑆ˤẍ䌣㕤㤂㆟䌳炻㆟䌳ἧ㦪㬋⫸ ⌈ᷳ炻妨朆䌱ˤ䌳ẍ䁢㫢嫦炻㕔℞ᶨ嵛炻㆟䌳㬣ˤ⫸⸛䌳䩳ˤ␴⽑㉙℞䑆 侴䌣ᷳˤ⸛䌳⽑ẍ䁢㫢嫦ˤ㕔℞ᶨ嵛ˤ⸛䌳㬣ˤ⫸䩳䁢勲䌳ˤ␴⽑㫚䌣 ᷳˤ⿸⽑夳⭛ˤᷫ㉙℞䌱侴⒕勲Ⱉᷳᷕˤ㘅⣄ᶵ㬊ˤ㴽䚉两ᷳẍ埨ˤ勲Ⱉ 䁢ᷳⳑˤ勲䌳怋⓷ᷳˤ㕤㗗␴晐ἧ䌣䌳ˤ䌳ἧ⇾ᷳˤᷕ㝄㚱䌱ˤᷫ⮩␴䁢 昝春ὗˤ␴录ᶵ⯙侴⍣ˤἄ徨⿐ᷳ㫴㚘烉 Flowing on and on is River Yi; it passes by Mount Jing. A numinous aura accumulated in the deep ravine. Within, a divine treasure shone brilliantly. Digging in the mountain, I found jade, a deed not recognized. Why did I present it to the Chu kings? They were benighted and gullible to slanders. They cut off both my feet and crippled my body. Looking up and down, I sigh and lament, heart grief-stricken. Purple interferes with red; black and white are not distinguished. In the empty mountain, I weep and wail into old age. The heaven’s mirror is bright and bound to illuminate. River Yi turbulently flows into River Wen.

Ping Wang

102 Presenting treasure, I got punishment, my feet cut off. Rejecting enfeoffment, establishing trustworthiness, I embraced farming. The one who was dismembered, how wrong indeed!

ええ㰪㯜䴻勲Ⱉ№ˤ䱦㯋櫙㲙察⵾⵾№ˤᷕ㚱䤆⮞䀤㖶㖶№ˤ䨜Ⱉ慯䌱暋 䁢≇№ˤ㕤ỽ䌣ᷳ㤂⃰䌳№ˤ忯䌳㘿㗏ᾉ嬺妨№ˤ㕟㇒ℑ嵛暊ἁ幓№ˤᾃ ẘ▇㫶⽫㐏 №ˤ䳓ᷳḪ㛙䰱⡐⎴№ˤ䨢Ⱉ㫼㫟㴽漵挦№ˤ⣑揺⫼㖶䪇ẍ ⼘№ˤ㰪㯜㹪㰴㳩㕤㰞№ˤ忚⮞⼿↹嵛暊↮№炻⍣⮩䩳ᾉ⬰ẹ剠№ˤ㕟侭 ᶵ临寰ᶵ⅌№ˤ61

Bian He’s outcry over his wrongful treatment, compelling as it is, constitutes only one of the extreme human conditions that inspire strong emotional responses. Besides this extreme case of sorrow and despair, there is a musical tradition called “Chu ditty” 㤂⺽ that gives expression to a less startling, but more relatable, feeling of loss and displacement. This title is also known as the “Traveler’s Lament” 忲⫸⏇, supposedly made by a certain Longqiu Gao 漵᷀檀 who, after having left his home in Chu for three years, became overwhelmed with homesickness and broke into long and drawn-out laments.62 This information from the Qin cao is quoted by the Wen xuan commentator Li Shan 㛶┬ (630–689) in the second of the four poems attributed to Su Qin 喯䦎 (fl. 300–286 BCE). The authorship of the Li-Su poems is a contentious issue. This poem, in addition to the shared language of displacement and separation, is particularly telling in its presentation of a self-referential language about performance and the evocation of strong emotions through music. The great bird once embarked on a far journey, For a thousand li, it looked back, with much hesitation and lingering. The tartar horse, when he lost his team, His longing mind would often be wavering. Not to mention that pair of flying dragons, When they were about to part their wings. Fortunately we have a song accompanied by the strings. Sufficient to make known what is felt deep inside. Please perform for me the “Traveler’s Lament.” Twang-twang, how sorrowful! From the strings, a sharp, shrill sound arises. Sighing vehemently, still there is lingering sadness. Drawn-out songs match the fierceness and intensity. My innards, grief-stricken, are torn apart. Let us perform the shrill tune in the shang mode. To fathom your inability to return. Looking up and down, the heart inside is wounded. Tears, streaming down, cannot be wiped away. 61. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 312–13. 62. Wen xuan 29.1354.

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How I wish to be a bird, accompanying you, Escorting you, flying into the distance together with you! 湫洈ᶨ怈⇍炻⋫慴栏⽀⼲ˤ傉楔⣙℞佌炻⿅⽫ⷠὅὅˤỽ㱩暁梃漵炻佥侤 冐䔞᷾ˤ⸠㚱䳫㫴㚚炻⎗ẍ╣ᷕ㆟ˤ婳䁢忲⫸⏇炻㲈㲈ᶨỽずˤ䴚䪡⍚㶭 倚炻ㄟㄐ㚱检⑨ˤ攟㫴㬋㽨䁰炻ᷕ⽫ボẍ㐏ˤ㫚⯽㶭⓮㚚炻⾝⫸ᶵ傥㬠ˤ ᾃẘℏ ⽫炻㶂ᶳᶵ⎗㎖ˤ栀䁢暁湫洈炻復⫸ᾙ怈梃ˤ

The huanghu is a key image in this piece, appearing both at the beginning and the end. If, at the beginning the bird is only an evocative image or xing 冰, at the end it is turned into a metaphorical figure or bi 㭼. This imagistic transition signals a shift in register as well, as the former is often found in the higher register whereas the writing of the self into the poetry is likely of a lower register. As explained earlier in this paper, I read honghu for huanghu, or the “great bird.” Honghu often stands for a man of great ambition. The peasant rebellion leader Chen Sheng 昛⊅ (?–208 BCE) is famously quoted for comparing himself to a honghu while disparagingly calling others sparrows.63 A honghu, with its ambition and ability to cover the four borders, is a perfect symbol of an emperor. As a matter of fact, the founding emperor of the Han, Liu Bang, is said to have made a “honghu song,” which is a likely reason that honghu became a popular poetic image in the Han. The great bird soars high and far. On one beat, it rises to a thousand li. Its feathers and wings are fully developed. Traversing and reaching the four borders. Traversing and reaching the four borders. What shall one do about it? Even though I have arrows and ribbons, Why would I even apply them? 泣洈檀梃炻ᶨ冱⋫慴ˤ佥侖⶚⯙炻㨓䳽⚃㴟ˤ㨓䳽⚃㴟炻䔞⎗㞘ỽˤ晾㚱 䞘丛炻⯂⬱㇨㕥ˤ64

The story in which this song is embedded has to do with Liu Bang’s decision on whether to establish Lady Qi’s son as Crown Prince. Liu Ying ∱䙰, born to Empress Lü, was threatened by this possibility but was rescued by the timely arrival of the “Four Hoary Heads from Mount Shang” ⓮Ⱉ⚃䘻. This song was supposedly performed by Liu Bang after he had seen the revered recluses, who had turned down his own request for an audience, and hence decided to keep Liu Ying as Crown Prince, given Liu Ying’s moral power to call forth the men. It was meant to be a message to Lady Qi, who danced to the song, that he could no longer exert power over Liu Ying. Emperor Gaozu intended to renounce the Crown Prince and install Lady Qi’s son, the Prince of Zhao, Ruyi. In the twelfth year of Han [195 BCE], Emperor Gaozu returned 63. Shi ji 48.1949. 64. Ibid., 55.2047.

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from his suppression of Yingbu’s rebellion. His illness worsened and he was even more eager to renounce the Crown Prince. There was an occasion for a banquet, and wine was set out. When Crown Prince Liu Ying attended, he was followed by four men who were all in their eighties. Their beards and eyebrows were all white as snow. Their attire was impressive. After Liu Ying made his greetings, they all departed, following the Crown Prince. Seeing them off, Emperor Gaozu summoned Lady Qi and, pointing in their direction, said: “Even if I would like to reinstall [Liu Ying], he has already formed his own wings with the assistance of these four men, and it would be difficult to move.” Lady Qi wept. Emperor Gaozu then said: “Perform a Chu dance for me. I will sing a Chu song for you.” ᶲ㫚⺊⣒⫸炻䩳㇂⣓Ṣ⫸嵁䌳⤪シˤ㻊⋩Ḵ⸜ᶲ⽆䟜ⶫ㬠炻䕦䙲䓂炻グ㫚 㖻⣒⫸ˤ⍲⭜伖惺炻⣒⫸ἵ炻⚃Ṣ侭⽆⣒⫸炻⸜䘮ℓ⋩㚱检炻枰䚱䘻䘥炻 堋ⅈ䓂῱ˤ䁢⢥⶚䔊炻嵐⍣炻ᶲ䚖復ᷳ炻⎔㇂⣓Ṣ㊯夾㚘烉ㆹ㫚㖻ᷳ炻⚃ Ṣ䁢ᷳ庼炻佥侤⶚ㆸ炻暋≽䞋ˤ㇂⣓Ṣ㲋㴽ˤᶲ㚘烉䁢ㆹ㤂准炻⏦䁢劍 㤂㫴ˤ65

Guo Maoqian lists this song as a “Chu song” 㤂㫴. Its wistful tone and the image of honghu here call to mind Princess Xijun’s song, which also ends with a wish to turn into a bird. It seems that the Chu music lends itself well to expressions of laments and other sorrowful feelings, so much so that laments, when sung in the Chu tune or style, would be most compelling. As I have mentioned earlier, Wang Zhaojun as a composite figure gradually accrued around her biographical details such as her hometown. The Qin cao passage calls her a woman from a good family in Qi.66 Later on, Wang Zhaojun was said to have come from Chu, as the third-century commentator to Han shu specifically points out that Zhaojun came from Zigui, which is exactly where Qu Yuan’s hometown was supposed to be.67 Chu, as a place, becomes a depository of sad stories. The Chu language and tone become the most authentic and effective voice for strong emotions told through the many characters in those stories. When Tang Huixiu 㸗ㄏẹ of the Southern Qi wrote his lyrics for a song called “Consort Ming of Chu” 㤂㖶⤫㚚, it is hard to tell exactly which consort he is referring to here. Since Consort Ming would refer to Wang Zhaojun, her Chu origin must have been assumed around the fifth century due to a conflation of her plaintive voice and the “Chu Consort’s Lament.” Jeweled terrace, variegated railings; Cassia sleeping chamber, carved rafters. Golden door frame shines with luster; Jade lattice imbued with blossoms. Aromatic scent secretly permeates; Pearls in multicolor are precious and profuse 65. Ibid. 66. When one compares Wang Zhengjun’s Han shu biography with the Qin cao passage, one sees traces of similarity. This is explained elsewhere. 67. Han shu 19.665.

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Fine gauze with an autumn kingfisher; Patterned silk is light in springtime. Simurgh and cranes are yoked to a carriage For nymphs and immortals to come and go. They conceal charm, softly glancing; With smiles, they greet each other. Thoroughwort branches are twined. Farewell crowds are gathered. Once upon a time, she did glorious deeds for her lord. 䑲冢⼑㤡炻㟪⮊晽䒵ˤ慹敐㳩侨炻䌱䇾⏓劙ˤ楁剔⸥喡炻䎈⼑䍵㥖ˤ㔯伭 䥳侈炻䲰䵢㗍庽ˤ槪楽淆浜炻⼨Ἦẁ曰ˤ⏓⦧䵧夾炻⽖䪹䚠彶ˤ䳸嗕㝅炻 復䚖ㆸ炻䔞⸜䁢⏃㥖ˤ68

An imagined departing scene for Zhaojun, Tang’s piece reflects a literary man’s love of ornate words over emotional authenticity, and it may be the harbinger of a shift that is both artistic and political. The tetrasyllabic form seems to gradually have yielded to the sao style and the pentasyllabic in making songs that are meant to effectively evoke strong emotions. There is a need for the extension and drawing out of the syllables. Otherwise, how can feelings be completely expressed, as Zhong Rong asked rhetorically?69 Strong emotions as embodied by the Han personages and their lamentable fates arouse sympathy on the one hand; on the other hand, they necessitate the blame of the other. This other often takes form in things and peoples that are foreign, as well as a stereotyped “benighted emperor,” this latter more a given symbol than an actual entity. While eulogies of the emperor of any given time have to be written, Shi Chong’s appropriation of the title “Enlightened Lord” 㖶⏃ in singing the praises of a woman discarded by Emperor Yuan would certainly have elicited some exclamations of approval to the knowing ear. The following is an example of the many “Mingjun ci” found in the Jin court music that extol the “enlightened emperor” and his zhengde 㬋⽟ (upright virtue).70 Our enlightened emperor founded a magnificent enterprise; His illustrious virtue is in Establishing Prime. Inheriting a mandate, he reigns over the four borders; A sagacious ruler, he responded to the numinous realm. Five thearchs succeeded the three emperors; The three emperors were the destiny of their age. Their sagacious virtue responded to the time and turn of events. Heaven and earth cannot be turned against. Looking up! Ah, how high!

68. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 1245. 69. See Shi pin ji zhu 53. 70. Yuefu shiji 52–55:752–805.

Ping Wang

106 It is like heaven and cannot be reached via stairs. He will return to the civilized age of “knot-tying”; In quietude, with his hands folded, all under heaven is in equilibrium.

㖶⏃∝㳒㤕炻䚃⽟⛐⺢⃫ˤ⍿␥⏃⚃㴟炻俾䘯ㅱ曰ḦˤḼⷅ两ᶱ䘯炻ᶱ䘯 ᶾ㇨㬠ˤ俾⽟ㅱ㛇忳炻⣑⛘ᶵ傥忽ˤẘᷳ⻴⶚檀炻䋞⣑ᶵ⎗昶ˤ⮯⽑䳸丑 ⊾炻朄㊙⣑ᶳ滲ˤ71

In comparison to Shi Chong’s piece for Wang Zhaojun, the above piece—its words as well as the “elegant” music that would have accompanied it—must have appeared dull. Foreigners and barbarians from the north and northwest, including their lifestyle, figure prominently in songs of passion. Such a tradition, especially effective in expressing feelings of alienation and displacement, culminates in the poetry of Cai Yan 哉䏘 (178–239).72 Daughter of the great Eastern Han scholar Cai Yong, the compiler of the Qin cao, Cai Yan was abducted and ended up among the Southern Xiongnu. She married a Xiongnu leader and bore him two sons. These made her story reminiscent of that of Wang Zhaojun. She is credited with three poems narrating her experience. On the authorship question, scholarship in Chinese, Japanese, and English all seems to agree on one point: “Only a person who had actually suffered as she did could possibly have written it so powerfully.”73 Of the above poems analyzed, the Chu songs and the pentasyllabic poems are more effective in their affective power than the tetrasyllabic piece. A thorough discussion of the formal development of lyrical poetry will need to be dealt with on another occasion. It is my conjecture that the pentasyllabic entered into the Western Han court through music. When the court musician Li Yannian composed a pentasyllabic song in praise of his sister’s beauty, he aim was to entertain the emperor. When a court historian chose to write a piece in the pentasyllabic form, which would have been unusual, the didacticism was too obvious to miss. The virtue of the three thearchs dwindled; In the late times of their reign, they applied corporal punishment. After the Magistrate of Taicang was indicted, He was arrested in Chang’an. He regretted that he had no son. In time of urgency, he alone bore the anxiety. His daughter was hurt by her father’s words. Since a condemned person could not live, The edict from the emperor arrived at the front gate. Thinking about the ancients, he sang “Rooster’s Crow,” His heart was pained, his innards torn. “Morning wind” spreads a passionate tone.

71. Yuefu shiji 54.782. 72. See Frankel, “Cai Yan and the Poems Attributed to Her,” 133–56. 73. Ibid., 147.

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Sagacious Emperor Wen of the Han, Deep in his heart, was moved by this ultimate feeling. Even a hundred boys, how useless, Do not match one Tiying. ᶱ䌳⽟⻴唬炻ょ⼴䓐倱↹ˤ⣒ᾱẌ㚱伒炻⯙忖攟⬱❶ˤ冒【幓䃉⫸炻⚘ ⿍䌐䄊䄊ˤ⮷⤛䖃䇞妨炻㬣侭ᶵ⎗䓇ˤᶲ㚠娋敽ᶳ炻⿅⎌㫴暆沜ˤㄪ⽫ 㐏㉀塪炻㘐桐㎂㽨倚ˤ俾㻊⬅㔯ⷅ炻ィ䃞デ军ねˤ䘦䓟ỽㄺㄺ炻ᶵ⤪ᶨ 䶡䶰ˤ74

This piece is usually attributed to Ban Gu and regarded as the first pentasyllabic poem. The background for this song is a story set in the Western Han during the rule of Emperor Wen. A certain Magistrate of Taicang was indicted and about to be sentenced to death. Having no sons, he lamented his loneliness in such an extreme condition. Upon hearing this, Tiying, his youngest daughter, sent a memorial to the emperor. Her words moved the emperor, who decided not only to spare her father, but also to get rid of corporal punishment altogether.75 This story is also found in the Biographies of Exemplary Women, under “Those Who Are Able in Reasoning and Communicating.” Given the feminist whiff, one is tempted to see the sister Ban Zhao as the maker of the piece. After all, she played a big role in helping her brother write history. If the Han shu compiler chose to give a voice of “plaint” to Princess Xijun as well as to his/her own ancestor, Lady Ban, he or she could have also done so for Tiying. The pattern strongly suggests the female historian’s signature. In each case, an appropriate form is applied: Xijun is made to sing in the Chu style; Lady Ban vents her frustration and claims her loyalty in fu; Tiying uses the contemporary pentasyllabic song meter. Invariably, the historian’s “subtle and indirect remonstration” shines through an authentic-sounding first person voice, which was carefully assigned and designed. This chapter starts out with a sao style song by a displaced Chu woman and ends with a shi poem by a disowned daughter who supposedly ended up not only saving her father, but also convincing the emperor to abolish corporal punishment. It is highly unlikely that the women characters were actual authors of the pieces. The Han historians utilized the gendered voice to exemplify an effective plea regarding foreign and domestic policies respectively. The classical lyrical tradition was deeply rooted in the southern laments whose formal and emotive features are distinctively gendered and regionally conditioned. These traits of “markedness” transformed into the universal and “unmarked” form of the pentasyllabic, whose rags to riches story merits a separate study.

74. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 170; Wen xuan 36.1648 (cited in commentary). 75. Shi ji 105.2795.

5 Farther South Jiang Yan in Darkest Fujian Paul W. Kroll

By the mid-fifth century, nearly a hundred and fifty years had passed since the disintegration of the Western Jin dynasty and the consequent vast removal southward of the aristocracy and the educated elite. Several generations had been born and raised in the South, with Jiankang ⺢⹟ firmly established as a capital city with by now its own imperial history. As newly founded “Chinese” traditions combining northern and southern sensibilities had taken root in the Jiangnan 㰇⋿ area and westward through the middle Yangtze region, the earlier dream of a military reconquest of the North had faded. Even though many places in Jiangnan had been designated or renamed in memory of northern locales with the prefix “South” (nan ⋿),1 by the time of the (Liu) Song dynasty there remained scant if any sense of personal displacement. These individuals, like their parents and grandparents, had never been north and, though they might be aware of clan or family histories with certain northern places, they themselves were now Jiangnan natives. This was their homeland in every way that mattered in their lives. To them, as we shall see, it was the farther south—the lands beyond lakes Poyang 惙春 and Dongting 㳆⹕—that represented the undesirable and even fearsome edge of civilization. It is in literature, especially poetry, that we find the most carefully constructed and vividly portrayed testaments of this view. Rather than speak in generalities, let us consider a particular instance. We focus here on Jiang Yan 㰇㶡 (444–505), the most important poet active during the final dozen years of the Song dynasty and first few years of the succeeding Qi dynasty. Some details of his life are necessary.2 Unlike many literary figures, Jiang Yan is not noted as a youthful prodigy. But he hailed from a minor branch of a once important clan and certainly enjoyed the benefits of a classical education. His father died when he was twelve years old and his adolescence was passed 1. 2.

Cf. the similar naming of “New World” places as, e.g., New Amsterdam, New Orleans, Nova Scotia, etc. The most sustained work done on the events and details of Jiang’s life is that of Cao Daoheng 㚡忻堉, spread across various articles and brief notes. The bulk of these are included in reprinted form among the notices in Cao Daoheng and Shen Yucheng, Zhonggu wenxue shiliao congkao; some others are in Cao’s Zhonggu wenxueshi lunwen ji and Zhonggu wenxueshi lunwen ji xubian; also his more extended study in Zhongguo lidai zhuming wenxuejia pingzhuan, vol. 1, 503–25. Also useful is Yu Shaochu, Jiang Yan nianpu. Some corrections to both Cao’s and Yu’s work and reasoned considerations of alternatives are in Ding Fulin’s ᶩ䤷㜿 recent and valuable Jiang Yan nianpu.

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in straitened circumstances. The family’s lingering prestige—as well as Jiang’s own scholarly ability—may have contributed to his selection seven years later (464) as a tutor for one of the Song imperial princes. The prince in question, then eight years old, was the eleventh son of the reigning emperor, so this was not an influential appointment. However, it gradually brought Jiang Yan to the attention of other members of the ruling Liu ∱ family. The course of his career from 464 to the early 480s is described by Jiang himself in the preface he wrote for the first collection of his works,3 which later served as the basis for his official biographies in the Liang shu 㠩㚠 and Nan shi ⋿⎚.4 There we see that two personal associations were of critical importance for Jiang Yan. The first was with Liu Jingsu ∱㘗䳈, the eldest grandson of Song Wendi ⬳㔯ⷅ (r. 424–454). Although not in the direct line of imperial succession, Liu Jingsu had a princely establishment of some note and a particular interest in literature. Jiang Yan entered Liu Jingsu’s service in late 466, when the latter was fourteen and Jiang twenty-two. Jiang was seconded occasionally to other princes, but Liu Jingsu remained his chief patron for the next eight years.5 The two young men developed a close relationship and, we are told, were “on the most familiar of terms,” until the death of Song Mingdi ⬳㖶ⷅ in summer 472 awakened Liu Jingsu’s aspirations for the throne. But as Jiang Yan was not a full-throated supporter of Liu Jingsu’s imperial ambitions, a growing coolness set in; this was not eased by Jiang’s composition in 474 of a set of fifteen monitory poems that expressed by means of subtle indirection his doubts about the path Liu Jingsu was pursuing.6 An incident shortly afterward brought their estrangement into the open. Among Jiang Yan’s appointed positions was one (largely nominal) as sub-prefect of Donghai 㜙㴟. When the prefect took mourning leave on account of the death of a parent, Jiang  Yan expected to assume pro tempore authority; but Liu Jingsu prevented this, appointing someone else to preside in Donghai. When Jiang protested too vociferously, the breach between the two men opened even further, to the point that Liu Jingsu had had enough of his former companion. The dispute was placed before the board of personnel which predictably decided in Liu Jingsu’s favor. There would be no mending of fences, and Liu Jingsu had Jiang sent southward, to serve as magistrate of Wuxing ⏛冰 district in Jian’an ⺢⬱ Commandery, far off in what is today northern Fujian.7 Jiang lived there (though he might

3. 4. 5.

6.

7.

For a translation of this preface, see Kroll, “On Political and Personal Fate: Three Selections from Jiang Yan’s Prose and Verse,” in Early Medieval China: A Sourcebook, ed. W. Swartz et al., 392–95. Liang shu 14.247–51; Nan shi 59.1447–51. Even effecting Jiang Yan’s release from a brief imprisonment in autumn 467, after Jiang had been implicated in a crime involving the magistrate of Guangling ⺋昝. The plea that Jiang Yan wrote from prison is a model of self-justification and protest, wrapped in historical allusions, and is recorded in his official biographies. Jiang Yan modeled these poems on Ruan Ji’s 旖䯵 (210–263) famously obscure group of “Yong huai shi” 娈㆟娑. For Jiang’s poems, see Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.121–27; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 21–30; Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 1581–83. Often referred to as “Jian’an Wuxing,” to distinguish it from the Wuxing located just south of Lake Tai ⣒㷾 in northern Zhejiang.

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have preferred the less positive verb “survived”) from autumn 474 till early 477. It is the poems he wrote during this rustication that will occupy us below. But let us finish our précis of his life. Although Jiang Yan felt himself cast into the outer darkness, and was no longer able to participate in the important events at court (which would presently lead to the demise of the Song), his years in Jian’an Wuxing allowed him to avoid the deadly strife that carried off many of his contemporaries, including in 476 Liu Jingsu. When Jiang returned north in 477 he at first wished to steer clear of the political turmoil and indeed wrote a “Discourse of wuwei” (Wuwei lun 䃉䁢婾) to this effect.8 But he soon was convinced to re-enter court life by Xiao Daocheng 唕忻ㆸ, the second key figure in his career. Xiao Daocheng had been for some years one of the most successful political and military powers at court. In the summer of 474, not long before Jiang Yan’s break with Liu Jingsu and removal to Fujian, Xiao Daocheng had summoned Jiang to compose on behalf of the court a formal response to the claims of Liu Xiufan ∱ᾖ劫, a prince who had openly rebelled. This good service was remembered by Xiao Daocheng when he took de facto control of the court in 477, and he called Jiang Yan to his side. Xiao proceeded to orchestrate the end of the Song dynasty, culminating with the abdication in 479 of the final Song ruler (no more than a puppet) to himself as founding emperor of the Qi dynasty. Jiang Yan’s own star continually rose during this period. He was the author of most of the official documents surrounding Xiao Daocheng’s ascension to emperor and thereafter remained a trusted Qi official, gathering to himself a succession of positions throughout the brief thirty-one-year tenure of the dynasty, though he never exercised major political power. He lived into, and continued to be honored by, the Liang dynasty which replaced the Qi in 502. When he died, in 505, he was granted the posthumous title “Exemplary Count” (Xianbo ㅚỗ). Of Jiang Yan’s extant poetry—some twenty-seven fu and more than 130 shi—the majority was written before 477 when he was drawn into Xiao Daocheng’s orbit.9 Although he was a poet of some repute by the early 470s, the verse he wrote during his time in Fujian, from fall 474 to spring 477, is in a deeper and more personal, sometimes ironic, tone. This begins even before he departs for the South. We have a farewell missive that Jiang Yan wrote to Liu Jingsu, just prior to his leave-taking.10 This is a fascinating composition. In addition to a goodly—indeed exaggerated—amount of self-accusation (e.g., “My trials were brought on by myself, not sent down by Heaven” ⬥䓙⶙ἄ炻⋒旵冒⣑), coupled with extreme For a discussion and translation of this piece, see Kroll, “Huilin on Black and White, Jiang Yan on wuwei: Two Buddhist Dialogues from the Liu-Song Dynasty.” Jiang’s views are voiced by a Master Wuwei 䃉䁢⃰䓇, responding to the blandishments of a noble lord who wishes him to take office. 9. The bulk of his writing after that date exists in the form of various official documents, though there are several poems that can be dated to the opening years of the Qi. The famous anecdote regarding the reason for the decline in Jiang Yan’s verse writing during his later years (as recorded in Zhong Rong’s 挦ⵠ Shi pin 娑⑩), is surely apocryphal. See my remarks about this in the articles cited in Notes 3 and 8 above. 10. “Bei chu wei Wuxing ling, cijian yi Jianping wang” 塓溄䁢⏛冰Ẍ录䇳娋⺢⸛䌳,” Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 9.333–34; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 250–53.

8.

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protestations of loyalty, there is the occasional camouflaged dig at the patron who has put him in this position. An example is when Jiang Yan says, “But I, a petty person, stupidly fell out of step, as though a demon or a water-imp” 侴⮷Ṣ䊤䊥炻䁢櫤䁢囖. At first glance this seems remorseful and self-critical, and one construes the final four words, quoted from Shijing ode 199, as referring to the speaker himself. But one might also remember that that ode was traditionally read as an indictment of a former friend who has turned against the poet, and that it is the betrayer who is described as acting the demon or water-imp. We may therefore reconstrue the last four words of Jiang Yan’s text to refer to Liu Jingsu: “But I, a  petty person, stupidly fell out of step, on account of a demon, a water-imp.” However, Jiang Yan is superficially circumspect, even if he is so elaborate in his apologia that one is hard put not to suspect at least a hint of irony. For our purposes here the most notable turns of phrase in this document are those in which Jiang Yan anticipates what awaits him in the uncivilized South. He says, for instance, “I will carve out a mountain’s struts to make my house, and ever after be the neighbor of sea-turtles and alligators” 搧Ⱉ㤡䁢⭌炻㯠冯溧溱䁢惘. The first clause draws directly from a line in Zhuang Ji’s 匲⽴ (fl. ca. 156 BC) poem “Ai shi ming” ⑨㗪␥ (Lamenting my lot in this age) in Chu ci: “I shall carve out the mountain’s struts in making a house” 搧Ⱉ㤡侴䁢⭌№.11 The line will re-echo in two of Jiang Yan’s poems below. The second line’s sea-turtles and alligators will also recur. Near the end of the letter, after more praise of Liu Jingsu, he says, “I then fell into confusion and so have cast myself into the farthest limits of the east” ㆹ徢㠩㖴炻冒㈽㜙㤝 (by “east” he is referring to the eastern side of the Long River when looking downstream, that is to say, the south). He is going, in other words, to the southern equivalent of Ultima Thule. Pause and consider what this relegation to Fujian would mean to someone of Jiang Yan’s background. The district of Wuxing was near present-day Pucheng 㴎❶, attached to the commandery of Jian’an ⺢⬱ (the seat of which was about thirty-five miles south of Wuxing, near present-day Jian’ou ⺢䒴), and was the merest outpost of empire in the back of beyond. Although it had been brought under the control of Wu in the third century and the dynasties that followed, the “Chinese” culture of the lands to the north had still made scant purchase there. The local language was one of the Min dialects, and there is no record of any scholarly figure of note preceding Jiang Yan who had resided there or written about it. The terrain, like that of most of Fujian, was mountainous, and the climate subtropical. It was not a place to beckon a person like Jiang Yan, a self-conscious representative of the educated elite. Just the opposite, it would have seemed to him—with allowances for the different climate—as forsaken and forbidding as Tomis on the western shore of the Black Sea did to the exiled Ovid. At least Jiang Yan retained the status of a government official and so was not (like Ovid) simply on his own. However, being a district magistrate in such a place was about as severe a demotion as one could suffer and yet retain some standing as an 11. Chu ci buzhu 14.264. We shall see that various poems from Chu ci were often on his mind when writing poetry in Fujian.

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official. It was a far cry from what Jiang Yan had become used to during the previous dozen years of his adult life. And the posting to Wuxing was open-ended, with no set term. It was dreadful to conceive that one might never return from the place. In such psychological circumstances, there was every reason to delay one’s arrival, and indeed Jiang Yan took several months to get there. We can imagine that he was hoping daily to be reprieved and either recalled to Yangzhou or rerouted to a less appalling destination. But it would, in the event, be two and a half years before that happened. This was in political terms more akin to what we should term official relegation than to the condition we call exile, though to Jiang Yan it was clearly nothing less than a kind of cultural exile. Certain of Jiang Yan’s poems, in both shi and fu forms, can reliably be pegged to his Fujian years, usually because of explicit statements in the poems. A few others may be tentatively assigned to that period, on the basis of phrasing that is closely similar, sometimes almost identical.12 In the former category are the shi-poems “Chiting zhu” 崌ṕ㷂 (Chiting Isle), “Du Quanqiao chu zhushan zhi ding” 㷉㱱ⵈ↢媠Ⱉᷳ枪 (Crossing Quanqiao and emerging onto the summit above several mountains), “Qianyang ting” 怟春ṕ (Qianyang Pavilion), “You Huangnie shan” 忲湫䲝Ⱉ (Roaming to Mount Huangnie), the set of five “Za sanyan” 暄ᶱ妨, the fifth of the five “Shanzhong Chu ci” Ⱉᷕ㤂录 (Chu lyrics in the mountains), and a set of fifteen poems on the distinctive flora of the region, “Caomu song” 勱㛐枴. Also included here are most likely eight of Jiang Yan’s fu: “Dai zui Jiangnan si beigui fu” ⼭伒㰇⋿⿅⊿㬠岎 (Fu on abiding chastisement south of the river and longing to return North), “Qing tai fu” 曺剼岎 (Green moss), “Sishi fu” ⚃㗪岎 (The four seasons), “Chihong fu” 崌嘡岎 (The red nimbus), “Shuishang shennü fu” 㯜ᶲ䤆⤛岎 (The goddess by the river), “Shijie fu” 䞛⇤岎 (The sea anemone), “Kongqing fu” 䨢曺岎 (Malachite), and “Feicui fu” 侉侈岎 (The kingfisher). In the second category, that of probable compositions from this time, we may place “Qu guxiang fu” ⍣㓭悱岎 (Departing from my homeplace), the famous “Hen fu” 【岎 (Regret), possibly “Changfu zibei fu” Έ⨎冒ず岎 (An artiste’s self-commiseration) and “Qi fu” 㲋岎 (Tears), plus the shi “Cai shishang changpu” ㍉䞛ᶲ卾呚 (Picking sweetflag among the rocks), the ten-poem set “Dao shiren” つ⭌Ṣ (Mourning my wife), and perhaps some of the remaining four “Shanzhong Chu ci.” Obviously we cannot examine here all of these works. But we may survey a handful that are particularly revealing of Jiang Yan’s reaction to the deep South.

12. Nicholas Morrow Williams has recently expressed healthy skepticism regarding the traditional assignment of most of Jiang Yan’s melancholy or complaint poems to his years in Wuxing Jian’an. He is right to emphasize the need to resist the attraction of “simplistic psychological readings” evident in much Chinese scholarship on Jiang Yan. See Williams, “Self-Portrait as Sea Anemone, and Other Impersonations of Jiang Yan,” 139, 140–41. One also need not go to the other extreme of denying the probability of composition close in time when two or more works share some nearly verbatim phrasing or peculiar progressions of imagery. Our own experience verifies that writers (including scholars) often favor particular stylistic quirks at certain times, changing them when they begin to seem repetitive or tiresome. Most recently, see also Nicholas Morrow Williams, Imitations of the Self: Jiang Yan and Chinese Poetics.

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The first of these must be his “Fu on Abiding Chastisement South of the River and Longing to Return North.”13 We note at the outset that for Jiang Yan here “South of the River” ( Jiangnan) does not refer to the familiar Yangzhou area but rather the farther south where he finds himself enduring punishment, and that the “North” to which he longs to return is not the traditional homeland of the Central Plain but rather the region normally called Jiangnan. The directional misplacements are indicative of Jiang Yan’s enforced cultural disorientation. The fu begins with two stanzas speaking of the poet’s relationship with his patron. Here, perhaps even more than in his farewell letter, one can say that at least some of the exaggerated praise is purposely extreme. As we shall see, the edginess of his comments regarding his removal to Min becomes even sharper in some of the poems written there later. I with just the meager gifts of a petty person Tendered all my strength in deference to a noble man.14 Endowed with the powerful faculties of the starry river, 4

He embodies the finest look of sun and moon.15 Cutting through the cloudy ethers, sharply resounding, He shoulders the blue sky whilst beating his wings.16 His kindness laid on me a charge, never changing;17

8

His favor enriched my person, without any limit.

ġ

Ẳ⮷Ṣᷳ唬Ặ炻⣱⏃⫸侴廠≃ˤ㍍㱛㻊ᷳ晬ㇵ炻㓔㖍㚰ᷳ劙刚ˤ䳽暚 㯋侴⍚枧炻屈曺⣑侴㑓侤ˤ⽟塓␥侴ᶵ㷅炻】㼌幓侴䃉㤝ˤ But by what rule or compass do I hold responsibility?18 For truly, dull-witted and uncouth, I am not worthy. Ashamed as if by the gemstone standard of splendid gold,

12

I am humbled as if by the lucent luster of choicest cinnabar.19

13. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 1.31–35; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 3.197–201. Note that dai ⼭ here does not have its most usual meaning of “waiting for”—the chastisement of relegation to the South has already been experienced. In this context the word means “abide” in the sense of enduring or continuing in a particular condition or place. 14. Jiang Yan juxtaposes himself as a “petty person” with Liu Jingsu, the “noble man” or junzi. We saw this already in his farewell letter, discussed above. 15. Liu Jingsu is pictured metaphorically as the Milky Way, or the sun and moon, Heaven’s dominant objects. 16. Recalling the peng 洔 bird of Zhuangzi’s opening passage, described as “after shouldering the blue sky on his back, and nothing to impede or impair him, he now is about to set off toward the South” 側屈曺⣑侴卓ᷳ ⣕敤侭侴⼴ᷫṲ⮯⚾⋿. Zhuangzi jishi, 1.7. 17. Cf. from Shijing ode 80: “That man among them/ Rests in his charge, never changing” ⼤℞ᷳ⫸炻况␥ ᶵ㷅. The Mao interpretation of this poem, standard in Jiang Yan’s day, sees the poem as praise for a worthy official, in contrast with others in his state. It would not be amiss or surprising for Jiang Yan to intend this implication as an undertone. 18. That is, by what means or measure have I qualified for honors given? Cf. from “Li sao” 暊槟: “Indeed the artful contrivers of this vulgar time—/ Turn their backs to square and compass, altering the lines” ⚢㗪὿ᷳ ⶍⶏ№炻―夷䞑侴㓡拗. Chu ci buzhu 1.15. 19. The elaborate metaphors of incomparable virtue refer of course to Liu Jingsu.

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Caught in Heaven’s net, now I have come to this pass; In the night’s divisions it is useless that anyone repine for me. ġ

ỽ夷䞑ᷳ⬰ả炻ᾉヂ旳侴ᶵ倾ˤハ慹䡏ᷳ䏛䐗炻㄂ᷡ暀ᷳ䄏㚄ˤ

ġ

㦲⣑䵚侴冒伡炻⼺⣄↮侴婘⺼ˤ

In the next stanza the poet’s attention turns toward his fault and punishment. (His mention of “error” cannot help but remind one of the reason for Ovid’s banishment, “carmen et error.”) He sees his new posting hopefully as a place to begin over. And he takes leave of the court and cities of the “North.” Encountering the Great Way’s majestic fullness, 16

Even the least plant need not be trod upon.20 For error, I have proceeded as told to this far region, Where, from out of misfortune’s fall, I might start anew. Leaving the halls and terraces of the Three Vicinages,21

20

I bid farewell to the walls and markets of the Five Metropolises.22

ġ

怕⣏忻ᷳ昮䚃炻晾勱㛐侴⊧Ⰽˤ婌扄忈㕤怈⚳炻↢栃㱃ᷳ栀⥳ˤ

ġ

⍣ᶱ庼ᷳ冢㭧炻录Ḽ悥ᷳ❶ⶪˤ

Hereafter his attention is turned fully South. I present the remaining sixty-eight lines of the poem without interruption. Note, however, the prominent place of songs from Chu ci in conditioning his response to the scene and description of it. These resonances are rarely from the “Li sao” 暊槟 or “Jiu ge” ḅ㫴 sections of the text but from a wide spread of the other sections. Verily, on to the hilly wastes of a land south of the Jiang;23 A myriad miles remote, everywhere overgrown with weeds; Beset with giant foxes, in the territory of Bijing, 24

As with deadly bamboo-snakes in the lands of Cangwu.24

20. Almost the identical phrasing is used at one point in Jiang Yan’s farewell letter to Liu Jingsu after being demoted: “Looking up I encounter the Great Way’s course of action, which never treads on the least plant” ẘ怕⣏忻ᷳ埴炻勱㛐⊧嶸. “Bei chu wei Wuxing ling, cijian yi Jianping wang” 塓溄䁢⏛冰Ẍ炻录䇳娋 ⺢⸛䌳. See Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 9.333; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 250. 21. The area comprising the capital district Ṕ⃮ of Chang’an 攟⬱, plus Fufeng ㈞桐 and Fengxiang 楖佼. Here, as in the succeeding line, Jiang Yan is using these northern places to stand for the capital region and cities of Jiangnan. 22. The important cities designated as the “Five Metropolises” in Han times were Luoyang 㳃春, Handan 恗惚, Linzi 冐㵬, Yuan ⭃, and Chengdu ㆸ悥. But in the Three Kingdoms period they were Chang’an, Qiao 嬁, Xuchang 姙㖴, Ye 惜, and Luoyang. Jiang Yan is using the term as a general reference to the populous cities of Jiangnan. 23. As noted, the “land south of the Jiang” here is not, as the term usually denotes, the downstream Wu area of the Jiang, but rather the far south in Fujian where Jiang Yan now is. 24. Recalling the passage in the “Zhao hun” ㊃櫪 poem of Chu ci that describes these dangers that await one in the South: “Pit vipers prosper and spread, huge foxes run a thousand li—;/ Nine-headed deadly bamboosnakes slither swiftly here and there,/ Devouring men to sate their whims—” 圖噯呩呩⮩䉸⋫慴ṃ炻晬

Paul W. Kroll

116 It was greening springtime when all parted and went away, And just in mid-winter I arrived here in due course,25 Where the reeds and rushes are cold to my horses,26 28

Where the mists and the dew impair the farmer.

ġ

ょ㰇⋿№᷀⡇炻态叔慴№攟唒ˤⷞ⮩䉸№㭼㘗炻忋晬嘢№呤㡏ˤ

ġ

䔞曺㗍侴暊㔋炻㕡ẚ䥳侴忪⼪ˤ⭺呡吕㕤ἁ楔炻 曏曚㕤彚⣓ˤ I have traversed peaks of gold and halcyon-blue tors, Forded osmanthus-lined rivers of cyan-blue billows. The clouds were clear and cooling, often in threads,

32

And the winds blew bleakly, never desisting. The wailing of gibbons echoes far in the light of day, And the cries of black monkeys are cold under the moon. Delving into wreathing windings of haze and bright vapors,

36

I journeyed into a sheer steepness of forest and stone.27

ġ

嶐慹Ⲙ冯侈⵺炻㴱㟪㯜㕤䡏㷵ˤ暚㶭㲈侴⣂䵺炻桐唕㡅侴䃉䪗ˤ

ġ

䋧ᷳ⏇№㖍⃱徍炻䉾ᷳ┤№㚰刚⭺ˤ䨞䄁曆ᷳ丂丆炻℟㜿䞛ᷳ⵹ⰷˤ And here: Overlooking the rainbow’s arc, I have reared a house, Carved out the mountain’s struts to fashion its pillars.28 Upward, gleaming aglitter, I can look out on the moon,

40

25.

26. 27.

28.

But downward, drenched in deluge, I despair at the rains.

嘢ḅ椾⼨Ἦ⃝⾥炻⏆Ṣẍ䙲℞⽫ṃ (see Chu ci buzhu 9.199). The reference to Bijing (direct sunlight) is to a distant place, established under the Han in Annam, where it was said that the sun shone from directly overhead so that light and shadow fell directly below one; this is possibly identified with Beiying ⊿⼙. Cangwu is the place in southern China where the legendary sage-king Shun 凄 is said to have been buried. Some identify it with the Cangwu near present-day Wuzhou 㡏ⶆ in eastern Guangxi. Here Jiang Yan makes use of a set of images from the “Ai Ying” ⑨悊 poem in the “Jiu zhang” ḅ䪈 section of Chu ci, the subject of which was the exodus of the Chu people from their capital at Ying during the early third century BCE: “August Heaven’s decrees are not untainted—;/ Why do the hundred surnames suffer for its wrongs?// The people parted and went away, giving up each other,/ And just in mid-springtime removed to the east.// Leaving my homeplace, I went on into the distance—,/ Tracing the Jiang and the Xia, adrift in exile” 䘯⣑ᷳᶵ䲼␥№炻ỽ䘦⥻ᷳ暯ギˤ㮹暊㔋侴䚠⣙炻㕡ẚ㗍侴㜙怟ˤ⍣㓭悱侴⯙怈№炻 思㰇⢷ẍ㳩ṉ. (See Chu ci buzhu 4.132. Jiang Yan personalizes the images.) Cf. from Shijing ode 129: “The reeds and rushes turn greyish-green,/ And white dew becomes hoarfrost” 呡吕呤呤炻䘥曚䁢曄. This line recalls a couplet from Liu Xiang’s ∱⎹ (77–6 BCE) “You ku” ㄪ劎 (Anguish of sorrow) poem in the “Jiu tan” ḅ㫶 section of Chu ci: “Ascending the sheer steepness, long I stood tiptoe—,/ Gazing toward southern Ying, just to catch a glimpse” 䘣⵹ⰷẍ攟ẩ№炻㛃⋿悊侴斂ᷳ. Chu ci buzhu 16.299. As with his other echoes from Chu ci, the phrasing here supports Jiang Yan’s homeward longings for his equivalent of the old Chu capital, Ying. As noted above, it is clear that Jiang Yan was thinking of this image from “Ai shi ming” even before he arrived in Wuxing, for he used it also in his farewell letter to Liu Jingsu, pairing it at that time with images he would later use in lines 44 and 79–80 in the present poem.

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117

Overflowing waters rush into the distant valleys, As trees and rocks are flooded on submerged isles. Hawk and falcon are dismayed and keep to their nests;29 44

Even alligator and sea-turtle stay frightened in their holes.

ġ

㕤㗗炻冐嘡团ẍ䭱⭌炻搧Ⱉ㤡ẍ䁢㞙ˤᶲ㙈㙈ẍ冐㚰炻ᶳ㶓㶓侴ォ 暐ˤ⣼㯜㼎㕤怈察炻㰑㛐䞛㕤㶙ⵤˤ涡晤㇘侴㩻ⶊ炻溧溱⾾侴䨜嗽ˤ Coming to the harsh month of latest winter, As the wind shakes the trees, howling hoarsely,30 Dark clouds gather, turning all ice-cold,

48

And a dun film rises up, changing to snow. The tiger huddles in a ball, curbing its paces; The lamia, writhing and wriggling, forsakes its den.31

ġ

劍⬋⅔ᷳ♜㚰炻桐㎾㛐侴槟⯹ˤ䌬暚⎰侴䁢ⅵ炻湫䂇崟侴ㆸ暒ˤ

ġ

嗶巉嶤侴㔪㬍炻嚇幐嶄侴⣙䨜ˤ In spring when river sedge begins to flourish,32

52

Or when sweet pollia is just branching out, The osmanthus, full of scent, sets forth its leaves, And the lotus, rising from its root, extends its fibers.

ġ

军㰇嗢№⥳䥨炻ㆾ㜄堉№⇅㹳ˤ㟪⏓楁№ἄ叱炻啽䓇咖№⎸䴚ˤ Looking down on golden waves stretching for a thousand feet,

56

In summer I see prase-colored sand shifting to and fro.33 The fog builds and blurs, halfway revealed, While clouds mesh and merge, floating above. Rocks brightly glinting, each with its own look;

29. Here zhan ㇘ is to be understood in its less common meaning of “dread; quail at, shy away from,” cognate with dan ㅂ. The point is that the raptors, like the next line’s sea-turtles and alligators, remain inactive in trepidation at the continuous rains. That is, creatures that are normally in control of their lives are now immobilized. 30. Cf. from Liu Xiang’s poem “Si ku” ⿅劎 (The Anguish of Yearning) in the “Jiu tan” section of Chu ci: “The wind howls hoarsely, shaking the trees—;/ The clouds scud saddeningly, rolling up and sluing off ” 桐槟⯹ ẍ㎾㛐№炻暚⏠⏠ẍ㸓㇦. Chu ci buzhu 16.306. 31. Unlike the tiger which stays huddled against the snow, the lamia-dragon, sensing winter’s last salvo will be followed by spring, begins to stretch and move in preparation for the change of seasons. 32. The precise botanical identification of the term “river sedge” is unclear and may be different for different writers and in different places. It can hardly be Gracilaria verrucosa here, a kind of seaweed that is often given as its equivalent. Knechtges has a helpful note in his translation of Sima Xiangru’s ⎠楔䚠⤪ (179–117 BCE) “Zixu fu”; see his Wen xuan, or Selections of Refined Literature, vol. 2: Rhapsodies on Sacrifices, Hunting, Travel, Sightseeing, Palaces and Halls, Rivers and Seas, 58, L.70. 33. Cf. from Guo Pu’s 悕䑆 (276–324) “Jiang fu” 㰇岎, where we read that in the turbulent flow of the middle Yangtze “Prase-colored sand tosses and tumbles to and fro” 䡏㱁㿊㱙侴⼨Ἦ; Knechtges, trans., Wen xuan, 2: 327. See also Wen xuan 12.560.

Paul W. Kroll

118 60

Peaks far and near, all of different appearance.

ġ

ᾗ慹㲊№䘦ᶰ炻夳䡏㱁№Ἦ⼨ˤ曏司吨№⋲↢炻暚暄拗№梃ᶲˤ

ġ

䞛䁌䇃№⎬刚炻Ⲙ役怈№䔘尉ˤ In autumn an eddying wind will shake the melilot,34 And dew from a sky soaked and saturated descends. Trees rustle and whisper as if they are in mourning;

64

Plants dripping and damp tend toward their decline.35 In the lonely gleam of nighttime’s lamplight, The darkening sorrow I experience cannot be expelled.36 My heart’s cares and concerns, to whom can I declare them?37

68

My soul’s bereft forlornness, how can I relate it? Feelings, withered and worn, no longer reach outward; Spirit, overborne and oppressed, now relies on nothing.

ġ

⍲徜桐ᷳ㎾唁炻⣑㼕㼕侴ᶳ曚ˤ㛐唕䦵侴⎗⑨炻勱㜿暊侴㫚㙖ˤ

ġ

⣄䅰⃱ᷳ⮍䁗炻㬟晙ㄪ侴ᶵ⍣ˤ⽫㸗㸗侴婘⏲炻櫬⭪⭪侴ỽ婆ˤ

ġ

ね㝗㥩侴ᶵ⍲炻䤆侣央侴ṉ㒂ˤ Though there was An uncommon ruler of powerful faculties,

72

He still husbanded his essence in the village of Pei;38 An outstanding sovereign remarkable in strategy Yet had tender longings for his home in Nanyang;39

34. Recalling the lines “Grieving at the eddying wind that shakes the melilot—,/ My heart, twisted and knotted, aches within” ず⚆桐ᷳ㎾唁№炻⽫⅌䳸侴ℏ , from the poem “Bei huifeng” ず⚆桐 in the “Jiu zhang” section of Chu ci. See Chu ci buzhu 4.155. 35. Understanding 㜿暊 as 㵳㿽. 36. Again recalling from “Ai shi ming”: “At night distracted in dejection, I cannot sleep—,/ Holding to heart the darkening sorrow I’ve experienced” ⣄䁗䁗侴ᶵ⭸№炻㆟晙ㄪ侴㬟䌮. Chu ci buzhu 14.259. 37. This line also draws from a couplet in “Ai shi ming”: “My heart’s dense despair has none to declare it to—;/ With whom among the throng may I take deep counsel?” ⽫櫙櫙侴䃉⏲№炻䛦⬘⎗冯㶙媨. Chu ci buzhu 14.260. 38. The reference here is to Liu Bang ∱恎, founding emperor of the Han dynasty, who revisited his home county of Pei (near present-day Xiao 唕 district, Jiangsu) in late 196 BCE. On this famous occasion, which included Liu Bang’s singing of his “Great Wind” song, he is said to have stated to the elders of Pei, “A wanderer keeps his homeplace in his heart. Although my capital is in Guanzhong region, a myriad years hence my cloudborne and earthbound souls will yet take pleasure in thinking of Pei” 㷠⫸ず㓭悱ˤ⏦晾悥斄ᷕ炻叔㬚⼴⏦櫪 櫬䋞㦪⿅㱃. Shi ji, 8.389. Note also that the phrase “powerful faculties” used by Jiang Yan to describe Liu Bang is the same phrase he earlier applied in praising Liu Jingsu’s virtues. 39. The ruler referred to in these lines is Liu Xiu ∱䥨, founding emperor of the Eastern Han. For his return visit in the seventeenth year of his reign (41 CE) to his home district of Nanyang (near present-day Zaoyang 㡿春, Hubei), see Hou Han shu ⼴㻊㚠 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1965), 1.68–69, though there is no report there of his “tender longings” for the place, only remarks about his character as a youth and now as a monarch. I accept the variant ⋿春 here for Fanyang 㦲春. Nanyang was previously known as Chongling 冪昝 and then as Zhangling 䪈昝.

Farther South

119

Departing from Luoyang, Pan Yue was wiping tears,40 76

And upon leaving Wu, Lu Ji’s grief was acute.41 More so is it for a low-repute man of northern climes, Become a person now adrift in this sweltry land, Where one’s companions are spectral succubi,42

80

And one’s neighbors are spume-spinning spiders,43 Where autumn’s dew descending blotches blade and sheath, And springtime moss in growth clings even to robe and headwrap.44 As I pace in porch and courtyard, many the weeds and wormwood,

84

But looking to left and right, I am cut off from family and friends. Wretchedness fills my bones, This yearning unsettles my spirit. I pray my final consciousness return to the upper domain—

88

Then, though rough my road may be, I shall grudge it not.

ġ

⣓ẍ炻晬ㇵᶵᶾᷳᷣ炻䋞⃚䱦㕤㱃悱ˤ⣯䔍䌐↢ᷳ⏃炻⯂⧱ㆨ㕤⋿ 春ˤ㼀⍣㳃侴㍑㴽炻映↢⏛侴⡆ ˤ

ġ

㱩⊿ⶆᷳ岌⢓炻䁢䀶⛇ᷳ㳩Ṣˤℙ櫵櫶侴䚠„炻冯垘嚠侴䁢惘ˤ䥳曚 ᶳ№溆∵冫炻㗍剼䓇№䵜堋ⶦˤ㬍⹕⺉№⣂呧㡿炻栏ⶎ⎛№䳽奒屻ˤ ㄪ侴⠉橐炻⿅№Ḫ䤆ˤ栀㬠曰㕤ᶲ⚳炻晾⛶✟侴ᶵや幓ˤ

This is a poem born fundamentally of distaste and fear. The “upper domain” that Jiang Yan hopes his postmortem spirit will return to, if he should die here in the South, is a term originally used as synonymous with the “central domain” (zhongguo ᷕ⚳), i.e., the territory of 40. In Pan Yue’s 㼀ⱛ (247–300) “Xi zheng fu” 大⼩岎, written about his journey west in 292 from Luoyang to Chang’an (no longer the grand city it had been under the Western Han and so hardly a desirable destination), where he was to take up a position as magistrate, he writes of “sighing and sobbing” upon leaving Luoyang. See Wen xuan 10.440. For a translation of this fu, see Knechtges, Wen xuan 2: 179–235. 41. Lu Ji 映㨇 (261–303), a native of Wu who went north to Luoyang after the Western Jin’s conquest of Wu, expressed his feelings for his home area on several occasions. See, e.g., his two poems on “Proceeding to Luoyang” (Fu Luo 崜㳃), where we find him wiping away tears, patting his breast, sighing, weeping, and in variously described states of sadness upon departing from Wu. Lu Shiheng shi zhu, ed. Hao Liquan, 3.7b-8b. Lu Ji’s state of mind after arriving in Luoyang is treated in some detail in Chapters 2 and 3 of this volume. 42. The “spectral succubi” are malevolent spirits of rock and tree. The term has earlier associations with pestilence and was one of the many banes targeted in the Han ritual of the Great Exorcism (Da nuo ⣏⃢), for descriptions of which see Hou Han shu, “zhi,” 5B.3127–28 (translated in Derk Bodde, Festivals in Classical China: New Year and Other Annual Observances during the Han Dynasty, 206 B.C.–A.D. 220, 81–82) and a passage in Zhang Heng’s ⻝堉 (78–139) “Dongjing fu” 㜙Ṕ岎, Wen xuan 3.123–24 (translated in Knechtges, Wen xuan, or Selections of Refined Literature, vol. 1: Rhapsodies on Metropolises and Capitals, 291–97. 43. These are long-legged spiders that inflict painful bites, probably Tetragratha praedonii. Their webs are mentioned, as we shall see, in Jiang Yan’s “Fu on the Four Seasons.” 44. The moss grows everywhere, so humid is the region. I read “springtime moss” 㗍剼 with Yiwen leiju, instead of “green moss” 曺剼. The latter probably is a mistaken emendation stemming from the title of Jiang Yan’s “Qing tai fu” 曺剼岎.

120

Paul W. Kroll

the Central Plains (zhongyuan ᷕ⍇), traditional homeland of Chinese civilization. It can also be read as “His Highness’s state,” the ruler’s seat of government. Here Jiang Yan applies it to the Jiangnan region, with particular focus on the capital seat of Jiankang. When the poet set off in line 21 for Fujian, he had in his mind a picture of the South’s fearsome giant foxes and deadly bamboo-snakes from the “Summoning the Soul” poem. Once arrived at his destination, and after recalling some of the journey’s fresh sights and dispiriting sounds (those daytime wailings of gibbons and nighttime cries of black monkeys), he summarizes it in lines 35–36 as a tortuous and mazy passage “into a sheer steepness of forest and stone,” drawing the latter characterization from the Chu ci’s “Anguish of Sorrow” (You ku ㄪ劎) poem. This leads with imagistic logic to the description of his rude rainbowtopping house, whose pillars are carved from the supporting mountain, echoing the poem “Lamenting My Lot in This Age” (Ai shi ming ⑨㗪␥). From there he looks out in autumn at the lonely moon and down on the rain-soaked lands. Even such normally active creatures as hawk and falcon, sea-turtle and alligator are now constrained. The next four stanzas (lines 45 through 70) depict a full year’s round of the seasons, starting with winter—in the midst of which Jiang Yan arrived here—and succeeding through the next autumn. Along the way, more Chu ci resonances are heard, from “Grieving at the Eddying Wind” (Bei huifeng ず徜桐), and again from “The Anguish of Yearning” and “Lamenting My Lot in This Age.” Coming to the end of this seasonal cycle, the poet confesses that his feelings “no longer reach outward” and his spirit “now relies on nothing.” He has been defeated by this depressing land. As an attempt at consolation, he remembers historical examples of better men than he is, who still longed for their own homes. The final stanza then draws together much of what has come before—his emigré status, his disgust with the “succubi” and “spiders” he must accept as neighbors, the damp and mildewed climate. In the penultimate couplet Jiang Yan unexpectedly changes the rhythm to tetrameter, the only time he uses this meter in the poem. The sudden slowing of pace effectively underlines the blunt complaint of these two lines: “Wretchedness fills my bones,/ Yearning unsettles my spirit.” His final prayer then arrives with greater force and pathos. In his “Fu on the Four Seasons”45 Jiang Yan extracts the fourfold sequence he used in part of the preceding fu and here structures the whole poem around it.46 Unlike the “Dai zui . . . fu,” which was composed almost entirely in hexameter rhythm, here Jiang Yan employs an interesting mix of four-and six-word lines. The blend is not random. In the four stanzas (two through five, comprising lines 5 through 36) that treat the seasons in order, beginning with springtime, the format is quite disciplined: each opens with four tetrameter lines and is followed by a hexameter couplet, except for spring whose closing hexameters make up a quatrain. The final two stanzas are of different lengths, but they too begin with tetrametric lines and end with hexameters. One may note in stanzas five and seven (respectively, the 45. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 1.58–60; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 201–3. 46. Qian Zhongshu 拊挦㚠 has noted that this structure had not been used prior to these two fu of Jiang Yan. See Qian’s Guanzhui bian, 1408.

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121

last stanza of the seasonal sequence and the last stanza of the whole poem) the insertion of a hypermetrical phrase in the midst of the stanza, in addition to the usual hypermetric phrase that begins all the stanzas except the first. Jiang Yan is not just emoting in this composition; he is also plying his craft. We shall find several images from the preceding fu recurring here, in slightly different phrasing. Observe, for instance, in the opening couplet of the second stanza the traces of the unpleasant spiders and the ubiquitous moss-cover that we have already seen. A stranger from the North sighs long, Silently yearning behind deep walls. An empty bed has been kept continually, 4

As I stagnate within tablet-shaped slats.47

ġ

⊿⭊攟㫟炻㶙⡩⭪⿅ˤ䨢䇨忋㳩炻⛕䩔㶡㺗ˤ Webby threads screen the doorway,48 And green moss grows round the roofbeams.49 Here springtime flowers overbloom in vain,

8

And autumn’s moonlight shines to no avail.50 Looking out at birds in flight, my soul feels cut off; Beholding the drifting clouds, my thoughts lengthen out. Brooding on time’s chronic sequence affects me all the more;

12

Understanding the four seasons’ turning is sufficiency of pain.

ġ

䵚䴚哥㇞炻曺剼丆㠩ˤ㗍厗嘃櫙炻䥳㚰⼺⃱ˤ冐梃沍侴櫪䳽炻夾㴖暚 侴シ攟ˤ㷔ẋ⸷侴棺デ炻䞍⚃㗪ᷳ嵛 ˤ So it is When the first warmth is brought by the dawning sun,51 And the melilotus plant is able to be braided,52 When the garden’s peach blossoms are daubed in pink,

16

And the rivers in flow are colored cyan-blue,53

47. Windows or doorways cut in the shape of the gui-tablet held by officials, narrow on the sides and rounded on top. This unusual architectural feature is another sign of the place’s peculiarities. 48. The webs are those of the pernicious spider called xiaoshao 垘嚠, mentioned by Jiang Yan in line 80 of his “Dai zui . . . fu.” 49. The moss is omnipresent. Cf. line 82 in “Dai zui . . . fu,” where it even clings to robe and headwrap. 50. There is no one here to appreciate either the abundance, indeed overgrown abundance, of the flowers in spring, nor the glow of the moon in autumn. 51. Cf. from Shijing ode 34: “The dawning sun at last brings sunrise” 㖕㖍⥳㖎. 52. That is, its flowers made into a belt or garland to symbolize the wearer’s virtues, as, e.g., in “Li sao”: “Though I have been replaced, of melilotus is my sash woven,/ And I add to it with angelica I gather” 㖊㚧ἁẍ唁 丽炻⍰䓛ᷳẍ㓔勅. Chu ci buzhu 1.14. Another aspect of the plant/weaving metaphor is that the plants are filling out, like close-woven pongee (䵊 is cognate with 䧈). The comparison of blooming flowers with woven fabrics is familiar; we see another example in line 23 below. 53. Cf. the rivers with “cyan-blue billows” in line 30 of the “Dai zui . . . fu.”

Paul W. Kroll

122 I yearn for the old capital, as my heart is breaking,54 And the longing for my dear friends goes on without end. ġ

劍ᷫ炻㖕㖍⥳㘾炻唁勱⎗䷼ˤ⚺㟫䲭溆炻㳩㯜䡏刚ˤ⿅冲悥№⽫㕟炻 ㄸ㓭Ṣ№䃉㤝ˤ Then it is When sweltry clouds rise up teeming,

20

And balmy trees no longer sway,55 When marsh thoroughwort grows on the banks, And vermilion lotuses emerge from ponds, I recall the filigreed trees of the upper domain,

24

And remember the sprigs of Jinling’s sweet basil.56

ġ

军劍炻䀶暚嚪崟炻剛㧡㛒䦣ˤ㽌嗕䓇⛪炻㛙匟↢㰈ˤㅞᶲ⚳ᷳ䵢㧡炻 ゛慹昝ᷳ唁㝅ˤ And then When autumn winds arrive all at once, With white dew grouped englobed,57 As the luminous moonlight quickens its waves,58

28

And fireflies usher in the cooler weather,59 I feel pangs for my courtyard’s “we-together” trees,60 Reminded of the gauze and taffeta from my wife’s loom.

ġ

劍⣓炻䥳桐ᶨ军炻䘥曚⛀⛀ˤ㖶㚰䓇㲊炻坊䀓彶⭺ˤ䛟⹕ᷕᷳ㡏㟸炻 ⾝㨇ᶲᷳ伭䲰ˤ Coming to When winter darkens the border northward,

32

And no light breaks on nights that seem endless, Where dense weedland runs to the sea,61

54. Accepting the variant 冲悥 for ㅱ悥. 55. The trees do not sway, because now in the summer heat there are no breezes as there are in springtime. 56. The “upper domain” refers, as in line 87 of “Dai zui . . . fu,” to the Jiangnan region and particularly Jiankang. Jinling is an alternate name for Jiankang. 57. The dew is seen as an aggregation of round droplets, the descriptor “white” associating it with the moon and autumn. 58. The moon’s “waves” are its seemingly rippling moonlight. 59. According to the “Yue ling” 㚰Ẍ chapter of Liji, in the last month of summer “decaying plants become firelies” 僸勱䁢坊. Liji zhengyi,16.6a (p. 1370a). Hence, at the beginning of autumn the fireflies are ready to greet the cooler weather. 60. The wutong tree is the Sterculia (or Firmiana) platanifolia. The name is homophonous with the phrase “we  together” ⏦⎴, contributing to its association with, inter alia, lovers. Here it inspires a memory of the poet’s wife, which is carried on in the following line with reference to her (typically feminine) weaving activities. 61. Here ping ⸛ does not mean “level, flat,” but has the connotation “wilderness,” as glossed by Li Shan 㛶┬ (d. 689) in explanation of a line of Sima Xiangru’s “Shanglin fu” ᶲ㜿岎; see Wen xuan 8.374.

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And birds fly on for a thousand miles, Have I ever not Dreamt of the crisscross roads of the imperial city, 36

Recalled the terraces and pleasure pools of the old capital?

ġ

军㕤炻⅔昘⊿怲炻㯠⣄ᶵ㙱ˤ⸛唒晃㴟炻⋫慴梃沍ˤỽ▿ᶵ⣊ⷅ❶ᷳ 旉旴炻ㅞ㓭悥ᷳ冢㱤ˤ Because of this When tuning the zither my emotions are roused, When plucking the cithern my tears fall. In train of the long nights, my heart is downcast;

40

Attending the bright days, my health abates.

ġ

㗗ẍ炻库䏜ね≽炻㇃䐇㴽句ˤ徸攟⣄侴⽫㭆炻晐䘥㖍侴⼊⇲ˤ Hence A man from Qin intones the music of Qin,62 The man from Chu plays a tune from Chu.63 On hearing the song, one weeps right away,

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With grief already endured for long. Because indeed Soul and vital force are woe-laden and broken, And things outside me offer no salvation.64 Essaying the four seasons is hard in every case,

48

Even more for the most ignoble of abject persons.

ġ

㓭䦎Ṣ䦎倚炻㤂枛㤂⣷ˤ倆㫴㚜㲋炻夳ず⶚䕂ˤ⮎䓙櫪㯋ボ㕟炻⢾䈑 朆㓹ˤ⍫⚃㗪侴䘮暋炻㱩⁽Ṣᷳ㛓旳ḇˤ

This poem is virtually free of the numerous Chu ci echoes that we found in the “Dai zui . . . fu.” It is less of an emotional unreeling of thoughts than an attempt to impose some order on the situation. As the poet states in lines 11–12, the realization of the ceaseless run of time is enough to bring sorrow to anyone who ponders it. Each stanza focusing on a season moves from a description of the scene in Wuxing to a concluding memory, shifting into hexameter rhythm, of Jiang Yan’s longed-for North. We may take special note of the couplet that ends 62. The reference is to Yang Yun 㣲゚ (d. 54 BCE) who, in a famous letter Sun Huizong ⬓㚫⬿, said, “As my family hails from Qin, I am versed in the tunes of Qin. . . . When drunk enough that my ears are warm, I lift my head to the sky, beat on a pot, and cry out, ‘oh, alas oh!’” Han shu 66.2896. 63. The reference is to Zhong Yi 挦₨, a native of Chu held captive in Jin 㗱, circa 580 BCE. When the marquess of Jin asked Zhong Yi who his family was, the latter answered that they were musicians. After a zither was placed before him, Zhong Yi played a “southern tune” ⋿枛 (i.e., one from Chu). The marquess’s adviser later explained that this revealed Zhong Yi’s loyal character, for “by playing a musical air from his own land he shows he has not forgotten his old ties.” Chunqiu Zuo zhuan zhu, ed. Yang Bojun, 844–45 (Cheng gong 9). 64. That is, there is nothing around the poet, either in his physical surroundings or human relations, that can comfort him for being so far from home.

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the autumnal stanza (lines 29–30). The memory here—of the wutong (“we-together”) tree in his courtyard at home, which recalls the gauze and taffeta spun on his wife’s loom—is particularly poignant. This, combined with the “empty bed” mentioned in the poem’s third line, makes it evident that she did not accompany him to the South. One might also remember that Jiang Yan’s second son, Qiu 別, had died in infancy not long before Jiang Yan’s conflict with Liu Jingsu. And his closest friend, Yuan Bing 堩䁛, had also died unexpectedly, shortly before that.65 In recent times fate had not been kind to Jiang Yan. He had reason to feel that he was bereft and alone.66 The concluding stanza of this fu opens in a comparable way, though in smaller scope, to the penultimate stanza of the “Dai zui . . . fu,” identifying examples of men from former ages who held their homeplace dear. The penultimate couplet of this poem also has a somewhat similar ring to that of the preceding fu’s lines 69–70. There, his feelings “no longer stretch[ed] outward” and his spirit could “rely on nothing.” Here, “soul and vital force are woe-laden and broken,/ And things outside me offer no salvation.” Thus, the objects of nature in the cycle of the four seasons, which so often bring solace to Chinese poets, offer no such consolation to Jiang Yan. His characterization of himself in the concluding line, as “the most ignoble of abject persons,” resembles his previous self-description as a “petty person” and man of “low repute.” Every season is difficult to bear for such as he. “Four Seasons” is a synoptic view of how the far South seems to Jiang Yan and how it affects him. Several other fu written during his Fujian years focus on specific items seen as having symbolic import. The fu on green moss67 gives more detailed consideration to this genus of plant (there are many distinct species) we have already seen growing everywhere in Fujian, even attaching itself to roofbeams, robes, and headwraps. In this fu Jiang Yan finds it on various trees and rocks, alongside and in the rivers—obviously we are dealing here with all kinds of “moss-like” growths, including ivy and algae. It is something “of no use” (wuyong 䃉䓐), but it hangs on, anyway. The fu on malachite and that on the kingfisher concentrate respectively on a precious stone and a gorgeously plumed bird, both of which are better off, the poet says, to stay unknown rather than be torn from their native home to provide decoration in distant settings.68 The fu on the odd-looking sea anemone bespeaks a similar warning: it may not look inviting and is just “a minor vassal of the sea-god Ruo” 㴟劍ᷳ 65. The two fu he wrote as laments on these occasions are among the most heart-wrenching compositions I know of from the fifth century. These are “Shang aizi fu”  ッ⫸岎 ( Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 10.383–84; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 151–54) and “Shang youren fu”  ⍳Ṣ岎 ( Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 2.68–73; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 141–45). For a translation of the former, see Kroll, “On Political and Personal Fate,” 395–98. 66. His wife, too, passed away while he was in Fujian, to judge from internal evidence in the ten-poem suite, “Dao shiren” つ⭌Ṣ, Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 4.165–68; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 64–69. 67. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 1.18–22; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 203–6; partially translated in Williams, “Self-Portrait as Sea Anemone,” 144–46. 68. “Kongqing fu,” Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 2.91–94; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 214–16; and “Feicui fu,” Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 2.81–83; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 211–13. For a translation of the latter poem, see Kroll, “The Image of the Halcyon Kingfisher in Medieval Chinese Poetry,” 249. A slightly revised version of this appears in Kroll, “On Political and Personal Fate,” 399–400.

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⮷冋 (compare the self-depreciating descriptions of Jiang Yan noted earlier), but it will end up as a delicacy on a nobleman’s plate if not careful. The application of these lessons to Jiang Yan’s situation and the former patronage of Liu Jingsu should be clear enough. It will be useful at this point to shift our focus momentarily from fu to shi. In Jiang Yan’s hands the fu often carries a significant freight of allusions—in the two pieces we have examined so far, particularly to Chu ci passages. This feature can be noticed as well in other fu, as with his famous “Fu on Regret” which is largely structured around a series of allusions. Do we see a difference in approach, when the chosen form for a poem is the shi? Here is a poem composed when Jiang Yan was making his undesirable way to Wuxing. It is titled “Chiting (Red Pavilion) Isle” 崌ṕ㷂, this being a place located near present-day Fuyang 䤷春, Zhejiang, so he had not yet gone halfway on his journey into exile. The time is early autumn. On a river of Wu I drift in the hilly wastes, Where osmanthus abounds and maples too are many.69 Waters at dusk seem black with tide-pushed waves, 4

And red-pink are the vital airs of sunset. The road grows long in the chill light’s dying, As birds call with the waning of autumn’s plants. The season’s chalcedony waters have not frozen up,

8

But pearly frost steals in fully more than is due. I sit and perceive how things progress quietly in sequence, Lean back and observe the emptying of the year’s decline. Hurting now at vision’s limit a thousand miles off,70

12

Alone I gaze back toward the zephyrs of Huaihai.71

14

At the edge of the clouds is a journeying swan-goose.72

ġ

⏛㰇㲃᷀⡇炻棺㟪⽑⣂㣻ˤ㯜⢽㼖㲊湹炻㖍㙖䱦㯋䲭ˤ嶗攟⭺⃱䚉炻 沍沜䥳勱䩖ˤ䐌㯜晾㛒⎰炻䎈曄䩲忶ᷕˤ⛸嬀䈑⸷㗷炻再夾㬚昘䨢ˤ ᶨ ⋫慴㤝炻䌐㛃㶖㴟桐ˤ怈⽫ỽ㇨栆炻暚怲㚱⼩泣ˤ

Of my faraway heart, what would be a likeness?

Some of the ideas and images, and even some of the phrasing, in this poem reappear in various of the fu written in Wuxing. For example, the “hilly wastes” of line one are seen again in line 20 of the “Dai zui . . . fu.” The osmanthus lining the rivers in line 2 will recur in line 30 69. Cf. the antepenultimate line of the “Zhao hun” poem in Chu ci: “Fathomless and full the waters of the Jiang— with maples by its side” 㸃㸃㰇㯜№ᶲ㚱㣻. Chu ci buzhu 9.215. 70. The allusive trigger for this line and the next comes from the final couplet of the “Zhao hun” poem, just following upon the line that was partly behind Jiang Yan’s opening couplet in this poem (see ibid.): 䚖㤝 ⋫慴№ 㗍⽫炻櫪№㬠Ἦ⑨㰇⋿ġ“Vision reaching its limit a thousand miles off—hurts a feeling heart;/ Oh soul!—come back! alas for Jiangnan.” Chu ci buzhu 9.215. 71. Huaihai refers to the Jiangnan area, covered by the old name of Yangzhou ㎂ⶆ (i.e., not just the later city of that name), as classically defined in the “Yu gong” chapter of Shangshu: 㶖㴟ょ㎂ⶆ. 72. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.115; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 49.

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of the same fu. The sequential progress of the seasons will be taken up as the explicit topic of the “Sishi fu.” The two allusions in the poem are to the “Zhao hun,” a poem that will haunt Jiang Yan in the South. The swan-goose at the edge of the clouds, which Jiang Yan chooses as an image to stand for himself, is, on the other hand, not something we shall find again in the Wuxing poems. Perhaps it seems too predictable. Another shi, written somewhat farther along the route, is called “Crossing Quanqiao73 and Emerging onto the Summit of Several Mountains” 㷉㱱ⵈ↢媠Ⱉᷳ枪. Where spiring scarps block the sun and moon, Truly danger seems present on every side! A myriad straths run madly off together, 4

As a hundred valleys vie hither and yon. While hawk and falcon stretch their wings, Lamia and fishes show their scales to the sun. While tumbled bluffs sprawl pillowed one on another,

8

Scraggy rocks spread everywhere round about. Even the Wave-Queller could not push through here, For he would not dare set forth in his storeyed ships. Over centuries these flowing waters have been piling up,

12

Over millennia the green moss-cover has been growing. Onward and onward, how is it just half a moment? My horses indeed have long been yearning for home. In the southern quarter the sky is sultry and torrid;

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Oh soul! may you return whence you came!74

ġ

ⰹⳇ哥㖍㚰炻ⶎ⎛ᾉ则⑱ˤ叔⡹ℙ楛榾炻䘦察䇕⼨Ἦˤ涡晤㖊⍚侤炻 歓欂Ṏ㚅殻ˤⳑ⡩徕㜽再炻⴬䞛Ⰺ䚌徜ˤặ㲊㛒傥搧炻㦻凡ᶵ㔊攳ˤ 䘦⸜䧵㳩㯜炻⋫慴䓇曺剼ˤ埴埴姶⋲㘗炻ἁ楔ẍ攟㆟ˤ⋿㕡⣑䀶䀓炻 櫪№⎗㬠Ἦˤ

Embedded in this description are the hawk and falcon, the lamia, and the green moss that Jiang Yan will also mention in those fu he wrote later. The “Wave-Queller” referred to in lines 9–10 is the Eastern Han general Ma Yuan 楔䋐 (14 BCE–49 CE), renowned for his service on the frontiers of the empire, especially for his defeat of rebels in what is now northern Vietnam, when he made particularly effective use of warships and was consequently bestowed the title of Wave-Quelling General. Forbidding as the area of Jiaozhi and as difficult as the jungly terrain may have been, Ma Yuan still conquered. But even he, says Jiang Yan, would not have dared to take ships into the treacherous land of Fujian. This is an area where, amidst the frightening mountains, rivers and moss have been collecting unchecked since the beginning of time. In the poem’s final four lines, the poet remarks that 73. Near Quzhou 堊ⶆ in southern Zhejiang. 74. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.115; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 49–50.

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his journey so far seems longer than it has been, long enough that his horses—like those of the “Li sao” poet at the end of that poem75—are yearning for home. This leads then to the feeling that he is wandering lost and alone, like the vagrant soul of the Chu ci’s two “Summons” poems. If only his soul, and he, could be called home! The heft of these shi— that is, their structural complexity—is different from that of the fu, and their language is not as involved, but they derive from the same conception of the far South as a region where no civilized person would choose to go. The set of fifteen poems “In Praise of [Local] Plants and Trees” (Caomu song 勱㛐枴) includes both rare and common flora. In order they are: “golden thorn,” Bauhinia (jinjing 慹勲)76; coralwood, Adenanthera pavonia (xiangsi 䚠⿅); camphor tree, Cinnamomum camphora (yuzhang 尓䪈); windmill palm, Trachycarpus fortunei (pinglü 㟇㪂); China fir, Cunninghamia lanceolata (shan 㛱); Chinese tamarisk, Tamarix chinensis (cheng 㨱); box myrtle, Myrica rubra (yangmei 㣲㠭); Père David’s peach, Prunus davidiana (shan tao Ⱉ㟫); wild pomegranate, Punica granatum (shanzhong shiliu Ⱉᷕ䞛㥜); climbing fig, Ficus pumila (mulian 㛐咖)77; sweet flag, Acorus calamus (shishang changpu 䞛ᶲ卾呚); golden thread, Coptis chinensis (huanglian 湫忋); shouliang yam, Dioscorea rhipogonoides (shuyu 啗唟); sweet pollia, Pollia japonica (duruo 㜄劍); and patchouli, Pogostemon cablin (huoxiang 喧楁).78 All of these poems consist of eight tetrametric lines. They rather resemble the poems written by Guo Pu 悕䑆 (276–324) for his “Erya tuzan” 䇦晭⚾岲, and are of interest for their descriptions of the plants, which frequently blend the physical with the psychological. But it is the preface that Jiang Yan wrote for this group of poems that is most revealing: The insignificant fate of my poor self has come upon good fortune known only once in a myriad ages, though I am not able to engrave my heart or file my bones in order to make report of what has happened. But stretching out my wings and tossing my head,79 I have been brought to the stairs of cinnabar80—even so far as to have received with respect the estimable bounty of upholding official duties here in Min. What’s more, my happiness in living has long since reached its uttermost point. What I now care most about consists of a couple of trees and a dozen plants. The place I have carved out for myself 81 has beetling mountains in front which block out the sun and a shrouded darkness behind that troubles one most of the time. Famished monkeys come to scrounge and scavenge, where stony rapids are heaped and

75. “My coachman was grieved, and my horses yearned for home— / They twisted round to look back and would not go on” ⁽⣓ずἁ楔㆟№ / 囟⯨栏侴ᶵ埴. Chu ci buzhu 1.47. 76. Not to be confused with the various species of Vitex of other regions, which are also called jing. See Hui-Lin Li, Nan-fang ts’ao-mu chuang: A Fourth Century Flora of Southeast Asia, 100–101. 77. An alternate name for bili 啄勀. 78. To be differentiated from the huoxiang of the north, which is Agastache rugosa. See Li, Nan-fang ts’ao-mu chuang, 75. 79. Like a great bird or high-spirited horse. 80. To the realm of the transcendents. 81. The familiar image of his abode as being carved out of the mountain’s struts.

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Paul W. Kroll huddled.82 In the courtyard is an old pond, the waters of which always spill out. And though there is no fish-weir or platform for angling or anywhere that one might sit, still the leaves are lush around the winter’s blooms and the blossoms have the look of summertime, here in this southeast part of the Red District.83 How remarkable it is! Of the several thousand kinds of plants that open out their stem and branch, there are fifteen types in particular that I have the most affection for. I have made a paean to each of them, in order to transcribe what comforts my spirit. ⁽ᶨ␥ᷳ⽖炻怕叔ẋᷳ⸠ˤᶵ傥揓⽫䣒橐炻ẍ⟙㇨ḳˤ㒊侤樌椾炻冒军ᷡ 㡗炻䇘ᷫ〕㈧▱よ炻⬰借救ᷕˤᶼ⁽䓇Ṣᷳ㦪ᷭ⶚䚉䞋ˤ㇨ッ炻ℑ㟒㧡⋩ 匾勱ᷳ攻俛ˤṲ㇨搧嗽炻⇵ⲣⰙẍ哥㖍炻⼴⸥㘎ẍ⣂旣ˤ棺䋐㏄䳊炻䞛㿐 ㆼㆼ炻⹕ᷕ㚱㓭㰈炻㯜ⷠ㰢ˤ晾䃉欂㠩憋冢炻嗽嗽⎗⛸炻侴叱棺⅔㥖炻剙 㚱⢷刚炻䌮崌䷋ᷳ㜙⋿᷶ˤỽ℞⣯䔘ḇˤ䳸匾⎸䥨炻㔠⋫检栆ˤ⽫㇨ㄸ 侭炻⋩㚱Ḽ㕷䂱ˤ⎬䁢ᶨ枴炻ẍ⮓⊆櫪ˤ

The sarcasm in the opening sentences of this preface is startling. We saw a careful thrust of this in Jiang Yan’s farewell letter to Liu Jingsu and in the opening lines of the “Dai zui . . . fu,” but here he uses it to a degree rarely seen in medieval literature. Is there any doubt that he does not think that holding office in Min is the result of an “estimable bounty”? Or that he has not reached the “stairs of cinnabar”? I do not know of many examples of such acerbity from this era. It is pleasing to contrast this with the slavish groveling that infuses nearly all of Ovid’s writings from Tomis, right up to his death. Jiang Yan, however, seems to have decided at a certain point not to beg or wheedle. But the most important thing about the preface, for our inquiry, is that it bespeaks an acceptance by Jiang Yan—and, more than that, even a sympathetic appreciation—of some elements of the Wuxing landscape. Although one cannot date his exile poems precisely, the poems in praise of the fifteen trees and plants that he somehow finds comfort in must have been written after he had spent a bit of time in the area, for he could not have identified them as special items providing solace for him until he had acquired some familiarity with them, especially those like patchouli which he is unlikely to have previously encountered.

82. There is some uncertainty over the correct reading here. The trigger for this line is certainly 䞛㿐№㶢㶢 “Over stony rapids—waters rush racing,” from the “Xiang jun” 㸀⏃ poem of the “Jiu ge” ḅ㫴 (Chu ci buzhu 2.62). But in Jiang Yan’s poem “Liu puye Dongshan ji xue sao” ∱⁽⮬㜙Ⱉ普⬠槟 ( Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 5.174; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 17), there is a line that reads 䞛ㆼㆼ№㯜ㆸ㔯, for which the Ming commentator Hu Zhiji glosses ㆼㆼ as ⥼䧵尴, “the appearance of being piled up.” I am sure that Jiang Yan is using the term in the same way in both instances, whether one reads the graph with the water signific or not. Indeed the different graphs may ultimately stand for the same word: it is possible to understand that the more piled are the rocks in a rapids, the more agitated will be the flow of water over them. But in translation one is forced to make a choice. Mine has been determined here by the usage in Jiang’s other “sao-style” poem. This incidentally gives us information about how Jiang understood the “Xiang jun” line. 83. The “Red District” is an abbreviated form of the phrase “Divine Continent of the Red District” (chixian shenzhou 崌䷋䤆ⶆ), which was Zou Yan’s 槞埵 term for China in his broad-perspective view of the world. Shiji 74.2344. Jiang Yan uses the term elsewhere, in his “Roaming on Mount Huangnie” (see below) and his fu on the kingfisher.

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Here is his encomium on the box myrtle, or rather on its fruit, the bayberry, sometimes called the Chinese strawberry:84 Its value oversteps that of the lychee,85 Its scent outruns that of magnolia. Holding petals close, it reaches out its fruit; 4

Massing its blooms, mingling with the cinnabar-red.86 Mirroring the sun, it embroiders the gorges; Shining as auroras, it filigrees the tors. Let this be as feathers and wings for me,

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To be delivered to a lord’s jade plate.87

ġ

⮞嶐勼㝅炻剛庤㛐嗕ˤ㆟喪㋢⮎炻㵝劙䱭ᷡˤ掉㖍三⡹炻䁌曆䵢⵺ˤ

ġ

䁢ㆹ佥侤炻⥼⏃䌱䚌ˤ

The concluding couplet suggests that the bayberry, prized as a delicacy, might serve as a surrogate for Jiang Yan, if sent on to his lord. This “lord” is probably a generalized figure, commonly seen in allegorical poems focused on plants or birds, no longer specifically Liu Jingsu. Many of the plants in this set of fifteen poems are lauded not so much with detailed descriptions of their physical features as they are for the symbolic consolation they can yield.88 Still, where in his earlier Wuxing poems, or in those written en route there, Jiang Yan had seen the region as having few if any redeeming qualities and was frequently conditioned in his views by depressing or monitory lines from poems in Chu ci, here he has begun to secure a parcel of acclimation to some of his surroundings. This possibility of discovering, at  least occasionally, an agreeable aspect to his experience of Fujian is evident in other poems as well. In certain of the fu from this period we see moments of fascination and even delight with unusual scenes. The most striking of these pieces is the fu on the red nimbus.89 The lengthy preface to this poem gives the setting as an outing to Ninestone Mountain ( Jiushi shan ḅ䞛Ⱉ),90 “beyond the mountain range of the southeast” 㜙⋿ⵈ⢾.91 While the poet was there on a day in early summer, it happened that “cliffs and bluffs shone against each other and rain-clouds took on a fulgent appearance. Suddenly a grand-looking nimbus as red as could be flared its glowing light upon the river, arching up to the mountain’s summit and 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91.

See Li, Nan-fang ts’ao-mu chuang, 117–18; Bencao gangmu, 30.93–94. On the lychee in medieval times, see Kroll, “Zhang Jiuling and the Lychee,” 9–22. “The cinnabar-red” refers to the plant’s fruit, interspersed with its flowers. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 5.192; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 60. Williams, “Sea Anemone,” 142–43, also has a translation of the bayberry poem as well as that on the bauhinia. “Chi hong fu,” Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 2.54–58; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 191–95. Located about fifteen miles southeast of Wuxing. A locational descriptive for Wuxing also used by Jiang Yan in the autobiographical preface he wrote for his collected works.

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spreading out to the river’s margins” ⵾Ⲿ䚠䁌炻暐暚䇎刚ˤὬ侴晬嘡崓䃞炻㘱⃱侨 㯜炻Ύ巯Ⱉ枪炻冬⣽㰇㷬. Jiang Yan is reminded of a time he climbed Incense Burner Peak (Xianglu feng 楁䆸Ⲙ) of Mount Lu ⺔Ⱉ and was close enough to the clouds to touch them.92 The present encounter is equally extraordinary and he proceeds to write a fu about it. The opening lines of the poem find us in familiar territory—that is to say, in territory that seems to Jiang Yan frighteningly unfamiliar: Coiling continually, bunched up and broken, A chain of mountains from the first stage of time. Here are striped-fish and bleak, marked like tiger and leopard, And the kingly bamboo-snake, rearing and rising up.93 㰈怸䠽䢺№炻⣒㤝ᷳ忋Ⱉˤ殭毭嗶尡№炻䌳嘢様幺№ˤ

We have seen the bamboo-snake before. But the third line here reveals something interesting about Jiang Yan’s use of the Chu ci. He is calling up a couplet from the “Great Summons” (Da zhao ⣏㊃) which, placed in the section telling of southern dangers, mentions “Stripedfish, bleak-fish, and the sand-spitter, / And the kingly bamboo-snake lifting upright” 殭毭 䞕䉸 / 䌳嘢槓⎒.94 This is plain enough. But where did Jiang Yan get the idea of the fish being patterned like tigers and leopards? As it happens, the preceding couplet of the “Great Summons” reads: “The mountain groves are hazardous and cramped, / With tiger and leopard stalking there” Ⱉ㜿晒晀攨 / 嗶尡䠿⎒. Jiang Yan has taken them over, too, but used their markings to make his fish not only seem unusual but also look fiercer. This is a patent example of the degree to which Jiang Yan’s depiction of the South was often mediated by his experience of literary texts. The poem goes on to tell how after a rain shower Purplish vapors arose from the river, Scarlet fumes descended from the sky.95 Of the white sun there was nothing left, Though clouds in bright-blue rolled half up. 䳓㱡ᶲ㱛炻䴛㯋ᶳ㻊ˤ䘥㖍䃉检炻䡏暚⌟⋲ˤ

92. In the poem he wrote about that occasion, “Cong guanjun xing Jiangping wang deng Lu shan Xianglu feng” ⽆ⅈ幵埴⺢⸛䌳䘣⺔Ⱉ楁䆸Ⲙ ( Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.103; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 4–6), we read “Scarlet fumes descend to wrap and enfold me,/ While white clouds rise up to the blurred dimness. // Sitting in their midst, I behold a swelling nimbus,/ And with head bowed low look upon a coursing star” 䴛㯋ᶳ䶰唬/ 䘥暚ᶲ㜛⅍ // ᷕⶎ䝘囧嘡 / ᾃᾗ夾㳩㗇 (the “coursing star” is a meteor). 93. Instead of 䌳 “kingly,” the texts read 䌱 “jade-white”; but I make this emendation with confidence, in light of the “Da zhao” analogy mentioned below. 94. Chu ci buzhu 10.217. “Kingly” here has the connotation of “imposing; awe-filling.” 95. Cf. the similar line from the excerpt quoted above in his Mount Lu poem.

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Shortly afterward, “A red rainbow came forth like lightning” 崌团暣↢. It seemed “Neither empty nor substantial, / Now shady, now bright” 朆嘃朆⮎ / ᷵昘᷵⃱. The sight takes Jiang Yan’s breath away, and he describes it lushly in more detail. Since he notes that the effect appeared “in the dusk” and “in the gloaming,” what he saw was very likely the phenomenon that atmospheric scientists call a “red bow.”96 But it was not something that could last for long. Presently it began to vanish, and the poet exclaims, “How short-lived this uncanny phenomenon! / Like the crimson emitted from a snuffed fire” ⼤曰䈑ᷳ姶⸦ / 尉䀓㹭侴↢䲭. The following ten lines are the most beautiful and important verses of the poem and deserve to be read and savored: Something left of its shape could still be made out, And its lingering color did not depart; Sparkling on scented sealwort amid the weeds, Glinting on green scallions knotted to trees; In the dusk, on green moss in islets gone cinnabar-red; In the gloaming, it vermilioned the plants by rocky paths. An aurora gleaming and glimmering, then it fled downward; Like sunlight fading to faintness, it passed on upward. Head bowed, I watched the contraction of its fated form, Lamenting that the customs of these times cannot be steadfast. ġ

检⼊⎗奥炻㭀刚ᶵ⍣ˤ侨厶唌侴⛐勱炻㗈曺吙侴䳸㧡ˤ㖷曺剼㕤ᷡ 㷂炻㙾㛙勱㕤䞛嶗ˤ曆㗫㚿侴ᶳ梃炻㖍忂䰈侴ᶲ⹎ˤᾗ⼊␥ᷳ䩀⯨炻 ⑨㗪὿ᷳᶵ⚢ˤ

There are a dozen more lines to the poem, drawing out the significance of the event, finally characterized as embodying “the actualizing spirit of yin and yang within it” 昘春ᷳ䤆䂱. But its gist is here, in the inevitable slipping away of something of surpassing loveliness, enjoyed for a few moments. The term I have translated as “fated form” (xingming ⼊␥), referring to the shape and brief appearance of the nimbus, equally suggests the “physical destiny” of all things in the sublunary world. There is much equanimity here in Jiang Yan’s acceptance of life’s ephemeral nature. In this instance the far South presented to him an unexpected occurrence that was, perhaps to his surprise, memorably satisfying. Possibly we should not be too far off if we think of the psychological accommodations made after some time in India by British representatives of the Raj. Other occasions also could produce poems that show the unique settings of the far South in an attractive and sometimes positive way. Jiang Yan’s fu on “The Goddess by the River” (Shuishang shennü fu) is plainly calqued on Cao Zhi’s 㚡㢵 (192–232) “Luo shen  fu”

96. These can appear only around sunrise and sunset, because at that time the sun’s rays travel longer paths through the lower atmosphere and the blues and greens in the shorter wavelengths of the color spectrum are more strongly scattered, leaving reds (and yellows) to predominate.

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㳃䤆岎. But it contains near its beginning a descriptive passage that shines an attractive light on the locale: Then I traveled into the South, 12

Passing by sweltry islands, Fording rivulets of jade, Crossing currents of gold. The road twisted and turned, with no tracks to follow;

16

The wilds were a blurred expanse, like little else I’d seen.

ġ

ᷫ忈⋿ᷕ炻㷉䀶㳚ˤ䴻䌱㼿炻崲慹㳩ˤ嶗忞彮侴䃉年炻慶⾥㻕侴 ⯈₼ˤ Mountains reversed round on themselves, an erratic jumble; The rivers poured on surging ahead, wrapping and enfolding. Nüwa’s stones of five colors seemed to lie athwart the peaks,97

20

And clouds of a thousand hues took on the shape of petals.98 The sun burned blazing, throwing out its light, And rain spattered sprinkling, falling but scantly. Purple-stalk camellias girded the footway, ranged at random;

24

Pink lotuses and green waters just then vivid and vibrant.99

ġ

Ⱉ⍵央侴⍫拗炻㯜㼮㿴侴䶰唬ˤ䞛Ḽ慯侴㨓Ⲙ炻暚⋫刚侴㈧古ˤ㖍䁗 䁗侴冺⃱炻暐⯹⯹侴䦵句ˤ䳓匾丆徽⥳⍫ⶖ炻䲭匟䵈㯜丼䀤䆵ˤ

The poem goes on to relate at some length an encounter with a beautiful but elusive goddess whose presentment is, using the same words as for the red nimbus in the fu mentioned previously, “neither empty nor substantial.” But in the manner of Cao Zhi’s Luo river goddess, there is nonetheless a seductive appeal in this for the poet. One might think also of the yearning for mystical union with goddesses expressed in some of the “Nine Songs” from Chu ci. In the immediate context of Jiang Yan’s poem we might say “Das Ewig-Weibliche / Zieht uns hinan.” Desire exists, at least temporarily, for something other than a return North. A similar mood is evoked in a poem commemorating a trip to Mount Huangnie 湫⬥, this evidently an excursion taken by Jiang Yan at some point after he had settled into his Wuxing magistracy.100

97. 98. 99. 100.

Recalling the multi-hued stones that the legendary Nüwa ⤛⩏ smelted in order to patch the sky. Recalling the auspicious clouds that gathered over the Yellow Emperor after he vanquished Chiyou 噑⯌. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 1.24; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 177. The precise location of this Huangnie has been a subject of debate. Ding Fulin has weighed the various arguments and decided on the mountain that was once called that, located west of Baitai shan 䘥⎘Ⱉ, just west of Fuqing 䤷㶭 district. This is about sixty-five miles south of Pucheng and would have made a possible excursion (unlike the other Huangnie mountains, which are considerably farther afield). Ding, Jiang Yan nianpu, 104–6.

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Roaming on Mt. Huangnie I gaze long afar, but in the end to what limit? To where clouds of Min join up with the Yue frontier. This southern land abounds in anomalies and freaks, 4

While in the Red District gods and transcendents prevail. Here are peaks of gold, every one eclipsing the sun; Boulders of bronze, each one overlooking the sky. Sunlit notches reflect the simurgh’s bright hues,

8

Overshadowed ravines disgorge dragon springs. Near crumbled spires are trees of a thousand eras, Around perpendicular crests, mists of a myriad ages. Birds call out from atop sun-flushed bluffs,

12

And gibbons howl from among deep-green cliffs. Qin Shihuang envied the havens of the hidden immortals, And Han Wudi wished for everlasting years. Both of them bore the authority of overpowering might,

16

But would cast aside their sword for the mountains of renown. More so I, who am minded of mallows and bean leaves, And of pine trees stretching on before my eyes. We are alike in that I share their distant fancies,

20

As I lean into the wind, with deep and far-off longings.101

ġ

遊黃糵山

ġ

攟㛃䪇ỽ㤝炻救暚忋崲怲ˤ⋿ⶆ棺⣯⿒炻崌䷋⣂曰ẁˤ慹Ⲙ⎬斂㖍炻 戭䞛ℙ冐⣑ˤ春ⱓ䄏淆慯炻昘寧☜漵㱱ˤ㭀Ⱔ⋫ẋ㛐炻唼Ⲻ叔⎌䂇ˤ 䥥沜ᷡ⡩ᶲ炻䋐◗曺Ⲿ攻ˤ䦎䘯ヽ晙㶒炻㻊㬎栀攟⸜ˤ䘮屈晬尒⦩炻 㡬∵䁢⎵Ⱉˤ㱩ㆹ吝喧⽿炻㜦㛐㨓䛤⇵ˤ㇨劍⎴怈⤥炻冐桐庱え䃞ˤ

The opening lines state an important contrast: here in Min “freaks and anomalies” abound, while off in Yue, and part of the classical Red District,102 it is gods and transcendents who are numerous. This might be the very definition of the farther South for the many Tangdynasty officials who would later compose poems during tours of service or relegation to the lower latitudes that came increasingly under the control of the empire. (One thinks, for starters, of such as Shen Quanqi 㰰ἢ㛇, Song Zhiwen ⬳ᷳ⓷, Liu Yuxi ∱䥡拓, and Liu Zongyuan 㞛⬿⃫.) The ensuing description is one of a landscape that dazzles with light and color. Interestingly, it also has mountain clefts and valley springs that would welcome the auspicious simurghs and dragons of classical culture. But those howling gibbons give one 101. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.117–18; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 70–71. 102. Yue would probably not have been included in the Red District, or would have been seen only on its fringe, in classical times. But there is no question that for the Jiangnan elite of Jiang Yan’s ancestry it was fully integrated into the “central states.”

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pause. The whole prospect has an uncanny feel to it. It puts the poet in mind of those “transcendents” sought by the emperors Qin Shihuang and Wu of Han. Even here in the wilds of Fujian, as simple a man as he, “minded of hollyhock and bean leaves” and avid for no worldly success, can share their ethereal longings. Perhaps Min might after all be a place for the “gods and transcendents.” Here we have come a long way from the relentless apprehension and resistance expressed in Jiang Yan’s earlier portrayals of the South. As mentioned above, Jiang Yan was eventually released from his duties in Wuxing and returned home in the springtime of 477. In a shi-poem he wrote at that time, called “Returning to my Home Country” (Huan guguo 怬㓭⚳),103 he says that “In northern lands three seasons of dew have passed,/ And under southern eaves I twice experienced seasons of frost” ⊿⛘ᶱ嬲曚 / ⋿䯟ℵ忊曄.104 The poem is more subdued than one might expect and concludes with these four lines: I sing loudly on nearing my country’s gates, Sigh gently to be nigh the sound of the syrinx’s reeds. Allow me just to imitate the magic lush-blue herb, Through the whole year breathing a sweet scent on my own. 檀㫴‫‫‬斄⚳炻⽖㫶ὅ䫁䯏ˤ婳⬠䡏曰勱炻䳪㬚冒剔剛ˤ

What most soothes him is getting close enough to hear again the pan-pipes of the syrinx, a primary instrument of traditional music culture. Unstated, and appropriately so, is the contrast with whatever barbarous music he has had to endure for the past two and a half years. Home at last, he wishes simply to be left alone and untroubled, to flourish like the magic herb that never withers, even in the winter.105 For a brief time Jiang Yan seems to have acted out this wish.106 But he was soon immersed in dynastic politics, at the side of Xiao Daocheng as the latter made an end of the Song dynasty and established himself on the throne of his own Qi regime. To be reprieved from exile and then find oneself within months as the trusted secretary of the man who would shortly be king must have been more than Jiang Yan could have hoped for during his darkest days in Fujian. So Jiang Yan did not die in the South, as he once feared he might. The fate of being a Jiangnan gentleman prevented from ever going home and finally dying in foreign territory was to be reserved for Yu Xin ⹦ᾉ (513–581) a century later. And of course Yu Xin’s case was directionally the reverse of Jiang Yan’s. Kept as a detained envoy in the North— the traditional Chinese homeland that had been abandoned in the early fourth century by the aristocrats who fled south to Jiangnan and founded the Eastern Jin dynasty, and which they professed always a desire to regain in conquest—he thought himself to be 103. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.118; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 80–81. 104. That is, three Jiangnan autumns passed without his presence (since he left in the early autumn of 474). Having arrived in Wuxing in midwinter of 474, he can say that he spent only two (full) winters there. 105. Cf. from Ban Gu’s 䎕⚢ (32–92) “Xi du fu” 大悥岎: “Magic herbs flourishing in the winter, / Holy trees growing in thickets” 曰勱⅔㥖 / 䤆㛐⎊䓇. Wen xuan 1.18. 106. See especially his “Wuwei lun,” in Note 8 above.

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among louts and churls. The area of the old “central states” held no attraction for him. But that is another story. Jiang Yan did, however, have a final comment some years later on his time in the South. This was in the autobiographical preface he wrote for the first collection of his works, compiled in late 483 or 484.107 After discussing the quarrel with Liu Jingsu that led to his removal to Jian’an Wuxing, he says the following: That land lies beyond the mountain range of the southeast and is an old-time territory of Min-Yue. In it there are deep-blue rivers and sun-flushed mountains, rare trees and numinous plants, everything I have been most partial to my whole life—and I did not mind how distant was the road that took me there. Amid the mountains I was free of official tasks, and had the books of the Way as my companions. I would go out walking alone, my heart drifting off, sometimes oblivious of returning home at dusk of day. When feeling fancy-free I composed literary pieces to amuse myself. ⛘⛐㜙⋿ⵈ⢾炻救崲ᷳ冲⠫ḇˤ䇘㚱䡏㯜ᷡⰙ炻䍵㛐曰勱炻䘮㶡⸛䓇㇨军 ッ炻ᶵ奢埴嶗ᷳ怈䞋ˤⰙᷕ䃉ḳ炻冯忻㚠䁢„ˤᷫえ䃞䌐⼨炻ㆾ㖍⢽⾀ 㬠ˤ㓦㴒ᷳ晃炻枿叿㔯䪈冒⧃ˤ

These words were written when Jiang Yan had for several years been nestled comfortably in the court of the fledgling Qi dynasty, secure in his affairs and his future. They are as complete a reinterpretation of his years in Fujian as seems possible. But perhaps this should not surprise us. Time, we know, lends perspective, changes attitudes, heals all wounds.

107. See Note 3 above.

6 The Pity of Spring A Southern Topos Reimagined by Wang Bo and Li Bai Nicholas Morrow Williams

Though the territory of the ancient state of Chu extended as far north as the southern part of modern Henan province, Chu was the southernmost of the major pre-Qin states. Yet even further south lay the area of Jiangnan 㰇⋿, the land south of the Yangtze River, a more exotic and unknown region entirely. Though sometimes referring to the Southland in general, the term Jiangnan could also indicate the specific region around Qianzhong 湼ᷕ Commandery (in western Hunan province).1 Jiangnan designated the place of Qu Yuan’s exile from Chu proper,2 and hence the geographical counterpart of separation and political frustration, yet in a paradoxical way it also seems already in the Han dynasty to be associated with Qu Yuan’s heroic dimension as well. The most passionate evocation of Jiangnan in the Chu ci must be in the five-line coda to “Summons to the Soul” ㊃櫪. Here the ambivalence of Jiangnan seems to be transferred to an ambivalence toward the season of spring, toward the passage of time, and toward life itself. These transpositions, all contained in such a short passage without any specific references to the earlier content of the poem, result in a passage of poetry that it is as enigmatic as it is undeniably moving:3 As fiery radiance replaces the night— Time cannot be stayed.4 Plashy thoroughwort covers the path— till this road disappears.5 Limpid flow the waters of the Jiang— with maple trees above.6

1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6.

On the identification of Jiangnan, see Jao Tsung-i, Chu ci dili kao, B.79–83. According to Wang Yi’s 䌳忠 (2nd century CE) preface to the “Li sao,” Chu ci buzhu 1.2. Primary text: Chu ci buzhu 9.197–215. Cf. translation in David Hawkes, Ch’u Tz’u: The Songs of the South, 101–9. “Fiery radiance” refers to summer in other early texts, though here to the sun itself. The character xi № is integral to the rhythm of the Chu ci and even more so to that of Li Bai’s fu, in which it is used with discretion and not as a given structural feature. I indicate its presence in source texts with the long dash. David Hawkes struggles with this line: “The marsh orchids cover the path here: this way must be too marshy.” Properly the liquidambar tree or fengxiang 㣻楁, not the maple. Cf. Wang Ping’s discussion of the symbolism of the feng 㣻 tree in this passage, in “Sound of the Maple on the Yangzi River: A Topos of Melancholia in Early to Medieval Chinese Poetic Writing,” 18–23.

Nicholas Morrow Williams

138 My vision penetrates one thousand leagues— the pity of spring in my heart. Oh Soul—return, return, return, and grieve for the Southland.

㛙㖶㈧⣄№㗪ᶵ⎗ẍ㶡ˤ䘳嗕塓⼹№㕗嶗炻㻠㸃㸃㰇㯜№ᶲ㚱㣻ˤ䚖㤝⋫ 慴№ 㗍⽫炻櫪№㬠Ἦ⑨㰇⋿ˤ

These five final lines of “Summons to the Soul” of the Chu ci interweave the themes of transience, spring, the South, and the journey of the soul that is the subject of the poem as a whole.7 We read first of the inexorable passage of time; the physical limits of travel, contrasted with the pleasures of a particular scene on the Yangtze River; finally the pathos of spring and South, woven together inextricably, time and place and their endpoints reverberating in poetry. These lines thus sum up the meaning of the entire poem as a treatment of the soul’s relationship to place (Southland) and time (Spring). At the same time that they form an appropriate conclusion, they also seem to reach beyond the confines of their original setting; as Wang Fuzhi 䌳⣓ᷳ (1619–1692) remarked, “their spirit extends beyond the words, inspiring tears for millennia.”8 Indeed, these obscure lines were the object of reinterpretation and adaptation in the Tang dynasty that would clarify their meaning. They would come to shape the formation of a certain southern identity in literature, with a remarkable potency for a mere forty-one characters. They form a literary topos, “the pity of spring,” with a special historical association with southern China. Though the toponym referred to in these lines is perhaps Jiangnan in the narrow sense, in later poets’ readings it becomes Jiangnan in the larger sense of the Southland, and the southern culture of which Chu poetry is one of the prime emblems. The essential poetry of the lines seems to lie in the poignancy of thinking of the beautiful landscapes of Jiangnan, at their lushest and most vital in the springtime, as themselves the very motive of melancholy. In Sikong Shu’s ⎠䨢㚁 (720–790) famous couplet, for instance, spring is the season of a timeless grief: “Green maples, the color of the Jiang at evening: / The traveler of Chu alone grieves for the spring” 曺㣻㰇刚㘂炻㤂⭊䌐 㗍.9 “Grieving for the spring” is ambiguous in Chinese as in English: is the spring the object of grief or its cause? Though at first glance the answer might seem naturally to be the former, I argue in this paper that in elaborations of the topos that trace back to its source in the “Summons to the Soul,” the spring is actually the cause of the poet’s sadness, in that beauty 7.

8. 9.

Sometimes the first two of these lines are placed along with the preceding ones, rather than understood as part of the conclusion with the final three. The first of these five lines, by raising the problem of transience, leads into the complex invocation of the remaining ones. Note that all five of these lines have–m finals, even though the main vowels are different (the first two lines have the coda-əm, the last three-əm). The total number of–m finals in Chinese is relatively low anyway, so the separate rhyme groups are often combined. Hence these lines should be treated as one formal unit, particularly given the freedom of rhyming in early poetry. 䤆检⫿⢾炻⋫⎌䁢啎㴽. See Chu ci tongshi 㤂录忂慳, in Wang Fuzhi, Chuanshan quanshu, 14: 416. Quan Tang shi 293.3325.

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causes him to suffer by reminding him of its transience. After all, in the second line of Sikong Shu’s couplet, Qu Yuan is not a reveler who decks himself with flowers like a dandyish aesthete, but a more serious figure who decries the neglect of the virtues which flowers can represent. The spring too is a cause of grief, not just for the banal reason that it is actually ending, but for the more poetical reason, its reminder of the fragility of the other excellent things of which it is the symbol. As the poet shares in Qu Yuan’s grief, which he claims to be unique, he thereby reminds us that it is shared. But whether it is actually the same grief or not must depend on one’s interpretation of these lines, to which we must turn before examining their reworking in Tang literature.

The Pity of Spring in the “Summons to the Soul” The contents of the Chu ci are remarkably diverse, and not fully represented by the most famous pieces in the anthology, the “Li sao” 暊槟 and “Nine Songs” ḅ㫴. In particular, the two “summons” pieces, the “Summons to the Soul” and “Great Summons” ⣏㊃, stand out from the other works in the anthology through their foundation in a specific religious practice of ancient Chu, the summoning back of a sick or deceased person’s soul, a practice that has long been recognized by students of comparative religion as a ritual with parallels in shamanistic religions around the world. It forms the basic setting for both of the summons poems and in part determines their content, as we read of the shaman attempting to summon back the beloved soul of the deceased. Yet in both of these poems the religious practice only provides the basic structure, while other elements and themes are interwoven with it, in particular the idealization of the courtier-hero modeled on Qu Yuan; a visionary geography of the realm, with the four directions all represented as various forms of the exotic and terrible; and finally, in the “Summons to the Soul,” a lament for the passage of the present moment, represented at its most intense level of passion by the springtime, season simultaneously of rebirth and of the consciousness of death, “breeding lilacs out of the dead land.” The scene is local and specific, following this road, looking through one pair of eyes, at a scene of maple leaves by the Jiang. But this specific place is the center of a series of concentric fields expanding outward to encompass the South and the entire flight of the soul. The body of the poem describes the dangers lying in all directions, but in this coda the focus is on the landscapes of the Jiang and more specifically the area south of it, Jiangnan. Wang Yi’s 䌳忠 (2nd century CE) interpretation of these lines is that Jiangnan is remote and dangerous, and so a source of grief, which fits the main body of the content of “Summons to the Soul” but not the syntax of the final line (here it is Jiangnan that it is to be pitied, not the wandering soul). Zhang Xian ⻝戹 in the Wuchen commentary to the Wen xuan, by contrast, states that Jiangnan is to be pitied because it had formerly belonged to Ying 悊 (the state of Chu), but was lost.10 The latter reading is perhaps influenced by Yu Xin’s ⹦ᾉ 10. Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 33.27b.

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(513–581) reappropriation of this line as the title of his great fu on the fall of the Liang.11 But this is a false lead, and reading these lines in light of the work as a whole, it is not hard to see why the sights of the Southland evoke only distress: it is because the protagonist of the poem is on the verge of death, and will no longer be able to enjoy them. We are prepared for the conclusion of the poem by the opening, which describes the summons, and the text of the summons itself. The concluding third section recapitulates some of the themes of the introduction, reasserting the sao 槟 meter (in contrast to the entire middle section with its distinctive use of the suo ṃ particle). The introduction defines our understanding of the entire poem, first by introducing a Qu Yuan-like hero of immaculate virtue who has suffered great disappointment, then by describing how Shaman Yang ⶓ春 sets out to save the soul of this unidentified person. The hero whose soul is in question, though not identified in the text of the poem itself, is generally understood to be either Qu Yuan or the King of Chu, although this problem is correlated with the attribution of the entire work. The poem is attributed by Wang Yi to Song Yu ⬳䌱, but also listed as a composition by Qu Yuan in his Shi ji biography.12 But the idea of a binary or discrete choice between authors is too simplistic. As Li Zhi ≃ᷳ argues, the simplest hypothesis that explains the evidence within the text, as well as early attributions, is that Song Yu composed the poem on behalf of Qu Yuan.13 Though Li Zhi does not put it this way himself, this hypothesis is already creating space for a more fluid conception of the poem’s authorship. It is an epic composition on behalf of the soul of a culture-hero, who is thus more or less isomorphic with Qu Yuan. But dual attribution to Qu Yuan and Song Yu also allows us to think of the poem as one never tied inflexibly to the historical Qu Yuan, but always open to the assumption of new voices, thereby anticipating the adaptations to come. What really matters from a literary standpoint is simply that the opening identifies the protagonist of the poem as a Qu Yuan-figure (the historical question is undecidable). Wuchen Ḽ冋 commentator Lü Yanji ⏪⺞㾇 admits as much in his remark on the first line of the poem: “Throughout these words are composed [by Song Yu] in place of the original author [Qu Yuan]” 䘮ẋ⍇䁢录.14 Thus he accepts the attribution to Song Yu while recognizing that the protagonist remains Qu Yuan. This identification automatically explains why the audience for the poem should be interested in the fate of this particular soul—because it is a noble one of intrinsic merit. The soul is that of the noble counselor to the King, Qu Yuan himself or a Qu Yuan-like heroic figure. David Hawkes suggests that these lines have been interpolated via bamboo-strip-related error, and of course this is possible, but that rationalization fails to explain why previous readers have not been troubled by the resulting disjunction. In fact, whatever the source of these lines, in their current location they determine 11. “Ai Jiangnan fu” ⑨㰇⋿岎, in Yan Kejun, “Quan Hou Zhou wen,” Quan shanggu Sandai Qin Han Sanguo Liuchao wen, 8.5a–10b. Cf. William T. Graham, “The Lament for the South”: Yü Hsin’s “Ai Chiang-nan fu.” 12. Shi ji 84.2503. 13. “‘Zhao hun’ kaobian” ㊃櫪侫彐, in Chu ci yu zhonggu wenxian kaoshuo, 144–55. 14. Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 33.17a.

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the meaning of “Summons to the Soul” within the moral setting of the Chu ci, the drama of individual integrity in a damaged and dangerous universe: In youth I was pure, honest and uncorrupted— I was obedient to duty without cease. Taking as my sovereign this great virtue— I was misled by the vulgar, and tainted by filth. My Lord did not consider my great virtue— So long did I meet with trouble, in sadness and worry. 㚽⸤㶭ẍ⹱㻼№炻幓㚵佑侴㛒㱔ˤᷣ㬌䚃⽟№炻䈥㕤὿侴唒䨊ˤᶲ䃉㇨侫 㬌䚃⽟№炻攟暊㬫侴ォ劎ˤ

The conjunction of these opening lines and the title resolve the question of whether the victim whose soul must be summoned is dead or not.15 “Summons to the Soul” is the drama of a soul divided in two, journeying between life and death, choosing among various dangers and pleasures. Whether a person in this situation should be called “living” or “dead” must depend on one’s conception of the soul. In “Summons” this conception of the soul is presented in the latter part of the introduction, which describes how Wu Yang (Shaman Yang) goes forth to make the summons. Again, though this passage appears unrelated to the opening on any literal level, there is a consistent parallel and symbolic interaction between Qu Yuan and the shaman figures in the Chu ci (especially Peng Xian ⼕①).16 Shaman Yang then sets out to summon the lost soul back, though he seems dubious about his chances of success. This section frames the journey in the context of the soul’s division, one that corresponds to the experience of place. The hun 櫪 soul wanders away and must be summoned back; the earthly po 櫬 soul is stuck in place and cannot escape.17 The project of the shaman is to heal the diseased person by making him whole, by rejoining his two souls. The dream-journey of the shaman is a common feature of cultures around the world. In particular, this dualistic conception of the soul is quite common among the same peoples who practice classic shamanism: Tungusic, Samoyedic, Finno-Ugric, Ainu, etc.18 Modern anthropologists describing cultures that believe in soul duality tend to identify the two souls as the free-soul and life-soul 15. Hawkes argues that he must be sick, not dead (Ch’u tz’u, 102). 16. For an overview of wu ⶓ in the Chu ci, see Jiang Liangfu, “Shuo Qu fu zhong zhi wu” 婒⯰岎ᷕᷳⶓ, Jiang Liangfu quanji, 8: 340–42. Some scholars have criticized the traditional rendering of wu as “shaman,” but the function of Wu Yang in this poem corresponds perfectly to one of the key functions of the North Asian shaman. The classic study is Mircea Eliade, Le Chamanisme et les techniques archaïques de l’extase. For another study, generally following in the path of earlier scholarship but incorporating some more recent work, see Rémi Mathieu, “Chamanes et chamanisme en Chine ancienne.” 17. There is an overview of the use of hun and po in the Chu ci in Jiang Liangfu, Chu ci tonggu, 2:316–22. For the common beliefs in Han and pre-Han China regarding hun and po, see Yü Ying-shih, “‘O Soul, Come Back!’: A Study in the Changing Conceptions of the Soul and Afterlife in Pre-Buddhist China.” 18. See Ivar Paulson, Die primitive Seelenvorstellungen der nordeurasischen Völker: eine religionsethnographische und religionsphänomenologische Untersuchung.

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(or body-soul), corresponding to hun and po respectively. Though the free-soul has the power to leave the body and journey far away from its owner, the journey is perilous, and often traverses some nightmare world parallel to the real one.19 For one Native American tribe, “the soul of a person who has a nightmare is nearing the beginning of the trail leading to the world of the souls.”20 Then the summons itself gives us the nightmare world that threatens to destroy the king’s soul, enunciating the dangers that lie all around (in the four directions, above, and below). The remainder of the summons then presents attractions to lure the soul back. These attractions are all located back in the palace, in the “old home” 㓭⯭, and are intended to return the soul to its proper place. The depiction of the celebration that concludes the summons contrasts abruptly with the focus on the individual in the first part of the luan Ḫ, where the Qu Yuan character, together with the King, sets off on a royal hunt on a fine spring day, in a southerly direction: As spring brought in the new year— In haste I ride off southward. Carpetgrass and waterclover have matching leaves—21 And angelica blooms. The route crosses the Lu River—22 Changbo on the left.23 Following the ponds and pools— We gaze far over the plain. The dark stallions race in quartets— Together making one thousand steeds. Beacon fires spread upwards— Dark countenances rise. Marching through, running then halting— Driving ahead at a gallop. I stop the chargers and line them up— Turning the chariots back to the right. Entering the marsh alongside the king— We contend for first and last. My lord and king shoots first— And kills the black rhinoceros.24 19. Ǻbe Hultkrantz, Soul and Native Americans, 108. 20. Ibid., quoting James Teit, “The Thompson Indians of British Columbia,” Memoirs of the American Museum of Natural History 2 (1900). 21. Lü 危 is Arthraxon hispidus, a weedlike grass that inhabits wet and marshy areas. 22. There was a Lujiang Commandery in the Western Han, located in the south of modern Anhui province. 23. According to Wang Yi, Changbo is a place name. 24. Si ⃽ is not the “black rhinoceros” of Africa, but some form of the Asiatic rhinoceros once common in South China. The identification of the si is challenging. Berthold Laufer argues that xi 䈨 refers to the

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䌣㬚䘤㗍№㰑⏦⋿⼩炻危喳滲叱№䘥剟䓇ˤ嶗屓⺔㰇№ⶎ攟唬炻ῂ㱤䔎㿃 №态㛃⌂ˤ曺樒䳸榇№滲⋫Ḁ炻ㆠ䀓⺞崟№䌬柷䂅ˤ㬍⍲樇嗽№婀榩⃰炻 ㈹榾劍忂№⺽干⎛怬ˤ冯䌳嵐⣊№婚⼴⃰炻⏃䌳奒䘤№ㅂ曺⃽ˤ

In contrast to the grander scale of other sections of the poem—the dangers of distant places, the riotous glories of the court—here we have a single moment of experience, still on a royal scale to be sure, but more intimate. This narrative account of a particular incident on a spring day, in medias res, provides the counterpoint of specificity to the generality of the final lines of the poem, mourning spring itself and the South in its entirety. This movement, from particular experience bound in time and place to sweeping generality, mirrors the flight of the soul itself, from confinement in a single person to the placelessness of death. The Qu Yuan figure stands in mortal danger; it is not clear whether this scene is that preceding his death, or simply a memory of a happy springtime hunt. In any case we pity Jiangnan at the end of the poem because it is one of the terrestrial things that will be lost in death, and also because it is a place signifying loss in general, the place where Qu Yuan is exiled, a loss made only more painful by the delights of the spring scenery. Hence the ambiguity throughout this passage, as the soul is alternately delighting in its location and regretting the necessity of departure. The drama reaches its conclusion in the mysterious penultimate line, “My vision penetrates one thousand leagues—the pity of spring in my heart” 䚖㤝⋫慴№ 㗍⽫. There are a number of ways to construe the last three characters, shang chun xin  㗍⽫. I take it as “the pity of spring,” preserving something of the critical ambiguity as to whether spring is the cause or circumstances, and what is to be pitied. But this phrase appears in several variants.25 The most important is the variant Wang Yi gives for the last three characters as “rinses clean the heart of spring” 唑㗍⽫. Wang Yi himself offers the unusual interpretation of dang 唑 as “cleanse.” Its customary sense of “to shake, perturb” would give an overall effect closer to that of the reading of shang   “to wound.” Huang Linggeng suggests that dang is the correct variant, demonstrating its influence in later poetry. Most relevant to this period is that the phrase “rinses clean the heart of spring” (dang chun xin 唑㗍⽫) is used in the “Seven Stimuli” ᶫ䘤 by Mei Sheng 㝂Ḁ (?–140 BCE).26 It is possible that two-horned rhinoceros and si to the single-horned rhinoceros. These were not always easy to distinguish at sight, because the posterior horn of the two-horned rhinoceros was quite small. In particular, Laufer cites the identification of si in the Chu ci from Guo Pu’s 悕䑆 (276–324) commentary to the Er ya 䇦晭. The text of the Er ya itself says “The si is like an ox,” which is not dispositive, but Guo Pu comments that the animal “has one horn, is dark-colored, and weighs one thousand catties” ᶨ奺炻曺刚炻慵⋫㕌. The identification is confirmed in the subcommentary by a citation of the Jin dynasty text Jiaozhou ji Ṍⶆ姀. See Er ya zhushu 10.16a; Berthold Laufer, “History of the Rhinoceros,” in Chinese Clay Figures, Part I: Prolegomena on the History of Defensive Armor, 73–173, esp. 92–93. For an alternative identification, see Carl Whiting Bishop, “Rhinoceros and Wild Ox in Ancient China,” and Jean A. Lefeuvre, “Rhinoceros and Wild Buffaloes North of the Yellow River at the End of the Shang Dynasty.” 25. The variants are mentioned in the commentary of Chu ci buzhu, but there is also a helpful discussion of them in Huang Linggeng, Chu ci zhangju shuzheng, 10.2105–6. 26. Wen xuan 34.1567.

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there were different versions of “Summons to the Soul” in the Han, some of them in different configurations, omitting some of the prefatory or concluding sections, or selecting different variants. In any case, if we ignore Wang Yi’s gloss of dang and adopt the more natural one of “shake, perturb,” the sense of dang chun xin and shang chun xin is quite close.27 The two are after all etymologically related and near-homophones in Old Chinese.28 In either case, the frustration here could stand as a motto for the Chu ci, summing up the elegiac undertones of the entire anthology. Instead of an isolated lament for Qu Yuan, the individual, or for a particular soul, these lines express a sense of pity that extends one thousand leagues, throughout an entire historical region, figured in the eternally recurring death of spring. Later poets adapted both dang and shang variants, finding resonance in both. The Chu ci buzhu offers yet another variant, “wounding the heart, making it mourn”  ⽫ず. Compared to the other and earlier attested variants, this one lacks any special interest, with its redundancy anticipating the least inspired of Chu ci imitators to come. Yet it is precisely this variant which David Hawkes adopts, commenting that it “should, I think, read ず ⽫” (reordering these characters), and accordingly translates “the heart breaks for sorrow.”29 Though normally Hawkes shows an exacting attention to style both in English and Chinese, here his demand for logical coherence has led him astray, to the point of removing the heart itself of the poem, and the anthology, in which it ought to be seen as central. This is an inexplicable rejection of the lectio difficilior in favor of the lectio insulsior. If we keep shang chun xin, the “pity of spring in my heart” presents itself as a poetic symbol of incomparable significance. At the conclusion to the “Summons to the Soul,” it is linked to the death of the hero—or is he still living, in the poem at least?—and suggests the outlines of some underlying myth, not developed fully within this poem, but leaving a certain number of traces, such as the story of Chiyou’s 噑⯌ transformation into a maple tree after his death at the hands of the Yellow Emperor.30 We could think of the shaman’s dream-journey to save the diseased soul as a kind of myth too, and the coda of “Summons” relates that myth to the passage and recurrence of the spring itself. As one contemporary historian of religion has written, the purpose of mythology is not to explain the seasons and other aspects of the natural world, but instead “the seasons may serve as a medium for thinking about periodicity, regularity, order, distinction, transformation and place.”31 The pity of spring in “Summons to the Soul” represents the possibilities for transformation 27. The Zuo zhuan includes the sentence “My heart is shaken” ἁ⽫唑, with dang glossed as ≽㔋 by Du Yu 㜄枸 (222–285). See Zuo zhuan, Zhuang 4, cited by Huang Linggeng, Chu ci zhangju shuzheng, 10.2105–6. 28. Baxter gives 唑 *langʔ and   *hljang. 29. Hawkes, Ch’u tz’u 109 and 200 n134. This translation is unmodified in the Penguin reprint The Songs of the South: An Ancient Chinese Anthology of Poems by Qu Yuan and Other Poets, 230. 30. For the myth and its relevance to this poem, see Ping Wang, “Sound of the Maple on the Yangzi River,” 21–22. 31. Jonathan Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine, 128–29, citing Emile Durkheim, Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, 349: “But the seasons have only furnished the outer frame-work for this organization, and not the principle upon which it rests; for even the cults which aim at exclusively spiritual ends have remained periodical.”

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associated with the spring. But it is also tied to the particular location of the poem, even the very specific scene of maple trees by the river. The identification of place thus initiates a movement away, not just from the origin but also toward a rethinking of place itself, toward place as symbol and abstraction. The poetic significance of Chu, in particular, reaches far away from its origin. The Chu ci meters are numerical patterns without any obvious intrinsic meaning, yet they also refer back to a specific place and time from which they are never entirely disassociated. The tradition of Chu poetry (which we might define by the meter alone, or more loosely by the poetry that employs substantial Chu ci allusion) always embodies a sense of nostalgia towards the Southland, one that goes far beyond any geographical determination. Thus Jiang Yan 㰇㶡 (444–505), exiled to Fujian, depicts himself as a “Chu traveler” 㤂⭊ like Qu Yuan, even though it was Chu from which Qu Yuan was exiled.32 In that poignant term “Chu traveler,” in fact, Chu has taken on an adverbial function indicating a state of mind, complementing its geographical referent. Though spring and the Southland are central to countless Tang poems, it is possible to identify some specific references to the “Summons of the Soul” coda, and to the topos of “the pity of spring in Chu.” These references may be placed in the context of a vogue for Song Yu that arose in the Tang;33 though as we have seen, the “Summons of the Soul” was also attributed to Qu Yuan, and the “pity of spring” corresponded to the autumnal longings in Song Yu’s “Nine Plaints” ḅ彗, together forming key precedents for all kinds of sentimental poetry of the seasons. It is worth noting here that although Song Yu to modern scholars seems a shadowy, semi-mythical figure, he occupied a more concrete reality for Tang writers. His former residence was a well-known site, alluded to frequently in contemporary verse, although its precise geographical designation was not fixed but moved among three locations all belonging to modern Hubei province: Yicheng ⭄❶ (in modern Xiangyang 壬春 in northern Hubei), Guizhou 㬠ⶆ (modern Zigui 䦕㬠 county, southern Hubei), and Jiangling 㰇昝 (modern Jingzhou 勲ⶆ, also southern Hubei).34 When Tang poets alluded to the “Summons,” they would often have had in mind a very specific place they had visited themselves. Thus the coda to the “Summons” recasts a pleasant experience in Chu as the site of a devastating break, where the soul itself is split apart. The longing for that landscape is indistinguishable from the anguish of death, a complex of emotions summed up in the “pity of spring.” These lines, even when placed properly in context of the whole poem or anthology that surrounds them, remain enigmatic. The complex of feelings that arises in spring is ambiguous. Though in most accounts spring is the season of new life, in the “Summons to the Soul” it suggests the moment of death and the loss of a physical place, of Jiangnan in 32. See Chapter 6, “Jiang Yan’s Allusive and Illusive Journeys,” in Williams, Imitations of the Self: Jiang Yan and Chinese Poetics. 33. See Inahata Kōichiro “Sō Gokyu ron—sono bungakuteki hyōka no teiritsu o megutte.” 34. The topic is treated thoroughly in Kamada Izuru, “Sō Gyoku no gotaku: Tōshi ni mieru sono isō.”

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particular. The problematic and ambivalent character of the expression chun xin 㗍⽫ is not something that modern interpreters should gloss over or simplify, let alone emend to a more banal expression. It is precisely the relation of the feeling heart to the felt spring that is in question in this poem and its descendants, in the topos of “the pity of spring,” one of the glories of the literary South.

Wang Bo’s Sichuan Springtime This study will not attempt to survey even a fraction of medieval allusions to the “Summons to the Soul,” nor expressions of springtime angst. Briefly, though, we should distinguish the “pity of spring” theme from some related springtime topoi. The Chu-specific theme of springtime angst is clearly distinct from the erotic one of springtime longing, which appears as early as the Shi jing.35 There is also a philosophical association between spring and transience that appears quite early, and inspires some Six Dynasties pieces on springtime angst.36 Zhan Fangsheng 㸃㕡䓇 (Eastern Jin) has a “Longing in Spring” ㆟㗍岎 which explains: “How flourishing and withering stir the emotions! / Those scenes and images appear as if in a mirror” ⣓㥖⼓ᷳデṢ炾䋞刚尉ᷳ⛐掉.37 In other words, we read our own mortality in the seasons’ passage. Yu Xin has a fu on “Spring” 㗍岎 which celebrates the resurgence of life and the freshness of the flowers, without the kind of melancholy we see in the “Summons to the Soul.”38 There are also poems like Du Fu’s “Spring Prospect” 㗍㛃 in which the loveliness of spring is placed in ironic contrast with the contemporary situation. The pity of spring and its local nature is a distinct theme, though, without either the personal limitations of the erotic theme or the universal abstraction of transience alone. It  is Wang Bo 䌳≫ (649?–676?)39 who quotes the penultimate line of the “Summons to the Soul” in the preface to his fu on “Spring Longings” 㗍⿅岎.40 There he attributes 35. Shi jing, Ode 23/3. 36. We see this in Zheng Xuan’s 惕䌬 (127–200) commentary to Shi jing Ode 168: “Women grieve in spring, men in autumn, because they are moved by the transformations of things” 㗍⤛ず炻䥳⢓ず炻デ℞䈑 ⊾ḇ. But it is unclear if the sentiment is present in the original poem’s (ll. 41–42): “The spring days pass slowly, / The flowers and trees grow lushly” 㗍㖍怚怚ˣ⋱㛐厳厳. 37. Yiwen leiju 3.44. 38. Yan Kejun, “Quan Hou Zhou wen,” 8.1a–2a. 39. There is disagreement in the original sources about Wang Bo’s dates. The dates 649–676 are based on the speculation of Jiang Qingyi 哋㶭佲 (19th century) as summarized in Suzuki Torao, “Ō Botsu nenpu.” But He Lintian ỽ㜿⣑ has pointed out that one of Wang’s prefaces is dated to 683, which upsets all the traditional datings, and suggests 649–684 as the proper dates. See Timothy Wai Keung Chan, “Restoration of an Anthology by Wang Bo,” 502n33, citing He Lintian, Chongding xinjiao Wang Zi’an ji, 1–4. The text of “Spring Longings” is in Wang Zi’an jizhu, 1.1–15. There is a complete annotated translation of the fu in Timothy Wai Keung Chan, “In Search of Jade: Studies of Early Tang Poetry,” 292–310. 40. The scholarship on Wang Bo is limited, but Takagi Shigetoshi, Sho Tō bungaku ron treats Wang Bo in some detail, and there are two articles in English: Timothy Wai Keung Chan, “Restoration of a Poetic Anthology by Wang Bo”; and Ding Xiang Warner, “‘A Splendid Patrimony’”: Wang Bo and the Development of a New Poetic Decorum in Early Tang China.”

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it to Qu  Yuan, not Song Yu, and uses the reading shang chun xin  㗍⽫, an important external confirmation. But Wang Bo also elaborates much further on the “pity of spring” in his “Spring Longings” and related short verse. This fu is a remarkably complex aesthetic achievement that can only be touched on in part here; the English equivalent of fu in the poem’s title would perhaps be “lyrico-epical fantasy,” conveying the remarkable combination of lyrical density and grand scale. Technically, the poem shows influences from late Six Dynasties fu and contemporary heptasyllabic verse.41 In particular, artful repetition and elaborate parallelism create highly rhythmical passages that sustain the length of the composition. The word “spring” alone appears some eight times in the prefaces and nearly fifty times in the body of the piece. In spite of a precocious youth, by his late teens Wang Bo was having trouble obtaining the official post he desired. In 669, for reasons that are not entirely clear, he departed for a visit of several years to Shu 嚨 (modern Sichuan). It was a period of enormous creativity, perhaps inspired by friends like Luo Binwang 榙屻䌳 who happened to be there at the same time, and it was here that Wang wrote “Spring Longings” in early 671.42 After its prose preface, the main body of the fu explores a number of different points of view. The author himself complains of his frustrated desire for higher office, but counterposes the situation of the frustrated official in semi-exile with that of lonely palace ladies and others affected by the intense emotions of spring. Though Wang describes the onset of spring in the capital region as well, there is special emphasis on Jiangnan and on Shu itself. Here Shu in particular seems to stand in for the South as place of exile. Wang Bo even compiled an anthology of thirty poems entitled Poems from My Journey to Shu ℍ嚨䲨埴娑.43 Wang probably compiled these poems to present to a prospective patron, as a kind of request for aid in finding employment (gan ye ⸚媩). Thus in a sense Wang’s visit to Shu was the very opposite of exile, in that it provided at least the imaginary prospect of attaining future employment. In his concrete circumstances during the journey, then, Wang would have felt a contradictory array of emotions, ranging from loneliness and regret to enjoyment and anticipation. These are reflected in the content of the fu, which ranges widely through situations typical of spring, both mournful and celebratory. In the preface, spring is depicted as the season that amplifies all kinds of emotions of whatever kind: In the second year of the Xianheng era (671), when my springs and autumns numbered twenty-two, I journeyed through Ba and Shu, and wandered through the progression of the seasons. Bearing this melancholy even in the time of brightness, I was miserable in an age of sagehood. Liu Taiyi of Hedong, county magistrate of Jiulong,44 is a brilliant gentleman, and I accompanied him in his travels. With lofty conversations of our 41. See Takagi Shigetoshi, Sho Tō bungaku ron, 244–77. 42. On Wang’s interaction with and influence from Luo Binwang and Lu Zhaolin in Sichuan, see Takagi, Sho Tō bungaku ron, 270–75. 43. See Chan, “Restoration of a Poetry Anthology by Wang Bo,” passim. 44. Modern Pengzhou ⼕ⶆ city, Sichuan.

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Nicholas Morrow Williams hearts’ ambitions, we expressed much of our frustration and discontent. At this time it was spring, and the scenery filled me with nostalgia.45 An ancient said: “The scenery is not too different, but when you look around, you see how the mountains and rivers are distinct.” Is not this sad? I am not talented, just a devoted scholar-official. I bear within me a heart with some singular use in this universe; I have received the vital energy that is out of the ordinary in this Heaven and Earth. Though I am a single officer poorly planted, making an arduous journey of one thousand leagues, I have never humbled myself before some lord, or shamed my countenance according to some local fashion. Solemnly I compare myself with metal and jade, yet still I cannot forget my passions in the spring. Thus I know how far Spring reaches in its power, how deeply Spring stirs. This is why I must regret the passage of Time in my impoverished state, and mourn the months and years as I long for achievement and glory. This is surely not simply a matter of secluded palaces, narrow lanes, or mulberry paths. Qu Ping once said: “My vision penetrates one thousand leagues—the pity of spring in my heart.” Thus I have composed “Spring Longings,” to explore everything that Spring may touch upon, and to detail what the heart rejects or obtains. ①ṐḴ⸜炻ἁ㗍䥳Ḵ⋩㚱Ḵ炻㕭⭻⶜嚨炻㴖忲㬚⸷ˤ㭟ㄪ㖶㗪炻⛶⡰俾 ẋˤḅ晜䷋Ẍ㱛㜙㞛⣒㖻炻劙忼⏃⫸ḇ炻⁽⽆忲䂱ˤ檀婯傠㆟炻枿㱬ㅌ ㆋˤ㕤㗪㗍ḇ炻桐⃱ὅ䃞ˤ⎌Ṣḹ烉桐㘗ᶵ㬲炻冱䚖㚱Ⱉ㱛ᷳ䔘ˤᶵ℞ず ᷶烎⁽ᶵㇵ炻俧ṳᷳ⢓ḇˤ䩲䧇⬯⭁䌐䓐ᷳ⽫炻⍿⣑⛘ᶵ⸛ᷳ㯋炻晾⻙㢵 ᶨṳ炻䩖徼⋫慴炻㛒☸ᶳね㕤℔ὗ炻⯰刚㕤㳩὿炻ↄ䃞ẍ慹䞛冒⋡炻䋞ᶵ 傥⾀ね㕤㗍ˤ⇯䞍㗍ᷳ㇨⍲怈䞋炻㗍ᷳ㇨デ㶙䞋炻㬌⁽㇨ẍ㑓䩖岌侴や⃱ 昘炻㆟≇⎵侴ず㬚㚰ḇˤ寰⼺⸥⭖䊡嶗炻旴ᶲ㟹攻侴⶚⑱烎⯰⸛㚱妨烉䚖 㤝⋫塷 㗍⽫ˤ⚈ἄ㗍⿅岎炻⹞⸦᷶ẍ㤝㗍ᷳ㇨军炻㜸⽫ᷳ⍣⯙ḹ䇦ˤ

Two quotations in the preface focus the point of the entire fu: one from the Shishuo xinyu on the anguish of exile in a strange place, coexisting with a certain admiration for the scenery in that place; the other the penultimate line of the “Summons to the Soul,” quoted as in the received version. The Shishuo xinyu quotation is spoken by Zhou Yi ␐柿: “The scenery is not too different, but when you look around, you see how the mountains and rivers are distinct.”46 Wang Bo’s use of the quotation here relates “spring longings” specifically to the situation of exile. The original remark reflects the sadness of northerners exiled to the South, comparing the differences and similarities of their new situation. But Wang Bo is particularly interested here in the ambiguity of Zhou Yi’s emotion, simultaneously enjoying the scenery around him, and suffering from the nostalgia it evokes. Wang then adapts this interplay of similarity and difference to his own situation, and particularly to the topic at hand of spring. Though Wang’s specific frustration has to do with his career, he asserts that this frustration is characteristic of spring itself. To demonstrate the universality of the 45. Yiran ὅ䃞 means “same as ever,” but with a wide range of possible emotional inflections. One classic example is in Jiang Yan’s “Rhapsody on Parting,” contrasting the immortal’s indifference to parting with that of ordinary people: “But worldly people take parting seriously, / And as they say farewell to the host feel nostalgia” ょᶾ攻№慵⇍炻嫅ᷣṢ№ὅ䃞. See Wen xuan 16.755. 46. Shishuo xinyu jianshu 2.92 (2/31). The context is soon after the fall of the Western Jin, when the elites of Luoyang had fled to the South. The received text is slightly different from Wang’s quotation. See the translation in Richard B. Mather, A New Account of Tales of the World, 47.

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sentiment, he quotes the “Summons to the Soul,” attributing it to Qu Yuan (as in the Shi ji biography of Qu Yuan). He quotes the received version: “My vision penetrates one thousand leagues—the pity of spring in my heart” 䚖㤝⋫№ 㗍⽫. Here too he appreciates the ambiguity in that line, both enjoying a southern landscape in spring and also experiencing it as a kind of cause for grief. Much of the fu is an elaboration on different topics associated with spring, especially the lonely palace lady, as well as further reflections on Wang Bo’s ambitions. Wang Bo celebrates the pleasures of spring as well as the sorrows, to such an extent that his repeated invocations of “spring” throughout the piece come to approach the rhetorical form of antanaclasis, the repetition of the same word in different senses. The following passage near the end, though, sums up specific associations with spring in a striking way (ll. 169–76): I venture to ask the one in pursuit of Spring: How many places is it that the year is renewed? Which year does spring not arrive? What place does not enjoy the spring? It will be in spring that one meets with a traveler from afar; And it will be springtime when one parts from friends. Though the scenery shares the same climate, Sorrow and joy are each of different kinds. 䁢⓷徸㗍Ṣ炻⸜⃱⸦嗽㕘ˤỽ⸜㗍ᶵ军炻ỽ⛘ᶵ⭄㗍ˤṎ㚱䔞㗍忊怈⭊炻 Ṏ㚱䔞㗍⇍㓭Ṣˤ桐䈑晾⎴῁炻ず㬉⎬䔘ΐˤ

Wang Bo’s poem is complex and deserves appreciation as a complete entity, and also in the context of his short life. Here I need only point out the complexity which Wang himself invests in the concept of the spring. Rather than celebrating the joys of spring wholeheartedly, he finds in spring itself occasion for darker reflections. Because the feelings of the poem are also attributed to his specific situation, it is not always clear whether he means to present them as general attributes of spring. But Wang’s quotation of “Summons to the Soul” shows that he is following that poem in finding a certain kind of melancholy in the spring in Chu itself. Wang Bo’s devotion to the theme can be seen further in his regulated quatrains, “Relating My Inspiration in a Foreign Land” Ṿ悱㔀冰;47 “Traveling in Spring” 估㗍;48 and “Roaming in Spring” 㗍忲.49 While these poems are not properly dateable, it is plausible that they were written approximately at the same time as “Spring Longings,” given the thematic and linguistic parallels.50 “Relating My Inspiration in a Foreign Land” would at first appear to belong to a separate theme and is located separately from the spring quatrains 47. 48. 49. 50.

Wang Zi’an jizhu 3.98. Ibid., 3.96. Ibid., 3.97. As Peng Qingsheng finds in Chu Tang shige xinian kao, 130.

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in the thematic classification of the Southern Song anthology Tang ren jueju shi ⒸṢ䳽⎍ 娑.51 But here Wang directly associates springtime and displacement: Weaving together leaves, returning late in the mist, While the leaves are falling still springtime shines. In the border town, a place for chords and wine, We are all of us displaced from home. 䵜叱㬠䄁㘂炻Ḁ剙句䄏㗍ˤ怲❶䏜惺嗽炻ᾙ㗗崲悱Ṣˤ

This is a particularly good example of Wang Bo’s recurring attention to the theme of the “foreign land.” This is not really the same as exile, since Wang was not actually in political exile, like some later Tang poets. But he did have a sense of being adrift and out of place, both in Shu and elsewhere.52 “Traveling in Spring” elaborates further on that nexus, beginning with a variation on the “Summons” coda: The traveler’s heart is tired from these thousand leagues; The matters of spring all return this morning. Still I grieve inside the northern garden, To watch the falling blossoms flutter past again. ⭊⽫⋫慴῎炻㗍ḳᶨ㛅㬠ˤ怬 ⊿⚺塷炻慵夳句剙梃ˤ

Although one might read the poem as lamenting the end of spring, based on the last line, its true import is more complex, because the first couplet has already associated the grief and hardship of travel with spring itself. This is in part simply a coincidence of time—the poet could be melancholy in spite of the spring rather than because of it—but this association further shades our interpretation of the second half. The emphasis here is on the recurrence of spring and of the departure of spring’s blossoms, a recurrence that is doubly poignant when the reference to the “Summons” coda is taken into account. “Roaming in Spring” gives the clearest and simplest interpretation of the “pity of spring”: This traveler’s thoughts are tumultuous and have no end; Spring tears multiply and fall in lines. This morning below the flowering trees, How I treasure the time that passes unnoticed. ⭊⾝䳃䃉㤝炻㗍㶂᾵ㆸ埴ˤṲ㛅剙㧡ᶳ炻ᶵ奢ㆨ⸜⃱ˤ

Wang Bo is not complaining that the spring has arrived, lamenting the psychological enervation of T. S. Eliot’s “April is the cruellest month . . . ” or Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “See how Spring opens with disabling cold . . . ” Wang’s fu depicts a panoply of overlapping emotional reactions to the spring, not a purely negative one. Though complex in its way, this is a symbolism that finds much sustenance in the inspiration of the “Summons to the Soul,” and 51. See Chan, “Restoration of an Anthology by Wang Bo,” 499. 52. Cf. Takagi, Sho Tō bungaku ron, 208–9.

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that deepens convention without reversing it. The simultaneous awareness of the beauty and fragility of life we see in these poems was an inspiration also to the culture of medieval Japan, whose sensibility is so well encapsulated in Kenkō’s (1283?–1350?) formula that “life is wondrous precisely because it does not last” ᶾ̰⭂̫̞̙͍͂̎̔̅̀̒.53 Much of the poignancy of the pity of spring comes from its association with exile. It is because the soul is divided, the hun soul wandering lost through an unfamiliar land, that the “pity of spring” evokes melancholy rather than joy in its original setting in the “Summons to the Soul.” This is a reenactment on a mythical level, of course, of Qu Yuan’s exile from Chu. The reenactment of exile or displacement is at tension with the fact that the exile is always associated with specific locations in the Chu area—the Xiang 㸀 River, Jiangnan, and so on. Thus the emotion duality of spring joy and melancholy is paralleled in the geographical duality of coming and going from Chu, paralleled again in the duality of souls both leaving the body and staying behind.

Li Bai’s Lyrics of Chu in Spring Li Bai takes up the language of “Summons to the Soul” in many poems, but particularly in his fu, which often adopt the sao meter and diction. One striking example comes in his “Imitation of the Fu on Bitter Regret” 㒔【岎.54 It is easy to overlook the original features of this work because its formal similarity to the model by Jiang Yan is so close.55 In one passage Li Bai writes about Qu Yuan, by far the leading model for resentment and self-pity in the literary tradition. Jiang Yan presumably refrained from choosing Qu Yuan as one of the voices in his fu out of a modesty that Li Bai does not share:56 Long ago When Qu Yuan was sent into exile He departed to the currents of the Xiang. Heart dead to old Chu, Soul flown to tall catalpas. He heard the wind’s whistling on the Jiang; He listened to the howls of the gibbons on the crags. Bones forever buried in green waters there, He resents King Huai for not receiving him. 㖼侭炻⯰⍇㖊㓦炻怟㕤㸀㳩炻⽫㬣冲㤂炻櫪梃攟㤠ˤ倥㰇桐ᷳ⩳⩳炻倆ⵢ 䉾ᷳ┦┦ˤ㯠❳橐㕤䵈㯜炻⿐㆟䌳ᷳᶵ㓞ˤ

53. Tsurezuregusa, Chapter 7. 54. For a complete translation, see Michelle Sans, “A Better View of Li Bai’s ‘Imitating the “Fu on Resentment.”’’’ 55. See the discussion of Jiang Yan’s original fu in this author’s “Self-Portrait as Sea Anemone, and Other Impersonations of Jiang Yan.” 56. Li Taibai quanji 1.15.

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The strong phrasing “heart dead” comes not from the “Fu on Bitter Regret,” but its companion, the “Fu on Parting.”57 But there it is merely descriptive of sadness, while here in concatenation with “old Chu” and in parallel opposition to the flight of the soul, it takes on a new meaning. This couplet is in fact a spectacularly concise and vivid restatement of “Summons to the Soul,” just as the first couplet retells the Li sao. This text is a reminder that we disdain the historical implausibilities of the traditional lore about Qu Yuan’s authorship of Chu ci poems at peril of a greater error: failing to comprehend the mythological system which is the prerequisite of those poems’ signification. Of Li Bai’s eight extant fu, four others stand in distinct relation to “Summons to the Soul.” Li Bai’s three large-scale fu, on the Hall of Light (Mingtang 㖶➪), the imperial hunt, and the great peng 洔 bird, are all of distinct kinds, but his four other extant fu pieces are saostyle pieces related to occasions of parting (as well as other topics), and are affiliated with the tradition of sentimental poetry by Jiang Yan and other Southern Dynasties poets. Like many of Jiang’s poems, they can also be read as continuations of the Chu ci tradition, though they all have singular twists in other directions as well. “Sword Gallery” ∵敋岎 warns Li’s friend Wang Yan 䌳䀶 of the dangers of Shu, but also describes the parting of friends in the tradition of autumnal sorrows.58 In that respect it is a companion to “Mourning Clear Autumn” ず㶭䥳岎, set in the Jiuyi ḅⵟ mountains of Hunan. That poem mentions the “birds’ paths” 沍忻 familiar from “The Road to Shu Is Hard,” but ends with an invocation of the “Summons” poems: “Return! Ah! / Mankind ought not linger here, / I’d rather gather herbs on Peng Hill” 㬠⍣Ἦ№炻Ṣ攻ᶵ⎗ẍ妿ṃ炻⏦⮯㍉喍㕤咔᷀.59 In opposition to these two poems, finally, the remaining two fu share similar titles: “Cherishing the Last of Spring” や检㗍岎 and “Melancholy for Springtime” ォ春㗍岎. With “Sword Gallery” and “Mourning Clear Autumn,” these form a quartet of lyrical pieces on sorrow and season, place and parting, that comprise a sort of equivalent to the imitation of Jiang’s “Fu on Parting” which ought to, but does not, survive in Li’s extant collection. This is not to say that Li Bai originally composed the fu with the intention that they be read this way. To the contrary, aside from “Sword Gallery” their origins are rather murky. The overlap in theme and occasionally even text between the two spring fu suggests a relationship which is hard to resolve. It seems quite possible that the arrangement of the fu in their current state is due in part to a later editor, especially as the shorter fu might be fragmentary. Nonetheless, in their current condition, they form a coherent suite of poems on longing and loss.60 Here I translate only the spring fu, in order to focus on this theme as it has evolved, but it is worth remembering the counterpoint of autumn in the collection of Li’s fu. 57. This kind of substitution is typical of ni poetry. Cf. Williams, “A Conversation in Poems: Xie Lingyun, Xie Huilian, and Jiang Yan,” 504. 58. On its possible relationship to “The Road to Shu Is Hard,” see Paul W. Kroll, “The Road to Shu, from Zhang Zai to Li Bo,” 252. 59. i.e. Mount Penglai, home of immortals. 60. Wang Qi for instance, arranges the fu in this order: ⣏洔岎炻㒔【岎炻や检㗍岎炻ォ春㗍岎炻ずね䥳 岎炻∵敋岎炻㖶➪岎炻⣏䌝岎. This gives first the sui generis fu on the Peng bird; then the “Imitation of

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The two spring fu, though resembling one another, also offer a contrast. “Cherishing the Last of Spring” emphasizes that the end of spring is the cause of sadness, while “Melancholy for Springtime” offers no direct cause in its title. Cherishing the Last of Spring61 I Why does Heaven use the Northern Dipper to make us aware of the spring— Pointing back towards the East? The waters in emerald aspect—pitch and roll, And thoroughwort flourishes—with red blossoms. I’ll climb up high—and gaze afar, Across the dim expanse of the clouds’ ocean. The soul, once gone—is nearly severed, And tears pour down my cheeks—in furrows.62 I sing of the pure breeze, in odes to the cerulean ripples,63 Longing for Dongting—lamenting the Xiao and Xiang. How my heart drifts astray— Along with spring breeze I float free. II Floating free—with my thoughts unconstrained, Pondering why the splendid season—has not yet appeared. The plateau grows lushly—with damask hues, How I love these fragrant plants—that seem tailored. I regret that our remaining spring—must end, Ever feeling regret—that is not shallow. On a bend of the Han—a shore of the Jiang, I grasp the carnelian grasses—my longing unbearable. I miss that lady roaming—north of Mount Xian, Worry for the Lord’s daughters—south of the Xiang.64

61.

62. 63. 64.

the fu on Bitter Regret,” preparing for the sequences of short lyrical fu, arranged into spring and autumn pairs, and then finally the grand imperial fu, separately. The Shu edition Li Taibai wenji has the order 㖶➪岎炻⣏ 䌝岎炻⣏洔岎炻∵敋岎炻㒔【岎炻や检㗍岎炻ォ春㗍岎炻ず㶭䥳岎. Here the “Sword Gallery” is placed separately, but the other seasonal fu still form a set, prefaced by the “Imitation . . . ” whose theme they actually share. Erwin von Zach omits a translation of this fu, citing the existing Latin translation in Angelo Zottoli (1826– 1902), Cursus litteraturæ sinicæ: neo-missionariis accommodatus, Part V: Pars oratoria et poetica, 672–75. This remarkable textbook of classical Chinese deserves further consideration. See von Zach, “Lit’aipo’s poetische Werke: Buch I,” 432. Zottoli’s “lachrymaeque defluentes genis conficiunt sulcos” is hard to equal in English. There is a variant of 㣻 for 桐. Canglang could also be a place name. These lines are a Chu fantasy inspired by the “Nine Songs.” For instance the Lord’s daughters are the two daughters of Shun, as in “Lady of the Xiang River.” See Chu ci buzhu 2.64. Mount Xian, near Xiangyang 壬春 in Hubei, however, had become prominent in poetry more recently, since it first gained celebrity when

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154 III My regret has no limit—and my heart is melancholy, Gazing into the distance—my anxiety is overwhelming. I bare the sorrows of Wei on the Qi river,65 Complete a dream of Chu on the Sunlit Clouds.66 IV Every time the spring returns—the flowers bloom, Only when the blossoms fade—does spring too change. I sigh that the Yellow River flows so swiftly, Sending its waves dashing to the eastern sea. V Spring cannot be stayed—the moment is lost, Old age brings its desolation—and my passions grow swifter. If only I could suspend a long hawser to the blue sky, And harness the bright sun that westward flies. VI I feel as if there is someone—dear in feeling,

Who has gone to Southern Yue—who has departed to Western Qin. I see the floss floating in the air, across the road, Entangling the spring sunlight, as to make him stay. VII I heave deep sighs—and sing laments, Dally here—and regret this parting. I’ll send the traveler off far away, To watch the soaring goose that gradually vanishes. Intoxicating my worried heart in the drooping willows, I follow their tender branches in crisscrosses. VIII Gazing towards you—I sigh in regret, My tears flowing across—I resent spring’s flourishing.67 Far off I’ll send my shadow to the bright moon, Accompanying you to the edge of Heaven.

Yang Hu 伲䤄 (221–278) was the governor of Xiangyang. Cf. Chapter 7 of this volume. 65. As in Shi jing Ode 59 in the “Airs of Wei,” about a girl leaving her family to be married. 66. The “Sunlit Clouds” is one name for the terrace that is the site of Song Yu’s “Gaotang fu” 檀Ⓒ岎. See Wen xuan 19.875–82. 67. Chunhua can mean “youth” as well. Zottoli translates “indignor vernis splendoribus” (I resent vernal splendors).

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⣑ᷳỽ䁢Ẍ⊿㔿侴䞍㗍№炻⚆㊯㕤㜙㕡ˤ㯜唑㻦№䡏刚炻嗕君唌№䲭剛ˤ 娎䘣檀№㛃怈炻㤝暚㴟ᷳ⽖勓ˤ櫪ᶨ⍣№㫚㕟炻㶂㳩柘№ㆸ埴ˤ⏇㶭桐侴 娈㹬㴒炻㆟㳆⹕№ず㿇㸀ˤỽḰ⽫ᷳ䷡䶚№炻冯㗍桐侴桬㎂ˤ桬㎂№⿅䃉 旸炻⾝Ἓ㛇№卓⯽ˤ⸛⍇厳№䵢刚炻ッ剛勱№⤪侎ˤや检㗍ᷳ⮯整炻㭷䁢 【№ᶵ㶢ˤ㻊ᷳ㚚№㰇ᷳ㼕炻㈲䐌勱№⿅ỽ⟒ˤ゛忲⤛㕤Ⲝ⊿炻ォⷅ⫸㕤 㸀⋿ˤ【䃉㤝№⽫㯛㯛炻䚖䚯䚯№ㄪ䳃䳃ˤ㉓堃ね㕤㵯㯜炻䳸㤂⣊㕤春 暚ˤ㗍㭷㬠№剙攳炻剙⶚整№㗍㓡ˤ㫶攟㱛ᷳ㳩忇炻復楛㲊㕤㜙㴟ˤ㗍ᶵ 䔁№㗪⶚⣙炻侩堘桗№ね忦䕦ˤ【ᶵ⼿㍃攟丑㕤曺⣑炻Ὢ㬌大梃ᷳ䘥㖍ˤ 劍㚱Ṣ№ね䚠奒炻⍣⋿崲№⼨大䦎ˤ夳忲䴚ᷳ㨓嶗炻䵚㗍㘱ẍ䔁Ṣˤ㰱⏇ №⑨㫴炻帹席№ ⇍ˤ復埴⫸ᷳ⮯怈炻䚳⼩泣ᷳ䦵㹭ˤ愱ォ⽫㕤✪㣲炻晐 㝼㡅ẍ䲦䳸ˤ㛃⣓⏃№冰⑐▇炻㨓㴽㶂№⿐㗍厗ˤ态⭬⼙㕤㖶㚰炻復⣓⏃ 㕤⣑㵗ˤ

The first stanza opens with one of Li Bai’s signature hypermetrical lines, stressing the theme of transience. The invocation of the soul here refers primarily to the separation of friends. The transition to the second stanza is marked by anadiplosis, mirroring the subject matter of friendship and parting.68 The second stanza, nearly equal in length to the first, then continues the depiction of southern landscapes, blending mistily into the emotions of the poem. The remainder of the fu consists mainly of quatrains with an AAXA rhyme scheme. Stanza III contains a particularly felicitous couplet opposing allusions related to Chu and the state of Wei: I bare the sorrows of Wei on the Qi river, Complete a dream of Chu on the Sunlit Clouds. ㉓堃ね㕤㵯㯜炻䳸㤂⣊㕤春暚ˤ

The dream of Chu refers to the meeting of King Huai with the goddess of Mount Wu, referred to by Song Yu in the “Gaotang fu.” So explain the commentators; but here Li Bai is making that dream his own, “completing” it. The dream of Chu stands for something that appears and disappears in one night, like the goddess of Mount Wu, a dream of something vanishing. This leads naturally to the following couplet in Stanza IV: Every time the spring returns—the flowers bloom, Only when the blossoms fade—does spring too change. 㗍㭷㬠№剙攳炻剙⶚整№㗍㓡ˤ

Springtime vanishes as soon as it appears, just like the dream of Chu. Stanza V introduces the converse theme of resisting transience, investing the spring with permanence. This will form the conclusion to “Melancholy for Springtime,” one of many intertextual relations between the two pieces, and even in a counterfactual mood provides a more optimistic counterpoint to the main theme. Stanzas VI to VIII focus on a friend who 68. Anadiplosis here refers to reduplication of a word or phrase from the end of the preceding stanza at the beginning of the succeeding one. On this formal-expressive convergence in early medieval Chinese poetry, see Williams, “A Conversation in Poems: Xie Lingyun, Xie Huilian, and Jiang Yan,” 505–6.

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is departing. When Li Bai speaks of sending his “shadow” to accompany the friend, there is an echo of the shamanistic power of the “Summons to the Soul.” The shadow can represent the equivalent of the free-soul for some shamanistic cultures.69 Thus Li Bai’s poem derives continuing power from the old myth, the anguish of springtime as the division of a soul. The other fu addresses the pity of spring explicitly: Melancholy for Springtime 愁陽春賦70 I The East Wind has returned, I see the emerald grasses and know that it is spring. Rippling faintly in the wind, How these willow branches make one melancholy with their sensuous swinging! The light of Heaven is pristine, warmly comforting, The ocean air is green, its fragrance fresh. II The fields are radiant halcyon—spreading without end, While the clouds float on by and in shared vividness. Flowing on fast—linked in turn, I notice the green moss that grows by the spring.71 Fluttering in the breeze—floating along together,72 I see the floss floating by, enwreathed in mist. My soul will be severed—entirely from these,73 Intoxicated by a glimmer on the breeze—I feel melancholy.74 III It is just like: The voices of Qin on the Long river, The ditties of Ba and the gibbons on the Jiang. The Radiant Concubine at the jade pass, The Chu traveler in the maple glade. I climb up high and gaze afar, But pain sears my bones and wounds my heart.

69. See Paulson, Die primitive Seelenvorstellungen der nordeurasischen Völker, 278–80. 70. Translated in Erwin von Zach, “Lit’aipo’s poetische Werke: Buch I,” 432–33; and Florence Ayscough and Amy Lowell, Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese, 32–33. 71. The variant 㕘 for 曺 seems appropriate to the overall theme. 72. This line is very similar to Song Yu, “Da yan fu” ⣏妨岎烉桬⥁侑䵧炻᷵夳᷵㲗. See Yiwen leiju 19.346. 73. The xi particle here neatly severs the line in two, mirroring the meaning. 74. Fengguang 桐⃱ implies “scene” but the literal meaning of “wind and light” seems even more fitting to the style of these poems. There is a variant ⮵ for 愱.

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IV The pity of spring is stirred—like waves, The worry of spring is disturbed—like the snow. Myriad emotions meet, all pain and pleasure, In this one feeling of a fragrant season. V If there is someone—on the banks of the Xiang, Separated by clouds and nimbuses, he cannot be seen. Shedding tears of parting over footlong waves, I’ll send my feelings along in the eastward current. If I could make the spring sunlight tangible and unperishing— I would keep it for that Fair One, at the other end of Heaven. 㜙桐㬠Ἦ炻夳䡏勱侴䞍㗍ˤ唑㻦⿵も炻ỽ✪㣲㕾㕶ᷳォṢˤ⣑⃱㶭侴⤵ ␴炻㴟㯋䵈侴剛㕘ˤ慶⼑侈№刲䛈炻暚桬档侴䚠歖ˤ㺼㻦№⣌䶋炻䩢曺剼 ᷳ䓇㱱ˤ䷡䶚№侑䵧炻夳忲䴚ᷳ䶰䄁ˤ櫪冯㬌№ᾙ㕟炻愱桐⃱№㵺䃞ˤ劍 ᷫ烉晜㯜䦎倚炻㰇䋧⶜⏇ˤ㖶⤫䌱⠆炻㤂⭊㣻㜿ˤ娎䘣檀侴㛃怈炻䖃↯橐 侴 ⽫ˤ㗍⽫唑№⤪㲊炻㗍ォḪ№⤪暒ˤℤ叔ねᷳず㬉炻勚ᶨデ㕤剛䭨ˤ 劍㚱ᶨṢ№㸀㯜㾙炻昼暚暻侴夳䃉⚈ˤ㿹⇍㶂㕤⯢㲊炻⭬㜙㳩㕤ね奒ˤ劍 ἧ㗍⃱⎗㓔侴ᶵ㹭№炻㫚岰⣑㵗ᷳἛṢˤ

Like the previous poem, this one begins with a signal of spring, the anticipation of spring that is accompanied by some anxiety. There is a special emphasis on the lushness of the landscape, which the binomes of a fu are especially appropriate to describe. As in the previous poem, again, the first two stanzas are relatively long and descriptive, while the third stanza takes a turn towards interiority and literary reminiscence. This stanza could have been interpolated from Li Bai’s imitation of Jiang Yan, or from Jiang Yan’s original: while the “Chu traveler” sounds like Qu Yuan in the imitation, the Radiant Concubine Wang Zhaojun appears in the original. The tetrasyllabic meter here recalls both of those fu. The transition from stanza III to stanza IV is a special case of anadiplosis with variation. We discussed above the variant possibilities of shang (dang) chun xin in the coda of “Summons to the Soul,” and here Li Bai, remarkably, offers us both possibilities at once: . . . But pain sears my bones and wounds my heart. The heart in spring is stirred—like waves, The worry of spring is disturbed—like the snow. 䖃↯橐侴 ⽫ˤ㗍⽫唑№⤪㲊炻㗍ォḪ№⤪暒ˤ

The rhyme change between stanzas adds special emphasis here as well—note that the rhyme changes from the tragically clinging -əm to the more violent entering-tone -εt. But the rhyme change and stanzaic transition contrast with the serial repetitions of “heart” and “spring.” In the succeeding two lines the pity of spring is shown to be the emblem of passion

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that encompasses phenomenal experience: “Myriad emotions meet, all pain and pleasure, / In this one feeling of a fragrant season.” Not all the transitions between segments are so definite and definitive. Both these poems frequently have a blurry quality that seems appropriate to their misty mood, but could also be the artifact of some confusion in the textual transmission. Nothing of that kind has happened in this stanza IV, however. Here we have all the disarray of spring feelings in a quatrain crafted as gloss on the pity of spring.

The Pity of Spring Transcended The “pity of spring in Chu” is the literary topos developed out of the more enigmatic figure from the “Summons to the Soul,” a figure that might also be developed in other ways. That it was given the particularly bittersweet interpretation of the “pity of spring in Chu” was not purely arbitrary, though. The word “spring” itself is synonymous with “transience” in Old Chinese,75 and the Tang variations on the “heart of spring” can be read as embellishments of this etymological fact. This sense of loss inhering in the enjoyment of spring itself can also be seen through its negation, through the construction of an ideal world in which the spring endures without change forever. This final section shows this alternate side to Li Bai’s poetry. The negation of spring’s transience confirms the resonance of the topos in the broader tradition. After all, the wish that spring might endure is expressed rhetorically in the final couplet of “Melancholy for Springtime.” There are also the many variations on the myth of the Peach Blossom Grotto, in which spring blossoms are the signpost leading to a hidden realm of immortals,76 for instance in Li Bai’s own “Question and Answer in the Mountains” Ⱉᷕ ⓷䫼: “Peach blossoms flowing in the stream vanish in the distance, / There is another heaven and earth there not of humankind” 㟫剙㳩㯜䨭䃞⍣炻⇍㚱⣑⛘朆Ṣ攻.77 One noteworthy case in the Tang, that illustrates some of the potential of this kind of spring symbolism, is a curious poem attributed to the loyal servant of Li Gongzuo 㛶℔Ỹ (early

75. Shuowen 婒㔯 glosses chun 厭 (the old graph for 㗍) as tui ㍐. This is a paronomastic gloss, with 厭 *thjun ~ ㍐ *thuj (based on William Baxter, A Handbook of Old Chinese Phonology). The phonetic closeness of OC *–uj and *–un is suggested also by the rhyme of shui 㯜 and zhun 晤 in Shi jing Ode 183. Note how different this situation is from English “spring” and “fall”; in fact almost precisely as if “fall” in the sense of “drop” were cognate with “spring” and not “autumn.” The Indo-European root *wesr̥-of Latin vēr, English vernal, Sanskrit vāsanta, etc., develops also into words like Sanskrit vāsara “of the morning,” Old Irish áir “dawn,” Welsh gwawr “id.” (for reconstruction see Calvert Watkins, The American Heritage Dictionary of IndoEuropean Roots, 2nd ed., 101). On the other hand, the Germanic root of English spring originally signifies “to split or crack,” and can even refer figuratively to the broken heart, as in “An C tymes hys herte nye sprange, / By that bors had hym the tale tolde.” See Le Morte Arthur: A Romance in Stanzas of Eight Lines, Re-edited from Ms. Harley 2252, in the British Museum (ll. 3920–21). 76. On this theme in Tang poetry see Edward H. Schafer, “Empyreal Powers and Chthonian Edens: Two Notes on T’ang Taoist Literature.” 77. Li Taibai quanji 19.874.

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9th century). After many years with his master the servant departed abruptly for a higher realm, leaving behind only a poem that concludes:78 Don’t speak of the transformations of the Eastern Ocean: There is an everlasting Spring within this realm. 卓妨㜙㴟嬲ˤ⣑⛘㚱攟㗍ˤ

The poem also mentions “the grotto of divinities and transcendents in Jiangnan” 㰇⋿ 䤆ẁ䩇. It is in general the case that the blessed land of immortals, for medieval Chinese mystics, is not too far away, but can be found near some particular mountaintop in the South. Moreover, this realm is not eternal, “outside of time,” but rather everlasting, a prolongation of this world, one in which the springtime either does not end or is sure to return again and again. With this other tradition in mind we might ask whether Li Bai is asking only rhetorically, “If I could make the spring sunlight tangible and unperishing . . . ?” The perishing spring of this life was not the only one such season known to Li Bai. In the fourth of Li Bai’s “Classical Airs” ⎌桐 he depicts this world: . . . Sometimes I climb Great Tower Peak,79 Look up to gaze at the Perfected Immortals. The feathered carriage erases its shadow as it goes, The tempest-like chariot has no homebound wheels. 15

Still I fear that the cinnabar potion will be delayed, That my ambitions will not achieve fulfillment. A frost signifying futility appears in the mirror; I am ashamed before the crane-riders. Where are the peach and plum in bloom?

20

These flowers are not of my spring. I ought to cross over to the Pure City,80 And accompany forever Han Zhong.81

ġ

㗪䘣⣏㦻Ⱉ炻冱椾㛃ẁ䛇ˤ佥楽㹭⍣⼙炻桯干䳽⚆廒ˤ⯂⿸ᷡ㵚怚炻 ⽿栀ᶵ⍲䓛ˤ⼺曄掉ᷕ䘤炻但⼤浜ᶲṢˤ㟫㛶ỽ嗽攳炻㬌剙朆ㆹ㗍ˤ ⓗㅱ㶭悥⠫炻攟冯杻䛦奒ˤ

78. Quan Tang shi 862.9746. The Quan Tang shi seems to have taken the text from the Daoist leishu, Yunji qiqian 暚䪰ᶫ䰌 of the Northern Song. See Yunji qiqian, 99.3b–4a. 79. Located forty li south of Guichi prefecture. See Wu Yeow-chong, “Poetic Archaicization: A Study of Li Bo’s Fifty-nine ‘Gufeng’ Poems,” 269–70. 80. One of the palaces of the Celestial Emperor. See Liezi jishi, 3.93. It also has an alchemical significance. See Stephen R. Bokenkamp, “Li Bai, Huangshan and Alchemy,” 50. 81. Han Zhong 杻䛦 (or Zhong 䳪) is an immortal mentioned in l. 30 of the “Yuan you” 怈忲, and later also the name of an elixir. See Paul W. Kroll, “On ‘Far Roaming,’” 664.

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This poem is a companion to “Classical Airs,” No. 5, which likewise celebrates the pursuit of immortality.82 Although the opening concerns prophecies brought in the mouths of magical birds, it also makes sense—perhaps even more sense—if read as referring to Li Bai himself. What makes Li Bai’s use of religious tradition and classical allusion so poetically compelling, of course, is how he relates it to himself. The immortal Han Zhong 杻䛦, whom he mentions in the final line of the poem, represents in “Far Roaming” 怈忲 the goal of the would-be immortal’s quest.83 But Li Bai plans to accompany him on equal terms. From this point of the view the climax of this poem is when Li Bai says that these flowers are not his spring, vividly contrasting several different levels of experience at once: the Spring that passes versus the Spring that endures, the temporal versus the transcendent, the individual versus the universal. He is alluding to the ninth of the “Hymns for the Suburban Sacrifices” 恲䣨㫴 of Emperor Wu of Han, which begins:84 How to fathom the rising and setting of the sun? Its hours and ages are utterly unlike those of men. So its spring is not our spring, Its summer is not our summer, Its autumn is not our autumn, Its winter is not our winter. 㖍↢ℍ⬱䩖炻㗪ᶾᶵ冯Ṣ⎴ˤ㓭㗍朆ㆹ㗍炻⢷朆ㆹ⢷ˤ䥳朆ㆹ䥳炻⅔朆 ㆹ⅔ˤ

The song goes on to describe a journey through the heavens with a team of six dragons. The original text is more ambiguous, but Li Bai is celebrating the achievement of immortality, a state of permanent spring. The springtime he is seeking is not that of the flowers but that of the sun itself.85 Nonetheless, his variation of the same yuefu title puts into some perspective “These flowers are not of my spring.” Into the brusque generality of the original ritual hymn, Li inserts the particularity of the flower. There is an enduring spring, but whether it is ours

82. See the translation of the latter poem, with extensive commentary on Daoist symbolism, in Paul W. Kroll, “Li Po’s Transcendent Diction,” 115–17. 83. “I wondered at Fu Yüeh’s assumption into the constellated stars—/ and envied Han Chung’s attaining to unity.” See Kroll, “On ‘Far Roaming,’” 660. 84. Han shu 22.1059. Bokenkamp’s otherwise brilliant commentary omits a reference to this key source. Cf. translation and commentary in Martin Kern, Die Hymnen der chinesischen Staatsopfer: Literatur und Ritual in der politischen Repräsentation von der Han-Zeit bis zu den Sechs Dynastien, 224–26. 85. Li Bai has his own “Ri chu ru xing” 㖍↢ℍ埴 alluding to this poem, but it takes a more Zhuangzian tack: “The grasses do not owe their lushness to the spring breeze, / The trees do not blame deciduity on autumn” 勱ᶵ嫅㥖㕤㗍桐炻㛐ᶵ⿐句㕤䥳⣑ (Li Taibai quanji 3.211). This is an adaptation of a line in Guo Xiang’s 悕尉 (ca. 252–312) commentary to Zhuangzi, signifying the acceptance of processes of transformation without complaint (Zhuangzi jishi 6.232). However, in its original context Guo Xiang is describing the attitude of the sage towards natural phenomena, whereas Li Bai is describing natural phenomena, so the meaning of the analogy is not entirely the same. There is the ambiguity occasionally present in Li Bai’s verse, when he makes a declaration about the state of the universe, how exactly he believes it applicable to himself.

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or not is less clear.86 There are countless springs, spring and Spring, a spring that passes and a spring that remains. Becoming a Tang poet, or reading a Tang poet, is in part a matter of mastering these distinctions, recognizing the multiplicity of meanings, the difference between “spring” and “Spring,” “Spring” and “my spring.” This epistemological work is parallel to the alchemical project of refining the perfect elixir, or to the ethical one of perfecting one’s own virtue. Because all these attainments require self-discipline and effort, they are not available to anyone, but only to a select few. There is a tradition specific to Chu that illustrates this point. It originates in a speech attributed to Song Yu, in conversation with the King of Chu:87 There was a visitor who sang at Ying. The first song was called “Man of Ba out in the Country,” and several thousand men in the state could sing along with it; next was “Dew on the Shallots of the Sunny Slope,” and several hundred men in the state could sing along; next was “White Snow in the Springtime,” and only a few dozen men in the state could sing along; when he strummed the Shang and struck the Yu tones, alternating with the legato Zhi, there were not more than a few in the entire state who could sing along. For the loftier the tune, the fewer those who can sing in harmony. ⭊㚱㫴㕤悊ᷕ侭炻℞⥳㚘ᶳ慴⶜Ṣ炻⚳ᷕⰔ侴␴侭㔠⋫Ṣ烊℞䁢春旧啌 曚炻⚳ᷕⰔ侴␴侭㔠䘦Ṣ烊℞䁢春㗍䘥暒炻⚳ᷕⰔ侴␴侭㔠⋩Ṣ侴⶚ḇ烊 ⺽⓮⇣佥炻暄ẍ㳩⽝炻⚳ᷕⰔ侴␴侭炻ᶵ忶㔠Ṣˤ㗗℞㚚⻴檀侭炻℞␴ ⻴⮉ˤ

Li Bai adapts the story in the twenty-first of the “Classical Airs”:88 The traveler of Ying intoned “White Snow,” And the lingering echoes flew up to the blue heavens. Singing that tone again in vain, Who in the whole world will pass it on? 5

Try to sing that ditty “Man of Ba,” And thousands will sing along with you. Choking on my own voice, what more is to be said? I heave a sigh of melancholy, all in vain.

ġ

悊⭊⏇䘥暒炻怢枧梃曺⣑ˤ⼺⊆㫴㬌㚚炻冱ᶾ婘䇚⁛ˤ娎䇚⶜Ṣⓙ炻 ␴侭ᷫ㔠⋫ˤ⏆倚ỽ嵛忻炻㫶〗䨢㵺䃞ˤ

86. Compare how Wang Rong 䌳圵 (467–493), in one of a series of hymns on Buddhist topics included in the Jingzhuzi 㶐ỷ⫸ of the Prince of Jingling 䪇昝䌳 (460–494), quotes “Ri chu ru”: “This spring is not our spring; this autumn not our autumn. / Now I have passed the long night, into eternity” 㗍朆ㆹ㗍䥳朆䥳炻 ᶨ䴻攟⣄㭷ええ. See text in Guang hongming ji ⺋⻀㖶普, T 52: 2103.316c. Here he has achieved nirvana, passing beyond the influence of human temporality. Cf. translation by Richard Mather, The Age of Eternal Brilliance: Three Lyric Poets of the Yung-ming Era (483–493), vol. 2: Hsieh T’iao (464–499) and Wang Jung (467–493), 424–25. 87. Quoted in Liu Xiang’s Xin xu 㕘⸷, and also in Wen xuan 45.1999 (in the Dialogue ⮵⓷ section). 88. Li Taibai quanji 2.116–17.

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The poem is hard to appreciate when read in conjunction with its source because they read so similarly in English translation. Rather than alluding to the story directly, the poem simply summarizes it, so a prose paraphrase of the poem reads like a sketchy outline of the older story. But in fact Li Bai has rewritten it with new point, new deftness, and new aftertones that make his poem greater than and distinct from its paraphrase. The poem is divided neatly into quatrains: the first, on the “White Snow in the Springtime” song, tells how its very value makes it unlikely to be remembered; the latter, on the vulgar “Man of Ba out in the Country” song, is repeated by the masses on all sides, while Li Bai himself sighs in silence. The two quatrains are parallel, with lines 1–2 of the elite song matching lines 5–6 of the popular one, just as lines 3–4 and lines 7–8 belong to Li’s personal comment. The parallelism interweaves the new perspective of the poet with the old story. What is that obscure melody that is so easily forgotten? Though the original anecdote gives the full title “White Snow in Springtime,” various later sources quote alternately “White Snow” (as Li Bai) or “Springtime” alone.89 I assume these are alternate versions of the original four-character title “White Snow in Springtime.” Snow falling in springtime was more usual in the lunar calendar than in the Gregorian one, but the oxymoronic coexistence of the two is still a poetic juxtaposition of rich potential. Though Bao Zhao 欹䄏 (421–465) does quote the two half-titles separately in the same couplet, suggesting they were two different titles, the compound title is also legible as a whole (and even if it once consisted of two separate titles, the compound is significant also).90 Though Li Bai here identifies the melody solely as “White Snow,” he would naturally expect his audience to recall the entire episode, and in particular to know that “White Snow” matches “Springtime.” The appreciation of the whole allusive system, not of a particular allusion, is after all the topic of the poem. The insightful reader can recognize the imminent arrival of spring by the freezing snow as easily as by watching for Ursa major. This notion of “Springtime” as an esoteric code only accessible to the most cultivated gives us a new perspective on the “pity of spring” in Chinese poetry as well. An allusion to “Summons to the Soul” calls up the entire complex of associations we sketched in the first part of this paper, and so demands the audience to pick among and interpret them, to find the “Snow” in “Springtime” or the “Springtime” in “White Snow.” The associations of springtime in Li Bai’s poetry are not all present in the coda of “Summons to the Soul,” but they form the essential theme of a disparate range of later renditions, even though the meaning of the theme is not defined entirely in the original text. Even after the key of these countless later encryptions is identified, the key itself remains a cipher, the “pity of spring” recurring for new exiles, reminding each reader that “all of us are displaced from home” as long as we abide in this world. Thus the topos moves rather far away from its geographical origins in the Tang, the role of southern places shifting more to that of emotional signifiers than geographical ones. 89. For an example of the latter case see Hou Han shu 61.2032. 90. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 1305.

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Poets are still fully conscious of the local origins of the allusions, though, with “white snow in springtime” a concept still associated closely with Chu in the literary imagination. If in ancient Chu the poets grieved for Jiangnan, by the Tang the exploration, elaboration, and redemption of that grief had become an art of unparalleled sophistication.

7 The Stele and the Drunkard Two Poetic Allusions from Xiangyang Jie Wu

Xiangyang 壬春, a city on the south bank of the Han 㻊 River in central China, was in medieval times a key crossroads for the Jing-Chu 勲㤂 region (mainly present-day Hubei and Hunan provinces).1 Since the Han dynasty Xiangyang has been the hometown or ancestral home of numerous literary figures, such as the Tang poets Du Shenyan 㜄⮑妨 (ca. 645–708), Meng Haoran ⬇㴑䃞 (689–740), and Pi Rixiu 䙖㖍ẹ (ca. 834–ca. 902). Among the many places of interest in Xiangyang, the Xi Family Pond (Xijiachi 佺⭞㰈) and Mount Xian Ⲝ are prominent in history and poetry.2 Mount Xian is about two and half miles south of Xiangyang. On the mountain there was a stele dedicated to Yang Hu 伲䤄 (221–278) of the Western Jin. The Xi Family Pond was about a mile south of Mount Xian.3 The pond was dredged by the order of Xi Yu 佺恩, Marquis of Xiangyang and a confidant of Emperor Guangwu ⃱㬎 (6 BCE–57 CE). Shan Jian Ⱉ䯉 (253–312), a Western Jin general, particularly liked to visit the pond and drink there. In poetry, both the Xi Family Pond and Mount Xian are more popular than any other places of interest in Xiangyang. The pond is exclusively associated with Shan Jian, drinking, drunkenness, or feasting. After the seventh century it is almost impossible to write about Mount Xian without mentioning Yang Hu or the stele dedicated to him. There seems to be something uniquely stable and enduring about these two literary conventions. This chapter discusses the literary representation of Mount Xian and that of the Xi Family Pond by tracing the formation and development of their poetic conventions. In poetry the mountain and the pond are not merely geographical sites but also conceptual places which carry with them historical contexts, literary allusions, symbolic meanings 1.

2.

3.

For a brief history of Xiangyang from the Warring States period to the Tang dynasty, see Paul W. Kroll, Meng  Hao-jan, 23–25. Andrew Chittick at the beginning of his monograph introduces the history of the Xiangyang area from the early Spring and Autumn period to the beginning of the Southern Dynasties. See Patronage and Community in Medieval China: The Xiangyang Garrison, 400–600 CE, 12–17. For a history of the Xiangyang area at the end of the Eastern Han, see also Ueda Sanae, “Gokan makki no jōyō no gōzoku,” 295–300. Kroll has discussed a number of places of interest and historic sites in Xiangyang, including Mount Xian and the Xi Family Pond. See Chapter 2 (“The Land and Lore of Hsiang-yang”) in Meng Hao-jan, 34–38 and 39–44. Kroll, Meng Hao-jan, 38–39.

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and imagination.4 In two famous stories from early medieval China about Yang Hu and Shan Jian, respectively, the mountain and the pond became associated with several topoi that recur in literature. The topoi shaped the way the mountain and the pond are represented in later poetry and provided the two places with symbolic meaning. The formation of the two conventions was simultaneous with the rise of Xiangyang and the Jing-Chu region generally as a key stronghold for the Southern Dynasties. Eventually, though, the topoi established an independent existence in the literary imagination that could be adapted for new purposes. While depicting the place (either geographical or conceptual) in terms of conventional topoi, some poets also searched for their identities by connecting their own situation and fate to those of the celebrities who were associated with the place.

The Formation of the Literary Conventions The literary conventions of Mount Xian and the Xi Family Pond developed from two stories about Yang Hu and Shan Jian, respectively. Yang Hu was an official of the Western Jin. In 269, Emperor Wu of the Jin (Sima Yan ⎠楔䀶, 236–290) appointed Yang Hu military governor of Jingzhou 勲ⶆ.5 The story about Yang Hu ascending Mount Xian and the stele dedicated to him is recorded in Yang’s biography in the Jin shu: Whenever the atmosphere was particularly fine, he [Yang Hu] would always go off to Mount Xian, and there he would drink and recite poetry tirelessly and all day long. But once, overcome with emotion, he sighed and turned to Zou Zhan and others: “As long as the universe has been, so long has this mountain been. Many have been the worthy and great men who, just as you and I now, have climbed here to gaze afar. They have all perished and are heard of no more—this is what gives me sorrow”. . . . [After Yang Hu died] the people of Xiangyang erected a stele and built a temple on the spot where Yang Hu used to roam on Mount Xian. . . . And all who looked on the stele couldn’t but shed tears. For this reason, Du Yu called it “stele for shedding tears.”6 䤄㦪Ⱉ㯜炻㭷桐㘗炻⽭忈ⲜⰙ炻伖惺妨娈炻䳪㖍ᶵ῎ˤ▿ㄐ䃞▮〗炻栏媪 ⽆ḳᷕ恶悺㸃䫱㚘烉ˬ冒㚱⬯⭁炻ὧ㚱㬌Ⱉˤ䓙Ἦ岊忼⊅⢓炻䘣㬌怈㛃炻 ⤪ㆹ冯⌧侭⣂䞋炰䘮㸖㹭䃉倆炻ἧṢず ɃɃ˭壬春䘦⥻㕤ⲜⰙ䤄⸛䓇忲 ㅑᷳ㇨⺢䠹䩳⺇炻ɃɃ㛃℞䠹侭卓ᶵ㳩㴽炻㜄枸⚈⎵䁢⡖㶂䠹ˤ

The history of the Xi Family Pond can be traced back to the first century CE. Xi Yu, a native of Xiangyang, assisted Liu Xiu ∱䥨 (5 BCE–57 CE) in founding the Eastern Han. After returning to Xiangyang in his late years, Xi Yu had a large fish pond dredged. The pond, sixty paces long by forty paces wide, drew on water from the Mian 㰼 River (present-day Han River). At the center of the pond there was a platform for fishing. A smaller fish pond 4. 5. 6.

Cf. Cheng Yu-yu, “Introduction,” in Cheng, Wenben fengjing—ziwo yu kongjian de xianghu dingyi, 18. Jin shu 34.1014. The territory that “Jingzhou” covered varied in different dynasties and time periods. In Western Jin, Jingzhou mainly consisted of present-day Hubei and Hunan provinces. Jin shu 34.1020 and 34.1022. I have used Stephen Owen’s translation of this story in his Remembrances: The Experience of the Past in Classical Chinese Literature, 22–23, with modifications.

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was excavated near the big one. Xi Yu enjoyed spending time by the two fishponds. Before he died, he asked his son to bury him by the ponds.7 The Xi family was particularly powerful and influential in Xiangyang during the third and fourth centuries.8 The Jin shu says the following about Xi Zuochi 佺搧滺 (d. 383), a descendant of Xi Yu: “[His] clans were wealthy and prosperous; for generations they were the powerful families of the region” ⬿㕷⭴䚃, ᶾ䁢悱尒.9

Map 7.1 Xiangyang. From Yang Shoujing (1839–1915) and Xiong Huizhen (d. 1936), Shuijing zhu tu (Guanhaitang woodblock edition, 1905), 7a. 7.

8. 9.

The primary source about the Xi Family Pond, Xi Yu and Shan Jian is Xiangyang qijiu ji 壬春侮冲姀 (also known as Xiangyang qijiu zhuan 壬春侮冲⁛ or Xiangyang ji 壬春姀) by Xi Zuochi. For a reconstructed text of the work, see Huang Huixian, Wei Jin Nanbeichao Sui Tang shi yanjiu yu ziliao, 495–563. On the Xi family at the end of the Eastern Han, see Ueda, “Gokan makki no jōyō no gōzoku,” 283–305, particularly 290–92. Jin shu 82.2152.

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In the third year of Yongjia 㯠▱ (309), Shan Jian, the youngest son of Shan Tao Ⱉ㾌 (205–283), was dispatched to Xiangyang where he would direct the military affairs of four south-central and southern provinces of the Jin. In Xiangyang, Shan made the acquaintance of some members of the Xi family and spent time visiting their scenic ponds. Shan Jian came to Xiangyang only two years before the soldiers of Liu Yao ∱㚄 (d. 329, r. 318–329) sacked Luoyang and captured Jin Emperor Huai 㗱㆟ⷅ (Sima Chi ⎠楔䅦, 284–313). As the Shishuo xinyu ᶾ婒㕘婆 records, “At that time bandits in the realm revolted, and both the imperial court and the common people were in danger and fearful” 㕤㗪⚃㕡⭯Ḫ炻㛅 慶⌙ㆤ. However, Shan Jian blissfully neglected his official duties. He “spent his days in leisure and wandering, and indulged in alcohol” ⃒忲⋺㬚炻ょ惺㗗俥.10 He often went to the Xi Family Pond, set out wine, and immediately drank himself to inebriety. He named the pond “Gaoyangchi” 檀春㰈, or “Pond of the Drunkard from Gaoyang.”11 The street children of Xiangyang sang a ditty about Shan Jian: Where is Lord Shan going off to? He is going towards the Drunkard’s Pond. At dusk he returns lying in his carriage, Reeling drunk and oblivious of everything. At times he can still ride a horse, Wearing his white egret hat upside-down.12 Raising the horse-whip and turning to Ge Qiang: “How do I compare with men of Bingzhou?”13 Ⱉ℔↢ỽ姙炻⼨军檀春㰈ˤ㖍⢽Ὰ庱㬠炻愑惲䃉㇨䞍ˤ㗪㗪傥榶楔炻Ὰ叿 䘥㍍ፘˤ冱杕⎹吃䔮炻ỽ⤪⸞ⶆ⃺烎

These two stories are repeatedly drawn on in later poetry, while other events in the lives of Yang Hu and Shan Jian have been forgotten. Yang Hu and Shan Jian are also more popular in poetry than other historical figures associated with the mountain or the pond. For example, Xi Yu, the original owner of the fishponds, never appears in poetry. Du Yu, who succeeded Yang Hu as governor-general of Jingzhou, was no less concerned with fame than Yang Hu. Du Yu once said, “How can one know that barrow and gorge may not change positions hereafter?” To record his achievements, he then submerged in a pool by

10. Xu Zhen’e, Shishuo xinyu jiaojian, 23.396. 11. Li Yiji 惰梇℞ (d. 203 BCE), an assistant of Liu Bang ∱恎 (256–195 BCE), was from Gaoyang (in presentday Henan). In order to have an audience with Liu Bang, who belittled Confucian scholars, Li Yiji called himself “a drunkard of Gaoyang.” See Shi ji 97.2704. 12. Regarding jieli, a type of hat made from the plumes of white egrets, see Xu Zhen’e, Shishuo xinyu jiaojian, 396–97. 13. See Shan Jian’s biography in Jin shu 43.1229–30. Ge Qiang, Shan Jian’s favorite general, was a native of Bingzhou (present-day northern Shanxi and northern Shaanxi). For various versions of this ditty and of the anecdote about Shan Jian, see Tosaki Tetsuhiko, “San Kan no koji to Ri Haku ‘Jōyō ka’: Tō ShinίShū Sakushi Jōyō kikyūki no fukugen,” 73–98.

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Mount Wan 叔 a commemorative stele and erected another stele on top of Mount Xian.14 As far as the poetic tradition is concerned, however, Du Yu and his two steles sank into oblivion.15 There are a number of factors that account for the disparity. As Stephen Owen notes in a study on the literary tradition of Jinling 慹昝, a place was known and remembered primarily through texts: “The vagaries, capricious choices, and powerful images in texts are the past for later ages. Courageous deaths, heroic acts, and memorable scenes have often been utterly forgotten. At the same time, minor, dubious, and even fictitious events have, through strong texts, become a real past . . .”16 The two stories about Yang Hu and Shan Jian might not represent the complete historical reality, but as the result of “capricious choices,” they became the history of Mount Xian and the Xi Family Pond, and would provide the stock images of the mountain and the pond in Chinese poetry. In addition to “capricious choices,” both stories combine a number of topoi that recur in literature, which also made them popular. The story about Yang Hu contains several topoi typical of a particular literary genre, “reflection on the past” (huaigu ㆟⎌). One of the topoi is the contrast between the brevity of human life and the eternal Nature. As Yang Hu said in the story, “As long as the universe has been, so long has this mountain been.” In comparison, generations of great men “have perished and are heard of no more.” Thus he felt sad, and sadness is another common topos of this genre. Several centuries after Yang Hu lamented on Mount Xian, Meng Haoran also climbed the mountain and wrote “Yu zhuzi deng Xianshan” 冯媠⫸䘣ⲜⰙ (Climbing Mount Xian with several friends). The poem reads: Human affairs recede with each generation; Their goings and comings form past and present. Rivers and hills retain their wondrous traces, Allowing us to climb and gaze far. When water ebbs, Fish-weir Isle emerges; As the weather turns cold, Dream Marsh thickens.17 Lord Yang’s stele stands here still; Upon reading it, tears stain our lapels.18 Ṣḳ㚱ẋ嫅炻⼨Ἦㆸ⎌Ṳˤ㰇Ⱉ䔁⊅御炻ㆹ廑⽑䘣冐ˤ㯜句欂㠩㶢炻⣑⭺ ⣊㽌㶙ˤ伲℔䠹⯂⛐炻嬨伟㲒㱦备ˤ 14. Jin shu 34.1031; Kroll, Meng Hao-jan, 31. 15. Du Fu 㜄䓓 (712–770), a descendent of Du Yu, wrote about Du Yu’s stele on Mount Xian in his “Hui zhao” 徜㢡: “The stele of my family has not been obscured” ⏦⭞䠹ᶵ㗏. See Qiu Zhaoao, Dushi xiangzhu, 23.2086. Ouyang Xiu 㫸春ᾖ (1007–1072) in “Xianshanting ji” ⲜⰙṕ姀 writes about Yang Hu and Du Yu and mildly criticized their concerns about fame. See my discussion later in this chapter. 16. Owen, “Place: Meditation on the Past at Chin-ling,” 420. 17. Fish-weir Isle (Yuliangzhou 欂㠩㳚) is an isle in the middle of the Han River. Dream Marsh (Yunmengze 暚⣊㽌) was a vast region of marshes and lakes in present-day Hubei. It underwent many changes and has almost disappeared now. See Zou Yilin, Zhongguo lishi dili gaishu, 32–35. 18. Quan Tang shi 160.1644. See Owen, Remembrances, 22–26, for further discussion of the story about Yang Hu and the poem by Meng Haoran.

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Meng in this poem echoes several topoi in the story about Yang Hu. The first half of the poem is a poetic rewording of Yang Hu’s lament on Mount Xian. “Each generation fading in turn” (daixie ẋ嫅) in the human world contrasts with mountains and rivers, which “retain” (liu 䔁) traces. The word “again” ( fu ⽑) indicates Meng’s understanding of his position in the huaigu tradition that past generations also came to the very same site (denglin 䘣冐), just as he and his companions (wobei ㆹ廑) did. In this way Meng searched for his identity on the axis of time and space and also within the textual tradition of Mount Xian. The weeping in the last line is Meng’s response after reading the inscription on Yang Hu’s stele. In this aspect he reenacts the response of the people of Xiangyang in the story about Yang Hu: “all who looked on the stele couldn’t but shed tears.” Hans Frankel, after discussing the story about Yang Hu and the poem by Meng Haoran (both quoted above), summarizes six topoi that are associated with the evocation of the past in Tang poetry: ascent to a high place, looking into the distance in conjunction with musing on past events, the permanence of rivers and mountains in contrast to human transience, reference to historical personalities and extant relics of the past, description of a landscape devoid of historical association and tears.19 Mount Xian is an elevated place ideal for contemplation of the past. Climbing to the mountaintop brings one to a point above his usual perspective, and the view from a mountaintop causes impressions of nature’s permanence to confirm one’s own ephemeral existence. The stele of Yang Hu is an extant relic from the past, a reminder for later generations of Yang Hu’s deeds. The topography of Mount Xian, its association with Yang Hu, and some literary topoi together form the literary conventions of the mountain. The story about Shan Jian getting drunk by the Xi Family Pond is one example of a popular discourse on wine and drunkenness in the Six Dynasties.20 This story is recorded in several works from the period.21 One of the earliest sources of the story is the chapter “Rendan” ả娽 (reckless and unbridled) of the Shishuo xinyu.22 This chapter has a number of entries about excessive drinking and reckless or eccentric behavior, which, along with ignoring one’s official duties, were admired during the Wei-Jin period. Excessive drinking was considered a means of parading one’s free spirit and showing one’s disregard of social mores. Therefore, Shan Jian was not criticized for his delinquency. Instead, he was admired for his love of drinking and was remembered in his moment of getting drunk beside the Drunkard’s Pond.

19. Frankel, The Flowering Plum and the Palace Lady: Interpretations of Chinese Poetry, 345, 347–48. 20. James J. Y. Liu notes that zui is usually translated as “drunk,” though it carries rather different implications. It rather means “being mentally carried away from one’s normal preoccupations.” Liu thus suggests that zui be translated as “rapt with wine.” See Liu, The Art of Chinese Poetry, 58–59. Cf. Nicholas Morrow Williams, “The Morality of Drunkenness in Chinese Literature of the Third Century CE,” in Scribes of Gastronomy: Representations of Food and Drink in Imperial Chinese Literature, 27–43. 21. They are Xiangyang qijiu ji, Shishuo xinyu, and Shuijing zhu 㯜䴻㲐. See my discussion later in this chapter. 22. Xu Zhen’e, Shishuo xinyu jiaojian, 23.396.

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Because of Shan Jian, the Xi Family Pond has been closely associated with drinking since the fourth century. Unlike Mount Xian, which is often presented as a geographical place, the pond is rarely referred to as a physical place. Instead, the name of the pond has become a symbol of feasting, drinking, and drunkenness. The image of the drunken Shan Jian first appeared in poetry of the late Southern Dynasties, and was deployed particularly vigorously in the hands of Yu Xin ⹦ᾉ (513– 581). In four of his poems Yu Xin uses the image of the drunken Shan Jian wearing a white hat upside down. In “Duijiu ge” ⮵惺㫴 (Song of facing wine), Shan Jian’s location is not specified, but the image obviously describes the very moment of Shan’s drunkenness by the pond. The image is used together with three other images related to dancing or music to create a happy atmosphere: . . . Shan Jian wears his white egret hat upside down, Wang Rong dances with his ruyi.23 The zither is sounding in Jingu Villa, Melodies of the flute are played in Pingyang Settlement.24 Ⱉ䯉㍍ፘᾺ炻䌳ㆶ⤪シ准ˤ䬷沜慹察⚺炻䫃枣⸛春⠊ˤ

Yu Xin states his viewpoint after the four images: “There are a hundred years in human life, / The time for joy and laughter is only on the fifteenth of each month” Ṣ䓇ᶨ䘦⸜, 㬉䪹ょᶱḼ. The image of Shan Jian wearing a hat upside down symbolizes an attitude of life that Yu Xin advocates: enjoying the moment and ignoring social norms. The poem “Yangliu ge” 㣲㞛㫴 (Song of the willow) laments the fall of the Liang dynasty.25 After writing figuratively about the mistaken strategy adopted by the Liang rulers, which brought about the downfall of the Liang, Yu Xin uses the allusion to Shan Jian to express his ironic disappointment. If the situation cannot be helped, he writes, he had better get drunk to forget all the serious matters: “Better drink wine by the Drunkard’s Pond, / When one returns at dusk, the egret hat is worn upside down” ᶵ⤪梚惺檀春㰈炻㖍㙖 23. Yu Xin wrote about Wang Rong and dancing in another poem, “Da Wang sikong xiangjiu” 䫼䌳⎠䨢梱惺: “Open a jug of wine from you, / Carefully pouring it out while facing the spring breeze. / Not yet able to float Bi Zhuo, / Still enough to make Wang Rong dance” 攳⏃ᶨ⢢惺炻䳘惴⮵㗍桐ˤ㛒傥㴖䔊⋻炻䋞嵛准 䌳ㆶ. See Ni Fan (fl. 17th century), Yu Zishan jizhu, 4. 347. Shi Chong 䞛ⲯ (249–300?) often held banquets at his Jingu Villa, which was in modern Mengjin ⬇㳍, Henan province. See David R. Knechtges, “Jingu and Lan Ting. Two (or Three?) Jin Dynasty Gardens.” Pingyang Settlement was to the east of Meixian 悧䷋ in modern Shaanxi. At Pingyang Settlement Ma Rong 楔圵 (79–166) at one time heard a guest playing songs on the flute and was deeply moved. See David R. Knechtges, trans., Wen xuan, vol. 3, 259. 24. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 2347; Yu Zishan jizhu, 5.387. Morino Shigeo has done line-byline annotations of “Duijiu ge” and “Yangliu ge” in his “Yu Shin no gafu,” 36–39, 60–65. 25. Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 2353, and Yu Zishan jizhu, 5.411. The other Yu Xin poems that refer to the pond are “Weiwang zeng sangluojiu fengda shi” 堃䌳岰㟹句惺⣱䫼娑, in Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 2392, and Yu Zishan jizhu, 4. 344; and number eight of “Yong huapingfeng shi ershisi shou” 娈䔓⯷桐娑Ḵ⋩⚃椾, in Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 2396, and Yu Zishan jizhu, 4.355.

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㬠㗪Ὰ㍍ፘ. Yu Xin in this couplet does not mean that he wants to drink by the actual Drunkard’s Pond; he merely uses the name of the pond as a symbol of whole-hearted drinking and drunkenness. The early Tang poets revered Yu Xin, and some of them had possibly learned from Yu Xin different ways of using the allusion to Shan Jian. Besides the influence of Yu Xin, two works of the early Tang might also have popularized the allusion to Shan Jian getting drunk by the Xi Family Pond. One is the Yiwen leiju 喅㔯栆倂, which was compiled at the beginning of the Tang. According to the preface written by the compiler Ouyang Xun 㫸春娊 (557–641), the work was intended to serve as a quick reference for readers and writers. The category chi (pond) in the Yiwen leiju cites from Xi Zuochi’s Xiangyang qijiu ji 壬春侮冲姀 the record of Xi Yu’s fishponds, the story about Shan Jian getting drunk by the Xi Family Pond, and four lines from the ditty of the children of Xiangyang.26 The associations among Shan Jian, drinking and the pond were considered basic literary knowledge that average writers of the early Tang should have. The other work that would have solidified these associations is Li Jiao’s 㛶ⵈ (ca. 646– ca.  715) poem “Chi” 㰈 (On the Pond), one of his 120 yongwu poems on objects. The allusion of the Xi Family Pond appears in the first couplet: “Colorful oars [boats] float on Taiye, / Getting tipsy with fine wines at the Xi Family Pond” 䵝㩪㴖⣒㵚炻㶭妜愱佺 ⭞.27 This couplet shows again the association between the pond and drinking. Ge Xiaoyin 吃㙱枛 suggests that this series of yongwu poems was written during Empress Wu’s reign, that is, roughly toward the end of the seventh century. She points out that Li Jiao wrote the series to demonstrate how to use literary allusions in regulated verse. The allusions and referents in these yongwu poems, including the one about the Xi Family Pond, were considered to be very basic in the second half of the seventh century, and were used as models of poetic composition by both school children and adults.28 At the same time, the development of these literary conventions did not occur in a historical or geographical vacuum, but was concurrent with the rise of the Xiangyang region to increasing prominence. Looking at the area more broadly, the Jing-Chu region was a part of the ancient Jingzhou or Jing Province, one of the Nine Provinces of the realm that was first described in the Shang shu.29 The region belonged to the Chu state during the Spring and Autumn period. When the Eastern Han moved the capital city to Luoyang, Jing-Chu became better connected to the center of imperial power.30 During the late Eastern Han a number of wealthy and powerful families, including the Xi family, lived in Xiangyang.31 26. Yiwen leiju 9.171. 27. Quan Tang shi 59.705. Taiye is the name of an imperial pond that was dredged in 110 BCE during the reign of Emperor Wu of the Han. 28. Ge Xiaoyin, “Chuangzuo fanshi de tichang he chu sheng Tang shi de puji—cong ‘Li Jiao baiyong’ tanqi,” 30–34. 29. Shang shu zhengyi 6.14a–17a. 30. Chittick, Patronage and Community in Medieval China, 15. 31. Ueda, “Gokan makki no jōyō no gōzoku,” 290–92.

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The importance of Jing-Chu began to increase at the end of the Eastern Han. In 190, Liu  Biao ∱堐 (142–208) moved the administrative seat of Jingzhou to Xiangyang.32 As  wars among warlords intensified at the end of the Eastern Han, Jing-Chu, which connected the central plains, the Shu area, and the lower Yangtze region, became more strategically critical.33 After the ruling house of the Jin established the capital city in Jiankang ⺢⹟ (modern Nanjing) in the early fourth century, Jing-Chu was not only a critical area for the defense of the lower Yangtze region where the capital was located but also an important frontier to resist the aggression of the Northern regimes. The following comment made by a courtier of the Eastern Jin summarizes the importance of the Jing-Chu region at that time: “Jing-Chu is the western gate of the state. It has a million households. To the north it adjoins the powerful barbarians, and to the west it is adjacent to mighty Shu. . . . If its governor is properly chosen, even the Central Plain can be pacified; if not, the entire state shall be in peril” 勲㤂炻⚳ᷳ大攨炻㇞⎋䘦叔炻⊿ⷞ⻢傉炻大惘≩嚨ɃɃ⼿Ṣ⇯ᷕ⍇⎗ ⭂炻⣙Ṣ⇯䣦䧟⎗ㄪ.34 It was for this reason that only confidants of the emperor would be appointed governor of the Jing-Chu region. Liu Yu ∱塽 (363–422), founder of the LiuSong dynasty, ordered in his posthumous edict that only his sons were permitted to guard Jingzhou, which at that time covered vast regions and held half of the military supplies and forces of the government.35 Among those imperial confidants were Yang Hu and Shan Jian. Emperor Wu of the Jin appointed Yang Hu governor of Jingzhou in order to launch from there the conquest of the Wu kingdom in the lower Yangtze region. It was in part due to Shan Jian’s kinship relationship with the imperial family that he was sent to Xiangyang to direct the military affairs of four provinces, including Jingzhou in the Jing-Chu region.36 The two stories about Yang Hu and Shan Jian were first recorded in Xiangyang qijiu ji by Xi Zuochi, a descendant of Xi Yu and a native of Xiangyang. The Xiangyang qijiu ji is the earliest extant geographical work about the Jing-Chu region. The extant three juan of the work contain tales about famous men of Xiangyang as well as records of local mountains and rivers. The author also described in some detail the two fishponds of his ancestor Xi Yu. The Xiangyang qijiu ji is among the many “local writings” that appeared during the Six  Dynasties.37 Out of interest or need, some members of the retinues of governors or 32. At the end of Eastern Han, Jingzhou consisted of most of present-day Hubei and Hunan, as well as a part of modern Henan, Shaanxi, and Guizhou. 33. Ueda Sanae notes that the Xiangyang area was connected to the Sichuan basin and the lower Yangtze region by Mian River (present-day Han River). Going upstream along Yu 㶗 River (present-day Baihe 䘥㱛) from Xiangyang one would pass Nanyang ⋿春 and reach the central plain south of the Yellow River. See Ueda, “Gokan makki no jōyō no gōzoku,” 297. 34. It was in the year 345. See Zizhi tongjian 97.3066. 35. Zizhi tongjian 122.3838. 36. Zhang Chunhua ⻝㗍厗 (189–247), a cousin of Shan Jian’s grandfather (Shan Yao Ⱉ㚄), was the principle wife of Sima Yi ⎠楔ㆧ (179–251), mother of Sima Shi ⎠楔ⷓ (208–255) and Sima Zhao ⎠楔㗕 (211–265), and grandmother of Emperor Wu of Jin. See Jin shu 31.948. 37. See Andrew Chittick’s definition of “local writing” in “The Development of Local Writing in Early Medieval

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inspectors of the Jing-Chu region compiled geographical works about Jing-Chu.38 Chittick notes that “the fragments from fifth and sixth century local writing about Jing province include many anecdotes about Song-dynasty imperial princes who visited the region and left memorials of their influence. It is reasonable to assume that glorification of the imperial house, and of the prince who commissioned the compilation, might have been a significant concern for this sort of local writing.”39 Examples include Jingzhou ji 勲ⶆ姀 by Fan Wang 劫㰒 (ca. 308–ca. 372) of the Eastern Jin,40 Jingzhou ji by Sheng Hongzhi 䚃⻀ᷳ of the Song (commissioned by Liu Yiqing ∱佑ㄞ, 403–444),41 Jingzhou ji and Nan Yongzhou ji ⋿晵ⶆ姀 by Guo Zhongchan 悕ẚ䓊 (d. 454) of the Song (commissioned by Liu Yixuan ∱佑⭋, 415–454),42 and Nan Yongzhou ji by Bao Zhi 欹军 of the Liang.43 Some local writings about Jing-Chu were compiled by men who were native to the region. For example, Xiangyang qijiu ji by Xi Zuochi and Jing Chu suishi ji 勲㤂㬚㗪姀 by Zong Lin ⬿ㅵ (ca. 502–566), a native of Jiangling 㰇昝.44 Wang Lin 䌳䏛 points out that one cause for the appearance of the many local writings was the collapse of the unified empire, which gave rise to growing regional power and an increasing awareness of regional identities. The Tang dynasty historian Liu Zhiji ∱䞍⸦ (661–721) commented in Shi tong ⎚忂 on some of these works that were compiled by the local men: “[They] brag of their local worthies, praise their regional clans” 䞄℞悱岊炻伶℞恎㕷; “The men reckon [their local region] a happy place, and the families believe it a famous city” Ṣ冒ẍ䁢㦪⛇炻⭞冒ẍ China,” 36–37. 38. Andrew Chittick and Wang Lin in their respective studies have discussed the impetus and the purpose of the compilation of geographical works during the Six Dynasties. See Chittick, “The Development of Local Writing in Early Medieval China,” 39–42, 65–66; Wang Lin, “Liuchao diji: dili yu wenxue de jiehe,” 94–98. 39. See Chittick, “The Development of Local Writing in Early Medieval China,” 65–66. 40. Fan Wang’s biography is in Jin shu 75. 1982–84. He was an assistant of Yu Yi ⹦侤 (305–345) and then of Huan Wen 㟻㹓 (312–373) who governed the Jing-Chu region and was stationed in Jiangling. Fan Wang’s Jingzhou ji is not recorded in the “Treatise on Classics and Documents” (Jingji zhi 䴻䯵⽿) of the Sui shu. It is likely that the work had been lost by the end of the Six Dynasties. For fragments of Fan Wang’s Jingzhou ji, see Shi Hongyun, ed., Chen Yunrong (1858–1918?) and Wang Renjun (1866–1913), comp., Jingzhou ji jiuzhong, 91–92. 41. Sheng Hongzhi was an assistant of Liu Yiqing, Prince of Linchuan 冐ⶅ of the Song. Liu Yiqing was appointed inspector of Jingzhou in 432. See Zizhi tongjian 122.3838. For a reconstructed text, see Shi Hongyun, ed., Jingzhou ji jiuzhong, 14–76. 42. Guo Zhongchan was an assistant of Liu Yixuan, Prince of Nanqiao ⋿嬁 of the Song. Liu was appointed inspector of Jingzhou in 444. For fragments of Guo’s Jingzhou ji, see Shi Hongyun, ed., Jingzhou ji jiuzhong, 96. Regarding Nan Yongzhou or South Yong Province, see Chittick, Patronage and Community in Medieval China, 20, and Song shu 37. 1135. 43. Bao Zhi was an assistant of Xiao Gang 唕䵙 (503–551), who was inspector of Yongzhou from 523 to 530. For reconstructed texts of the two Nan Yongzhou ji by Guo Zhongchan and Bao Zhi, respectively, see Huang, Wei Jin Nanbeichao Sui Tang shi yanjiu yu ziliao, 564–82. 44. For more examples, see Wang Lin, “Liuchao diji,” 95–96. Zong Lin was an assistant of Xiao Yi 唕両 (508– 555), Prince of Xiangdong 㸀㜙, who was appointed inspector of Jingzhou in 547. Zong Lin compiled the Jing Chu suishi ji around 555 in the northern regime of Western Wei, after Western Wei conquered Jiangling, the capital of the Liang at the time, and took him to the North. See Song Jinlong, annot., Jing Chu suishi ji, 10.

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䇚⎵悥. Liu’s criticism to some extent reveals the motive of compiling those works: the authors began to appreciate the beauty of their native places and the glory in their ancestry and thus wanted to record them.45 Most of the local writings that were compiled during the Six Dynasties were about southern provinces and cities, which is a sign of the increasing political and cultural power of the South.46 The stories about Yang Hu and Shan Jian, along with the several local writings that recorded and transmitted them, are a part of the development of the cultural South in medieval China.

The Development of the Two Literary Conventions in the Tang The literary representation of the mountain and the pond is developed surrounding the conventional topoi that are associated with the two places. The mountain and the pond are geographical sites as well as textual traditions in which a poet defines or questions his identity. In some poems the two places each become associated with two powerful images: the dilapidated “stele for shedding tears” and the carefree drunkard Shan Jian. The association between Mount Xian and the conventional topoi of “reflection on the past” first appeared in poetry of the early Tang. Generations of poets climbed to the mountaintop and, after thinking of Yang Hu and seeing his stele, linked their fate to that of humankind in general. Chen Zi’ang 昛⫸㖪 (ca. 660–ca. 702) and Zhang Jiuling ⻝ḅ漉 (678–740) incorporated identity-search into the conventional topoi. In “Xianshan huaigu” ⲜⰙ㆟⎌ (Reflecting on the past on Mount Xian), Chen Zi’ang recalls Yang Hu and Zhuge Liang 媠吃Ṗ (181–234) on Mount Xian while pondering about what these two men had left behind: “I lament at the stele for shedding tears, / And think of the Resting Dragon’s design” 䋞ず⡖㶂䡋炻⯂゛再漵⚾.47 The melancholy tone, which is embedded in the original story about Yang Hu, starts with the word bei ず and is carried throughout the poem. The reason for Chen’s lament is further implied in the following couplets that exemplify a number of common topoi of the genre “reflection on the past,” including the contrast between permanence and transience: Hills and mounds stand out by themselves, How many worthies and sages have perished? Trees in the wilderness are cut off from view in dark mist, The tower at the ford is isolated in the evening air. Who knows a traveler of ten thousand miles Is reflecting on the past as he paces to and fro? 45. See Pu Qilong 㴎崟漵 (1679–1762), Shitong tongshi, 10.275–76. I have used Andrew Chittick’s translation in “The Development of Local Writing in Early Medieval China,” 39 and 67. 46. See Wang Lin, “Liuchao diji,” 97. 47. The hometown of Zhuge Liang was said to be twenty li to the northwest of Xiangyang. See Yuanhe junxian tuzhi, 21.529.

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176 ᷀昝⼺冒↢炻岊俾⸦ⅳ㝗ˤ慶㧡呤䄁㕟炻㳍㦻㘂㯋⬌ˤ婘䞍叔慴⭊炻㆟⎌ 㬋帲帽ˤ

The description of the evening scene, with such words as zi 冒, duan 㕟, and gu ⬌ that clearly imply the emotion of the poet, intensifies the mood of melancholy and loneliness. Unlike the High Tang poet Meng Haoran who was a native of Xiangyang, Chen was a visitor from afar (wanlike 叔慴⭊). The words shuizhi 婘䞍 in the last line form a rhetorical question, indicating that Chen could find nobody to understand him. What Chen feels on Mount Xian is loneliness and isolation from a sense of disconnection in both history and place. He depicts himself as a lonesome traveler who finds only mountain relics from past generations to console himself. Zhang Jiuling’s “Deng Xiangyang Xianshan” 䘣壬春ⲜⰙ (Climbing Mount Xian of Xiangyang) is similar to Chen’s “Xiangyang huaigu” in several ways. Both poems repeat a number of conventional topoi of the genre huaigu and both carry the conventional mood of melancholy. Zhang’s poem, however, conveys a deeper degree of sadness and emptiness. Like Chen Zi’ang, Zhang also brings out the contrast between the permanent and the transient. The difference is that Zhang, having climbed Mount Xian several times in the past, immediately experienced the contrast upon his re-visit: “Indeed these mountains and rivers remain as they were, / Who can halt the passage of years and months?” ᾉ劍Ⱉⶅ 冲炻婘⤪㬚㚰ỽ.48 Mountains and rivers are not perceived as they are in themselves but only in comparison with what they were in the past. Like Chen Zi’ang, Zhang also remembers Zhuge Liang and Yang Hu on Mount Xian, but he emphasizes that neither of the two men left much trace. The eroded stele of Yang Hu is a symbol of the relentless passage of time and the emptiness of human attainments. Zhang further laments that no glory or pleasure will last: The chant of the Shu councilor, where is it?49 The stele of Lord Yang has worn away. Despite his fine strategies, [Zhuge Liang] is solitary and lonesome, [Yang Hu had] happy gatherings, yet the years were idled away. 嚨䚠⏇⬱⛐炻伲℔䡋⶚䢐ˤẌ⚾䋞⭪⮆炻▱㚫Ṏ己嵶ˤ

These couplets are not just a nod to the convention of lament but express a deeper feeling of emptiness and helplessness. The feeling is intensified by the following description of scenery that applies a conventional topos, description of a landscape devoid of historical association: “Curving and winding, the bank of Fancheng, / Slowly and leisurely flow the 48. See Quan Tang shi 49.603. Gu Jianguo suggested a possible date, the year 718, for this poem. See Gu, Zhang Jiuling nianpu, 88. Luo Tao notes that this poem was written when Zhang was on his way from Shaozhou 枞ⶆ to Luoyang for his new appointment at court, but Luo did not give a date. See Luo, Zhang Jiuling shiwen xuan, 78. 49. The chant of the Shu councilor refers to an ancient song “Liangfu yin” 㠩䓓炷䇞炸⏇, which Zhuge Liang liked to sing when he lived in reclusion. See Sanguo zhi 35.911; Yuefu shiji 41.605.

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waves of the Han River” ⭃⭃㦲❶Ⱡ炻ええ㻊㯜㲊. Nature, despite the vicissitudes of the human world, shows no signs of sympathy but keeps its own pace. Zhang then adds his own response: “Winding away, spring is far gone, / Moved by the sojourn, the feelings of the visitor are abundant” 忞後㗍㖍怈炻デ⭬⭊ね⣂. Like Chen Zi’ang, Zhang was also a visitor to the region. His abundant feelings were brought about not only by the passing of spring but also by his situation of “sojourn” (ji ⭬). The word suggests the brief stay of all human beings in this world, which the poet feels most intensely during his brief stay in Xiangyang.50 Zhang ends his poem with a sigh: “I share the same mind [with Zhuge Liang and Yang Hu] but cannot appreciate the same scenery [with them], / I linger and sigh at this crook of the mountain” ⎴⽫ᶵ⎴岆, 䔁▮㬌ⱑ旧. Where Chen Zi’ang experienced only feelings of isolation, Zhang finds connection with past worthies but cannot actually share their presence, and this disjunction eventually makes him sigh. As we see in Chen’s and Zhang’s poems, the literary representation of Mount Xian is to some extent shaped by conventions of the genre “reflection on the past.” The scenes depicted are structured around the topoi of the genre as well as the personal experience of the poet. Since Nature represents what is permanent and affirms the ephemeralness of human life, natural landscapes often appear unsympathetic or with the implication of isolation. Two other poems about reflecting on the past on Mount Xian show concerns for the continuation and inheritance of Yang Hu’s legacy. Yuan Zhen ⃫䧡 (779–831) wrote “Xiangyang dao” 壬春忻 (The roads of Xiangyang) sometime after 810 when he was demoted to the position of adjutant in Jiangling: Lord Yang’s reputation is gradually fading away, Leaving behind only the stele on Mount Xian. In recent years his legacy is difficult to carry on, Prince of Cao employed Ma Yi.51 Peppercorn and thoroughwort have both left the world, The city walls have remained till the present. The Han River is clear as jade, For whose benefit is its water flowing?52 伲℔⎵㻠怈炻ⓗ㚱ⲜⰙ䠹ˤ役㖍䧙暋两炻㚡䌳ả楔⼅ˤ㢺嗕ᾙᶳᶾ炻❶悕 ⇘Ṳ㗪ˤ㻊㯜㶭⤪䌱炻㳩Ἦ㛔䁢婘烎

50. An example from early Chinese literature about life being like a sojourn is the following couplet, “Human life is brief as a sojourn, / Longevity lacks the permanence of metal or stone” Ṣ䓇⾥⤪⭬炻⢥䃉慹䞛⚢. See “Old Poem” No. 13 in Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi, 332. 51. Prince of Cao here refers to Li Gao 㛶䘳 (733–792), the great-great-grandson of Li Ming 㛶㖶 (d. 682) who was a son of Emperor Taizong ⣒⬿. Ma Yi was an assistant of Li Gao. Li Gao saw Ma Yi’s ability and employed him before Ma Yi had been known, and Ma Yi eventually was famous for his righteousness. At one time Ma Yi admonished Li Gao as he was about to purchase a former garden of Zhang Jianzhi ⻝㞔ᷳ (625–706) in Xiangyang. See Jiu Tang shu 131.3640–41 and Xin Tang shu 80.3583. 52. Quan Tang shi 399.4476.

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Prince of Cao, an older contemporary of Yuan Zhen, was considered by Yuan one of the few people who could carry on Yang Hu’s legacy. The second couplet thus brings hope to the poem. By the time Yuan Zhen wrote the poem, however, the prince had already died, indicating the interruption of Yang’s legacy. Line six, about the death of worthies past and present (represented by jiaolan 㢺嗕), darkens the tone of poem. The last line, a rhetorical question, means the Han River is unsympathetic and flows on regardless of human concerns. Natural scenes, in this poem represented by the city walls and the Han River, likewise represent what is unchanging and unfeeling. The poem “Jing Duoleibei” 䴻⡖㶂䠹 (Passing by the stele for shedding tears) by late Tang poet Ren Fan ả侣 (fl. 843) also introduces a contemporary situation: the local people still remembered Yang Hu’s deed and thus respected Yang Hu’s descendants. The contrast between what remains and what has disappeared, a major topos of the genre “reflection on the past,” is presented in each of the first three couplets, which nonetheless emphasize the continuation of the legacy of Yang Hu and therefore have a hopeful tone: In this place where Lord Yang edified [the people], Through the ages his deeds remain in vain. The scripts on the stele have been worn away, Local people still show respect to his offspring. Mount Xian forever encloses his regrets, The Han River flows on with his grace as before. The spots that appear to be misty and hazy, Apparently are the stains of tears.53 伲℔⁛⊾⛘炻⋫⎌ḳ䨢⬀ˤ䠹⶚䃉㔯⫿炻Ṣ䋞㔔⫸⬓ˤⲜⰙ攟攱【炻㻊㯜 冒㳩】ˤ㔠嗽䄁⳸刚炻↮㖶㗗㶂䕽ˤ

The description of scenery in the third couplet shows that what Yang Hu left behind has become integrated into the landscape. The mountain has turned into a permanent monument for Yang Hu, and the Han River has become the carrier of Yang’s grace and legacy. Both the mountain and the river are thus symbolic, communicating to later generations the story and memories about Yang Hu. Ren Fan’s poem starts with a hopeful tone but, similar to Zhang Jiuling’s poem, nevertheless ends in sadness. Tears are not only shed by the poets but are also projected into the distant view and blended into the natural scene. The second half of the poem presents landscape by repeating several literary topoi of the genre huaigu. The early Tang dynasty saw more frequent use in poetry of the allusion about Shan Jian and the Xi Family Pond. Most poets use the allusion in ways similar to Yu Xin: using drunkenness to symbolize an attitude to life, using the name of the pond as a symbol of feasting, drinking and drunkenness, or adding a twist to the original story. It was in a group composition in the 680s that the allusion to the Xi Family Pond was used extensively for the first time. Nine poets gathered in Luoyang in the 680s for a banquet held by court official 53. Quan Tang shi 727. 8334.

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Gao Zhengchen 檀㬋冋 (fl. 660–690). Each of the poets wrote a poem to the same title “Huiri chongyan” 㘎㖍慵⭜ (Feasting again on the last day of the first month). Among the nine poems, six incorporate an allusion to the Xi Family Pond. The main reason the allusion is extensively used in this group composition is that the word “pond” (chi) was the prescribed rhyme word.54 This means every poet must choose rhyme words from the zhi 㓗 rhyme category to which chi belongs and must use the rhyme word chi in his poem. The Xi Family Pond is particularly suitable for the occasion since it had acquired the meaning of drinking, drunkenness, and feasting by the late Southern Dynasties. Both rhyme requirements and the literary associations of the Xi Family Pond were behind the use of this particular pond by two-thirds of the participating poets who celebrated their gathering in poetry. Just as Yu Xin writes “Better drink wine by the Drunkard’s Pond,” some of the six poets also write about going to or feasting by the pond, although all of them were in Luoyang when they wrote their poems. In the last couplet of his poem, Zhou Yanhui ␐⼍廅 (jinshi 674) compares the tipsy guests at the gathering to Shan Jian: “In the thickness of our merriment, our headpieces got turned upside down, / Like Lord Shan going to the Xi Family Pond” 冰整ⶦᾺ㇜炻Ⱉ℔ᶳ佺㰈.55 Similarly, Han Zhongxuan 杻ẚ⭋ (fl. 680s) compares the guests to Shan Jian and the host to the hospitable Chen Zun: “Chen Zun has thrown the linchpins [into the well], / Lord Shan is sitting by the pond” 昛思⶚㈽廬炻Ⱉ℔㬋 ⛸㰈.56 Gao Jin 檀䐦 (fl. 680s) writes about what he and some bosom friends are doing at the gathering: “We are opening the wine of Pengze, / And going to the Drunkard’s Pond” 㬋攳⼕㽌惺炻Ἦ⎹檀春㰈.57 In these couplets we see that the pond had become a symbol of feasting and inebriety in its textual tradition. After the early Tang, some poets continued to use the symbolic meaning of the pond. For example, a couplet by Du Fu 㜄䓓 (712–770) reads, “Every day I am tipsy by the Xi Family Pond, / When sorrows arrive, I sing the Song of Liangfu” 㖍㚱佺㰈愱炻ォἮ㠩䓓⏇.58 Du Fu was in Chengdu when he wrote this poem, and therefore the actual meaning of the first half is, “Every day I am tipsy, just as Shan Jian by the Xi Family Pond.” A couplet by Wu Yuanheng 㬎⃫堉 (758– 815) reads: “By chance I seek the guest from the mansion of ravens,59 / To get intoxicated 54. Ji Yougong (fl. 1126), Tangshi jishi, 7.86. 55. I have used the Gujin suishi zayong edition for the “Huiri chongyan” poems. See Xu Minxia, ed., Gujin suishi zayong, 76–77, 107–11, 112–13. 56. According to Chen Zun’s biography in the Han shu, when Chen hosted a banquet, in order to have his guests stay longer, he often had the linchpins of their carriages thrown into the well (tou xia). See Han shu 92.3709–13. 57. Pengze refers to Tao Yuanming 昞㶝㖶 (365?–427), who was governor of Pengze county in modern Jiangxi. 58. “Chu dong” ⇅⅔, in Quan Tang shi 228.2485. Huang He 湫浜 (fl. 1216), a commentator of Du Fu’s poetry, notes that this poem was written in the second year of Guangde ⺋⽟ (764). See Qiu Zhaoao, Dushi xiangzhu, 14.1196. 59. See the biography of Zhu Bo 㛙⌂ (d. 5 BCE) in Han shu 83.3405. Thousands of wild ravens gathered on the cypress trees near Zhu Bo’s office. Later, “the mansion of ravens” is used to refer to the office of the head of the censorate (yushi dafu ⽉⎚⣏⣓).

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together at the Xi Family Pond” „⮳䁷⹄⭊炻⎴愱佺⭞㰈.60 The second half of the couplet actually means, “To get drunk together as if we were by the Xi Family Pond, where Shan Jian had also drunk his fill.” At the end of a banquet poem, Meng Haoran also writes about “going to the Xi Family Pond.” The banquet happened to have been held at Mount Xian. Meng compares the guests at the banquet to Yang Hu and Shan Jian, and in the end he brings up the famous story about Shan Jian: Shuzi’s spirit seems to be present, Lord Shan’s elation is not yet abated. Having heard of [Shan Jian’s] drunken horseback riding, We head over to the Xi Family Pond for a look.61 ⍼⫸䤆⤪⛐炻Ⱉ℔冰㛒整ˤ⁛倆榶楔愱炻怬⎹佺㰈䚳ˤ

The second to last line echoes the ditty that children of Xiangyang sang about Shan Jian, “Reeling drunk and oblivious of everything” and “At times he can still ride a horse.” We are unsure whether or not Meng Haoran and his friends went to the pond to take a look. On the one hand, the phrase “going to the pond” had become a literary cliché by Meng’s time. On the other hand, since the banquet site happened to be at Mount Xian, Meng could in fact have visited the pond, which was nearby. In this poem, the pond is both a symbol of drunkenness and a physical place the poet could visit. Two poems among all those that mention the Xi Family Pond are exceptional in including detailed descriptions of the pond and its surroundings. Meng Haoran in the first half of “Gaoyangchi song Zhu er” 檀春㰈復㛙Ḵ (Seeing off Zhu the Second at the Drunkard’s Pond) imagines the scenery at the pond during Shan Jian’s time. Fishing, the pond’s utilitarian function, appears in poetry for perhaps the first time: In Xiangyang of bygone days, when in its prime, Lord Shan always drank his fill by the Xi Family Pond. Fisher-girls by the pond followed along on their own, In perfect make-up vying for a peek at their splendid reflections. On the limpid wavelets weak and mild lotus blossoms burst forth; On verdant banks feathery full willow trees dangled down.62 䔞㖼壬春晬䚃㗪炻Ⱉ℔ⷠ愱佺⭞㰈ˤ㰈怲憋⤛冒䚠晐炻⥅ㆸ䄏⼙䪞Ἦ䩢ˤ 㼬㲊㶉㶉剁呱䘤炻䵈Ⱡ㮧㮧㣲㞛✪ˤ

60. “Chou Yuan shi’er” 愔⃫⋩Ḵ, in Quan Tang shi 316.3555. 61. “Lu mingfu jiuri Xianshan yan Yuan shijun Zhang langzhong Cui yuanwai” 䚏㖶⹄ḅ㖍ⲜⰙ⭜堩ἧ⏃⻝ 恶ᷕⲼ⒉⢾, in Tong Peiji, Meng Haoran shiji jianzhu, 286–87. Yang Hu’s style name is Shuzi ⍼⫸. 62. Quan Tang shi 159.1630. I have used Paul W. Kroll’s translation in his Meng Hao-jan, 40, with minor modifications.

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By the time Meng wrote this poem, the heyday of Xiangyang had vanished along with visitors to the Xi Family Pond. In the next section of the poem, the bleak situation of the present is contrasted to the glorious past: On a single morning things have changed and people are different, All four directions bleak and desolate, the paths become sparse. That spirit of lavishness and splendor, where is it now? Left behind in vain are dewdrops on the grass, dampening the gauze robe.63 ᶨ㛅䈑嬲ṢṎ朆炻⚃朊勺ⅱṢ⼹䦨ˤシ㯋尒厗ỽ嗽⛐炻䨢检勱曚㽽伭堋ˤ

When the pond is presented as a geographical site, it can be a place to ponder the contrast between the past and the present, a common topos of the genre huaigu. In the two couplets above, however, nature no longer represents the permanent. The pond and its surroundings have become desolate, and the spirit and the extravagant way of life have also disappeared. The dewdrops are a metaphor of transience, reminding this generation of the brevity of human life when they damp the robes. Despite the fact that the seeing-off party was held by the actual pond, the site’s connotation of “drunkenness” is mentioned only once, in a historical referent to Shan Jian, to acknowledge the convention. The present situation of the pond is devoid of human activities as well as the literary allusion of “getting drunk.” The poem “Xichi chenqi” 佺㰈㘐崟 (Getting up in the morning by the Xi Family Pond) by the late Tang poet Pi Rixiu is about drinking wine by the actual Xi Family Pond. The poem reads: On a morning bleak and dreary I come with wine, Cool breezes entice me, circling around the pavilion and the terrace, Halcyon kingfishers make a few sounds then fly away from me, A stretch of lotus flowers are blooming in the sunlight. Leaves of wild rice, lush and deep, bury a fishing boat, The fish in the rippling water are chasing the floating [wine] cups. Beneath the bamboo screen are the mountain-climbing clogs, Ten nights at the Drunkard’s Pond I forget to return.64 㶭㚁唕㢖庱惺Ἦ炻㵤桐䚠⺽丆ṕ⎘ˤ㔠倚侉侈側Ṣ⍣炻ᶨ䇯剁呱⏓㖍攳ˤ 動叱㶙㶙❳憋凯炻欂⃺㻦㻦徸㳩㜗ˤ䪡⯷桐ᶳ䘣Ⱉ⯸炻⋩⭧檀春⾀⌜⚆ˤ

The description of the surrounding scenery is not imaginary or textual but based on the poet’s observation. On the other hand, the symbolic meaning of the pond is also present. The word “wine” and the allusion to drinking appear three times in the poem: “wine” in the first line, the “floating cups” in the sixth line, and the “[pond of] Gaoyang” in the last line. The second half of the poem weaves together the geographical and the symbolic Xi Family Pond, celebrating the present situation while recalling the stories about the pond in 63. Ibid., my translation. 64. Quan Tang shi 613.7066.

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history. Fish, fishing (the original function of the pond), and wine-drinking (a connotation of the pond that developed later) all appear in the third couplet. These words form a string that links the actual scenes with the literary allusions of the pond. Unlike Meng’s poem “Gaoyangchi song Zhu er,” which focuses on the contrast between the past and the present and contains little literary allusion to the pond, the “[pond of] Gaoyang” in the last line of Pi’s poem merges both the pond’s geographical sense and its symbolic meaning. This combination is similar to Meng Haoran’s line “We head over to the Xi Family Pond for a look.” Since both Meng Haoran and Pi Rixiu were natives of Xiangyang, going to drink by the actual pond was relatively convenient. Li Bai 㛶䘥 (701–762) writes often about Yang Hu, the stele on Mount Xian, the Xi Family Pond, and Shan Jian. He treats these subjects in ways different from most other poets. He resisted the influence of the genre “reflection on the past” by refusing to weep for the “stele for shedding tears.” He tries to see Mount Xian from a new angle other than through the conventional topoi. He also adds creative details to the original story about Shan Jian. Li Bai also develops a topos which was used in Yu Xin’s “Yangliu ge”: carpe diem, to “seize the day.” In Chinese literature, the theme of carpe diem can be traced back to the Nineteen Old Poems of the Han dynasty. Drunkenness, or “rapture with wine” as James J. Y. Liu put it, is “a symbol of escape from the miseries of the world and from one’s personal emotions.”65 Drinking, in other words, is a means to “seize the day.” In “Xiangyang qu” 壬春㚚 (Melody of Xiangyang) and “Xiangyang ge” 壬春㫴 (Song of Xiangyang), Li Bai pairs up the stories about Yang Hu and Shan Jian which are represented by two symbols respectively: the dilapidated “stele for shedding tears” and the drunken Shan Jian. Li Bai uses the two images to advocate an attitude of carpe diem.66 The Xi Family Pond, where Shan Jian drank excessive amounts and behaved eccentrically, symbolizes drinking and merrymaking in the topos of carpe diem. “Xiangyang qu” is a traditional yuefu title, in which the city of Xiangyang appears as a place to seek sensual pleasures and love.67 Li Bai writes “Xiangyang qu” by following this convention of the yuefu title and creates a strong atmosphere of merrymaking for the theme of carpe diem. In the first poem of this series, the history, songs, dances and scenery of Xiangyang are all about leisure and pleasure: In Xiangyang, a place for merrymaking, People sing and dance to “Baitongdi.”68

65. Liu, The Art of Chinese Poetry, 58–59. 66. Cf. Tosaki Tetsuhiko, “Kōyō no shutoίRi Haku to San Kan: Tōshi ni okeru San Kan no koji no shiyō oyobi Ri Haku no San Kan ni taisuru keiai to sono imi.” 67. Guo Maoqian, Yuefu shiji, 48.703–6. 68. On the “Baitongdi” song, apparently originating in a proto-Tibetan settlement near Xiangyang, see Ping Wang, “Southern Girls or Tibetan Knights: A Liang (502–557) Court Performance,” esp. 75–77.

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Clear waters circle the river town, The blossoms and the moon are mesmerizing. 壬春埴㦪嗽炻㫴准䘥戭杖ˤ㰇❶⚆㶍㯜炻剙㚰ἧṢ徟ˤ

In this atmosphere of pleasure-seeking, Shan Jian the drunkard appears in the second poem, which is rewritten from the ditty of the children of Xiangyang. As in Yu Xin’s poems discussed earlier, the image of the upside-down white hat, a symbol of an unconstrained spirit, reappears: When Lord Shan was rapt with wine, He was reeling drunk by the Drunkard’s Pond. On his head was the white egret hat Upside down, yet he could still ride a horse. Ⱉ℔愱惺㗪炻愑惲檀春ᶳˤ柕ᶲ䘥㍍ፘ炻Ὰ叿怬榶楔ˤ

Like the second poem, the third poem consists of only objective description. Compared with the action and commotion in the previous two poems, however, the mood of the third poem is quiet and bleak. The moss on the bare stele is in contrast with eternal Nature, represented by Mount Xian, the ever-flowing Han River, and the white sand on the riverbank. Mount Xian looks down on the Han River, The water is green, the sand white as snow. On the mountain is the “stele for shedding tears,” Green moss grows upon it, the writing long since worn away. ⲜⰙ冐㻊㰇炻㯜䵈㱁⤪暒ˤᶲ㚱⡖㶂䠹炻曺剼ᷭ䢐㹭ˤ

The last poem brings back the images of the stele and the drunkard. It also brings back the joyous atmosphere of the first poem by depicting the comic moment when the carefree and unrestrained Shan Jian was trying to mount a horse amid the laughter of children: For the time being, get tipsy by the Xi Family Pond, Look not at the “stele for shedding tears.” Lord Shan is about to mount his horse, The children of Xiangyang are laughing hard at him.69 ᶼ愱佺⭞㰈炻卓䚳⡖㶂䠹ˤⰙ℔㫚ᶲ楔炻䪹㭢壬春⃺ˤ

Li Bai’s advice is qiezui ᶼ愱, “enjoy the moment in inebriety,” and mokan 卓䚳, “do not look at” the stele, a symbol of sadness and decay. His reasoning is subtly set up in the arrangement of the four-poem series, which begins with sensual pleasures and beautiful scenery and ends with laughter. The image of Shan Jian in the second poem is alive and comic, while that of Yang Hu in the third poem is what is left behind after his death, a  stele that has

69. Quan Tang shi 164.1701.

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deteriorated. The message of Li Bai is clear in the contrast between these two images, and the drunken Shan Jian is made an exemplar of the attitude of carpe diem. In “Xiangyang ge,” Li Bai also pairs the image of the drunkard and that of the stele and uses them to symbolize attitudes toward life. He begins the poem by retelling the story about Shan Jian: The setting sun is about to sink west of Mount Xian, Wearing the egret hat upside-down, he is lost beneath the blossoms. The children of Xiangyang clap their hands together, Blocking the streets, they vie to sing “Baitongdi.” An onlooker asks what it is they are laughing about— They are laughing hard over Lord Shan who is drunk as mud!70 句㖍㫚㰺ⲜⰙ大炻Ὰ叿㍍ፘ剙ᶳ徟ˤ壬春⮷⃺滲㉵ㇳ炻㒼埿䇕ⓙ䘥戭杖ˤ ‵Ṣῇ⓷䪹ỽḳ炻䪹㭢Ⱉ佩愱Ụ㲍ˤ

Compared with the second poem in the series “Xiangyang qu,” the retelling in “Xiangyang ge” is more elaborate and has a number of creative additions. The first line is an elaboration on the word rimu 㖍㙖 (dusk) in the ditty sung by the children in Xiangyang. Li Bai also imaginatively recreates scenes of Shan Jian getting “lost beneath the blossoms” and the children clapping hands and blocking the street. He further creates an onlooker and his conversation with the children, thus adding the perspective of an objective observer to his narration. The image of Shan Jian being “drunk as mud” ends the retelling of the story and strengthens the image of a comic, reckless drunkard. Considering the context of this poem, the retelling is also a kind of self-fashioning for Li Bai. He identifies himself with Shan Jian who, by excessive drinking and eccentric behavior, disregarded social mores and the opinion of other people. The second line of the poem thus could alternatively be translated as “I am lost beneath the blossoms,” as does Paul W. Kroll, and “Lord Shan” in the last line can be taken as Li Bai himself. After the retelling, Li Bai continues to develop the topos of love for drinking. The Han River, which represents unsympathetic, permanent Nature in the poems by Yuan Zhen and Ren Fan, becomes grape wine in Li Bai’s imagination (or illusion due to his inebriety): “Looking at the Han River from a distance, the water is green as mallard’s head, / And very like the grape when at its first unfiltered brewing” 态䚳㻊㯜泐柕䵈炻〘Ụ吉厬⇅慙愭. He continues to write that one should drink three hundred cups every day and enjoy life while one still can. He states his reason as follows: How can sighing for the yellow hound in the Xianyang market place, Compare with tippling a golden cannikin underneath the moon? Don’t you see, sir, The single stone slab for Lord Yang of the Jin,

70. I have used Paul W. Kroll’s translation in his Meng Hao-jan, 43, with minor modifications.

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Its tortoise heading worn bare and bleak, now bearing liverwort and lichen. But my tears cannot be shed for him, My heart cannot be saddened for him either. To buy the clear breeze and bright moon you don’t need a single cash, The Jade Mountain tumbles of its own accord, not because it is pushed.71 ①春ⶪᷕ▮湫䉔炻ỽ⤪㚰ᶳ⁦慹仵ˤ⏃ᶵ夳炻㗱㛅伲℔ᶨ䇯䞛炻潄柕∅句 䓇医剼ˤ㶂Ṏᶵ傥䁢ᷳ⡖炻⽫Ṏᶵ傥䁢ᷳ⑨ˤ㶭桐㚿㚰ᶵ䓐ᶨ拊屟炻䌱Ⱉ 冒Ὰ朆Ṣ㍐ˤ

Li Bai uses two negative examples to demonstrate that power and fame will not last. Li Si 㛶㕗 (ca. 280–208 BCE), the once powerful prime minister of the Qin, sadly recalled his happy dream of hunting with a yellow hound right before he was executed. Yang Hu’s dilapidated stele has failed to achieve its own purpose for being. In these two examples Li Bai also reflects on the past, but he shows no sympathy for Li Si and resists the convention of shedding tears for the stele of Yang Hu. He instead argues that one should seize the moment by drinking wine, getting drunk, and enjoying the free bounty of nature. In this aspect, Li Bai also refers to Xi Kang ⳯⹟ (ca. 223–ca. 262), another famous drinker, as an idealized alter-ego for himself. In a poem on seeing off a friend, Li Bai adds a twist to the conventional association between Shan Jian and drunkenness, saying that he excels Shan in his amount of drinking and degree of drunkenness: “The mild drinking by the Drunkard’s Pond is truly petty and paltry, / How could drunken Lord Shan be compared with me?” 檀春⮷梚䛇䐋䐋, Ⱉ℔ 愑惲ỽ⤪ㆹ.72 In addition to drinking capacity, Li Bai in fact says that he excels Shan Jian in unrestrained spirit. The rationale for Li Bai to drink a large quantity is explained in his “Jiang jin jiu” ⮯忚惺 (Pray drink the wine): “Sages and worthies of ancient times have all passed into oblivion, / Only the drinkers left their names in history” ⎌Ἦ俾岊䘮⭪⮆炻 ⓗ㚱梚侭䔁℞⎵.73 Drinking, Li Bai believes, is a better way to leave a good reputation for posterity. Whether making Shan Jian an exemplar of drinking or looking down on Shan’s drinking capacity, Li Bai is in fact writing under the influence of the conventional topos of drinking. The physical Xi Family Pond fades behind its symbolic meaning, just as Mount Xian fades behind the dilapidated stele of Yang Hu. In “Xianshan huaigu”, Li Bai does not touch on the long-established association between the mountain and Yang Hu but tries to see Mount Xian from a new perspective: Visiting traces of the past I climb to the top of Mount Xian, Standing on the mountain I watch Xiangyang in the distance. The sky is clear: distant peaks appear; 71. The Jade Mountain refers to Xi Kang. According to Shan Tao, When Xi Kang was drunk, he was like a jade mountain that was about to tumble. See Xu Zhen’e, Shishuo xinyu jiaojian, 14.335. 72. “Lujun Yaoci song Dou mingfu Bohua huan Xijing” 欗悉⟗䤈復䩯㖶⹄唬厗怬大Ṕ, Quan Tang shi 175. 1793. 73. Quan Tang shi 162.1682.

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186 The water recedes: chilly sands emerge. Playing with pearls I see the wandering goddesses,74 Intoxicated with wine I long for Lord Shan. I heave a sigh; my autumn feelings are roused, Tall pine trees whistle in the night winds.75 姒⎌䘣Ⲝ椾炻ㄹ檀䛢壬ᷕˤ⣑㶭怈Ⲙ↢炻㯜句⭺㱁䨢ˤ⺬䎈夳忲⤛炻愱惺 ㆟Ⱉ℔ˤデ▮䘤䥳冰炻攟㜦沜⣄桐ˤ

Li Bai includes the stories concerning Zheng Jiaofu 惕Ṍ䓓 ( Jiaofu of Zheng) and Shan Jian, respectively, but the two historical referents do not impart any particular connotation or mood to the poem. Instead they embody the distance of the past itself. The description of the landscape is not based on the topos of the contrast between the permanent and the transient. Since the conventional topoi of lamenting on Mount Xian are derived from the story about Yang Hu, lament and weeping disappear when Yang’s name and the “stele for shedding tears” are absent in the poem. The poem thus shows little of the melancholy that is typical of its genre huaigu. Li Bai’s mood is not even specified in the last couplet: there is no explanation of what made him sigh, and there is no evidence that his “autumn moods” are particularly sad. In Li Bai’s creative reconfiguration of the Yang Hu story, the allusion hints only vaguely at its original meaning, but still serves to sustain the celebrity of Xiangyang itself.

Conclusion Beginning in the Song dynasty there was more resistance to the influence of the literary convention of the “stele for shedding tears.” Following Li Bai’s example, some writers refuse to weep or feel sad, and some deny that a stele can make one’s fame everlasting. On the other hand, a critique of the original purpose of the stele can also be seen as a twist on the conventional topoi associated with Mount Xian. In this kind of twist that first appears in Li Bai’s poems, the images of the stele and the drunkard, which carry certain values and opinions with them, become detached from the location and scenes of geographical places. In the year 1070, Ouyang Xiu 㫸春ᾖ (1007–1072) wrote an essay titled “Xianshanting ji” ⲜⰙṕ姀 (On the pavilion of Mount Xian) for the renovation of the pavilion which Yang Hu was said to have visited.76 After questioning why both Yang Hu and Du Yu were anxious about their fame in later ages, Ouyang Xiu mildly criticizes them for going “too far in their concern for immortality out of delight in the extent of their fame.”77

74. Jiaofu of Zheng once encountered two goddesses of the Han River as he walked along the riverbank. The two goddesses wore at their belts two big pearls. See Lie xian zhuan, A.19–21. 75. Quan Tang shi 181.1847. 76. “Xianshanting ji,” in Li Yian, ed., Ouyang Xiu quanji, 40.588–89. 77. Owen, Remembrances, 27–28.

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Similarly, Zhang Kejiu ⻝⎗ᷭ (ca. 1270–after 1348) in the Yuan dynasty used the story of Yang Hu precisely to criticize the persistent attachment to literary fame at the expense of personal fulfillment. Zhang writes about the stele in a vernacular song, “Manting fang” 㺧⹕剛. After writing that life is short and that there is no need to seek wealth, Zhang comments, Yang Hu left a broken stele in vain, Is it necessary to wet the robe on Mount Niu?78 The fisherman is drunk, The discord of the mundane world Cannot reach his angling rock.79 伲䤄䨢⬀㕟䠹炻䈃Ⱉỽ⽭㱦堋ˤ㺩佩愱炻䲭⠝㗗朆炻⏡ᶵ⇘憋欂䢗ˤ

Zhang Kejiu wants to convey a message through images and allusions, and therefore the location of the broken stele and the scenes surrounding it are not important. To develop his viewpoint, Zhang Kejiu introduces a different occasion of weeping on another mountain. The Duke of Jing shed tears on Mount Niu 䈃 because he did not feel he had enjoyed enough and thus desired to cling to life. His lament did not receive much sympathy in later poetry. Lu Ji 映㨇 (261–313) in his “Qi ou xing” 滲嫛埴 scorns the duke who did not consider life and death in the grand scheme, and Li Bai ridiculed the duke in one of his “Gufeng” ⎌桐 poems.80 In this song Zhang Kejiu carries on the tradition of rejecting the duke’s lament and denying the value of Yang Hu’s stele. As Li Bai does in “Xiangyang qu” and “Xiangyang  ge,” Zhang advocates an ideal attitude to life, which is represented by a drunken fisherman. Although drunkenness is not associated with Shan Jian or the Xi Family Pond in this song, the fisherman is similar to Shan Jian in terms of his free spirit. Reclusion and drunkenness, Zhang implies, are proper means to get away from the “discord of the mundane world.” Lu Changgeng 映攟⹂ (1554–1631) writes in his preface to the 1593 woodblock edition of the Xiangyang qijiu zhuan 壬春侮冲⁛ that “celebrities and landscape need each other to become illustrious” Ṣ䈑Ⱉⶅ炻䚠⼭侴栗.81 Celebrities and their activities in a 78. During the Spring and Autumn period, when the Duke of Jing of the Qi (d. 490 BCE) looked down at the city walls on Mount Niu he shed tears and said: “How could I leave behind all these grand and flourishing and die?” Yan Ying 㗷⫘ (d. 510 BCE?), who was accompanying the duke at the time, laughed and told the duke that he would not have been on the throne had great kings of the past lived forever. Mount Niu is to the south of Linzi 冐㵬 in modern Shandong province. For the story about the lament of Duke of Jing of the Qi, see Wu Zeyu, Yanzi chunqiu jishi, 1.63. 79. “Manting fang. Ganxing jian Wang Gongshi” 㺧⹕剛Ʉデ冰䯉䌳℔⮎, in Sui Shusen, ed. Quan Yuan sanqu, 867. 80. Lu Ji writes in “Qi ou xing”: “In the Way of Heaven there are alternation and replacement, / In the Way of Humans there is no everlasting prosperity. / How despicable, the lament on Mount Niu, / Far from the feeling of the Accomplished One” ⣑忻㚱徕ẋ炻Ṣ忻䃉ᷭ䙰ˤ惁⑱䈃Ⱉ▮炻㛒⍲军Ṣね. See Yuefu shiji 64.933. Li Bai writes, “How foolish was the Duke of Jing, / On Mount Niu his tears flowed without cease” 㘗℔ᶨỽヂ炻䈃Ⱉ㶂䚠临. See Wang Qi (fl. 18th century), comm., Li Taibai quanji, 2.118. 81. Huang, Wei Jin Nanbeichao Sui Tang shi yanjiu yu ziliao, 554.

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certain place bring value and meaning to the place. Ouyang Xiu writes in “Xianshanting ji” that it was Yang Hu and Du Yu who made Mount Xian, a small mountain in the Xiangyang region, well known. The Xi Family Pond, originally two fishponds of Xi Yu, never appeared in poetry until Shan Jian’s frequent visits. Shan Jian named the fishponds “Drunkard’s Pond” and drank to inebriety beside them. From then on the ponds were fishponds no more but a conceptual place to feast and drink wine. In the Ming and the Qing dynasties, school children were taught the following couplet when they were learning how to write parallel lines: “The powerful and wealthy Shi Chong, when inviting guests, never let the goblets of Jingu villa empty, / The admirable and urbane Shan Jian, while stationing troops, often got tipsy by the Xi Family Pond” 尒⭴䞛ⲯ怨⭊ᶵ䨢慹察䚆炻桐㳩Ⱉ䯉楸幵ⷠ愱佺 ⭞㰈.82 On the other hand, the “stele for shedding tears” (as well as Mount Xian) and the Xi Family Pond became monuments of Yang Hu and Shan Jian, respectively. The mountain and the pond in their textual traditions also carry historical and literary allusions to the two men. Yang Hu and Shan Jian thus became famous in the context of the two places in both geographical and textual senses. The formation of the literary conventions of Mount Xian and the Xi Family Pond is a part of the development of the geographical and literary South in medieval China. When the geographical and military importance of Jing-Chu increased following the end of the Eastern Han, local writings such as Xiangyang qijiu ji and Jing Chu suishi ji began to appear in large numbers. We learn about the history and the geography of the Jing-Chu region, including the stories about Yang Hu and Shan Jian, partially through these transmitted texts. Over the course of time, some events and anecdotes survived the random choices of history. Shan Jian’s love for alcohol is a case in point. His drunkenness was admired while his delinquency and the chaotic time he lived in are seldom commented on in poetry. The stories about Shan Jian and Yang Hu survived also because both stories combined a number of literary topoi, such as “reflection on the past,” love of wine, and carpe diem, which recur in literature. After the literary conventions of Mount Xian were established, some poets, such as Chen Zi’ang and Yuan Zhen, chose to follow the conventions and incorporate their own experience into it. Others tried to resist the convention, ironically confirming that they were still writing under its influence. As for the Xi Family Pond, Du Fu and Wu Yuanheng used the symbolic meaning of the pond in their poems while Li Bai developed the topos of carpe diem and created an idealized identity for himself. These different treatments constitute a spectrum of repetition and variation of the literary topoi associated with the mountain or the pond. Poets write about their own situation and search for their identities at the geographical sites and in the textual tradition of the places. Whatever the individual variations of particular poets on these familiar topoi, the fame of Xiangyang itself prospered. As the Jing-Chu region rose to distinction in medieval times, Chinese poets worked to refashion their own identities in light of the lore of this new region. 82. Si Shouqian’s ⎠⬰嫁 (Ming dynasty) Xun meng pianju 妻呁榊⎍, printed in various editions.

8 Jiangnan from the Ninth Century On The Routinization of Desire Stephen Owen

The aura of place depends a great deal on whether or not it is home. Home has its own aura, which is quite distinct from the place you would like to go that is “not home.” For the Southern Dynasties Jiangnan was a home that was not quite home. The northern emigrés settled in and, with a literary language filled with references to the North, learned to make Jiangnan another discursive home. When the South ceased to be a political center around the turn of the seventh century, the southern textual world almost completely displaced the northern textual legacy. For the Tang Jiangnan survived as a textual presence that was “displaced,” unless one went there as a traveler or on temporary assignment; the ruling elite was, by and large, northern. Like Italy for West Europeans in the early modern period, Jiangnan became the textually imagined world of desire that was, in most cases, not one’s native home. Jiangnan and its charms became a cultural cliché, which is not to say that Jiangnan lost its attraction, but rather, like a coin too long in circulation, its image blurred and lost detail, while its value remained the same. Even to say the name “Jiangnan,” which I will render as the “Southland,” came with a set of possible ready-made predicates: it might be ke cai lian ⎗慯咖, “you can pick lotus,” or jiali di Ἓ渿⛘, “a lovely land,” or the simple hao ⤥, “is good” or “is best.” Each of these ready-made predicates came from a song or a poem. “You can pick lotus” is the oldest, though we do not know how old, and that spun off into poems on lovely young women picking lotus, which became part of the complex of images associated with the Southland. “A lovely land” appeared later, in the eighth year of the Yongming reign of the Qi  dynasty to be precise. The characterization “a lovely land” was already troping on an earlier text, but it stuck with the Southland. That poem is worth citing because the coin was still fresh and new then. Xie Tiao 謝朓 (464–499): Song for Coming to Court 入朝曲1 Jiangnan is a lovely land, Jinling, the province of emperors. Winding off, lined by green waters, 1.

Lu Qinli, Xian-Qin Han Wei Nanbeichao shi, 1414.

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190 far away there rise crimson mansions. Soaring eave-tiles line the Imperial Way, hanging willows shade the Royal Moat. Drawn-out notes of fifes flank high canopies, steady drum-rolls escort the splendid axles. A presentation [of portraits of merit] on Cloud Terrace—2 deeds and fame may truly be registered.

㰇⋿Ἓ渿⛘炻慹昝ⷅ䌳ⶆˤ忞後ⷞ䵈㯜炻徊怆崟㛙㦻ˤ梃䒵⣦楛忻炻✪㣲 昘⽉㹅ˤↅ䫛侤檀味炻䔲溻復厗庰ˤ䌣䲵暚冢堐炻≇⎵列⎗㓞ˤ

This is one of the ten “Fife and Drum Songs for the Prince of Sui” 昳䌳溻⏡㚚 written to the prince’s command. The “Song for Coming to Court” is for the nobility coming to court. In the background of the famous opening is Cao Zhi’s “Presented to Ding Yi and Wang Can” 岰ᶩ₨䌳䱚:3 Grand indeed, the dwelling of an emperor, its loveliness distinct from other cities. ⢗⑱ⷅ䌳⯭炻Ἓ渿㬲䘦❶ˤ

Xie Tiao’s Jiankang ⺢⹟ has replaced Cao Zhi’s Ye 惜, just as his lines were to replace Cao  Zhi’s in fame. Most significant, however, it is not just a city that is lovely, but all Jiangnan. Jiangnan was not the whole of the Southern Qi realm, but it was the new imperial heartland, where many of the more favored princes and the aristocracy held their fiefs and posts. It is a whole space organized by a center, Jiankang, and, as the title promises, the poem leads from the surrounding whole to that center, first to Jinling, then the regional term for the area around Jiankang. In the distance we see the Yangtze and the red mansions and palaces. We pass along the great road leading to the palace across the Moat, with the military music of fife and drums accompanying the rumbling carriages. At last we reach Cloud Terrace, where the accomplishments of the regional lords from all the “Southland” will be recognized. This is political space, whose “loveliness” is not essential to it, a textual addition to trump the old capitals of the North. The poem as a whole would be largely forgotten, but a depoliticized Southland would be ever thought of as “a lovely land.” When the empire moved back north to its old centers, the Southland seems to have left history—after all, the “loveliness” was not just the “emperor’s dwelling,” but an entire

2. 3.

Cloud Terrace 暚冢 was where twenty-eight portraits of generals were set up in the reign of Han Mingdi (r. 57–75 CE). Lu Qinli, Xian-Qin Han Wei Nanbeichao shi, 452.

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region. One of the most famous Southland poems of the eighth century is worth note, Cen Shen’s ⰹ⍫ (715–770) “Spring Dream” (Chunmeng 㗍⣊, 09886):4 Last night in my bedchamber the wind of spring began; I recalled that beauty far away by the Xiang River’s waters. It was but a moment on my pillow in a springtime dream, and I traveled all across the Southland, several thousand miles. 㳆㇧㗐⣄㗍桐崟炻态ㅞ伶Ṣ㸀㰇㯜ˤ 㜽ᶲ䇯㗪㗍⣊ᷕ炻埴䚉㰇⋿㔠⋫慴ˤ

This brings us to the “nice” question of where, exactly, Jiangnan was, a question to which we will return at the end of this chapter. For Xie Tiao, Jiangnan’s boundaries are clearly undefined, but its center is Jiankang (Tang Jinling, and later Nanjing). The late imperial cultural imagination that has survived into modern times takes Jiangnan as Jiangsu and Zhejiang; its boundaries are uncertain, but its centers are Suzhou and Hangzhou. Even Yangzhou gets thought of as Jiangnan, “South-of-the-River,” despite the fact that it was north of the Yangtze. Cen Shen’s little poem seems to have the Xiang River and Hunan as part of Jiangnan. This may jolt the contemporary sense of Jiangnan, but in the Tang the Xiang River and most of modern Hunan were part of the “Jiangnan West” Circuit. In other words, Cen Shen probably thought of Jiangnan as broadly as Xie Tiao. The spring breeze with its hint of warmth and erotic overtones leads him to thoughts of a beautiful woman and the Xiang River far in the south. The “far away” can apply to time as well as space. The play is on the brief time of the dream and the distance traveled, but he never mentions meeting the beauty in his dream, only the journey. As in Xie Tiao’s poem, there is a putative destination to organize motion, but here the destination disappears into undifferentiated space of the journey. The Southland is a site of desire, an “elsewhere.” We can see the beautiful woman’s relative unimportance in this poem simply by imagining how the poem would sound if she were located in Shandong. Cen Shen’s poem was famous, and it is hard to imagine that it was not behind one of the early lyric tunes in irregular lines that became popular in the early ninth century: “Meng  Jiangnan” ⣊㰇⋿, “Dreaming of the Southland” (also called “Wang Jiangnan” 㛃㰇⋿ [Gazing toward the Southland], along with another, “Yi Jiangnan” ㅞ㰇⋿ [Recalling the Southland]). If we think of these alternative titles as a set, the position of the speaker is always elsewhere, thinking about the site of desire, the place you want to go. It is

4.

Liao Li, Cen Jiazhou shi jianzhu, 766.

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not mere geography to be traversed to reach the beloved; rather, it is the place itself where you want to be. Consider one of the most strangely beautiful of the early song lyrics to “Meng Jiangnan”: “Dreaming of the Southland,” by Huangfu Song 䘯䓓㜦, probably composed in the second quarter of the ninth century.5 Sparks fall from the eupatorium-oil lamp, on a screen the red canna lily darkens. Idly dreaming of the Southland, on the day the plums grow ripe, playing a flute in a boat by night, in the sound of rain beating down, and people speaking on the bridge by the way station. 嗕䆤句ˣ⯷ᶲ㘿䲭哱ˤ 改⣊㰇⋿㠭䅇㖍炻⣄凡⏡䫃暐唕唕ˤ Ṣ婆樃怲㧳ˤ

Like Cen Shen he begins with the bedroom scene. There is no spring breeze, but the rich fragrance of eupatorium, infused into lamp-oil, and the image of a canna lily painted on a screen.6 The brief lights of sparks from the guttering oil-lamp, the scent, and the image fading into darkness lead us to the dream world—here not the journey to the Southland, but a scene of the Southland. It is a seasonal moment, summer; and in the darkness of night, a “sound-scene” of a flute, the rain, and human voices. The soul, journeying in dream, seems to have found its destination, its site of desire, in a slow river journey, just going but not going anywhere. With the rain and the flute, we guess that he hears people speaking, but not what they are saying. The dreamer has found a pure moment, not bound to human relationships, destinations, purposes. It is a Tang fantasy of freedom. That “freedom” may require, or at least welcome, a departure from the geography of empire. The “Southland” may be anchored by some known locations, but it is a poetically indeterminate geography. The theme has a particular affinity with the emergent song lyric tradition, whose essential business was evoking desire. We can understand Huangfu Song’s short song in the context of a larger body of song lyrics on a vision of the Southland, beginning with some declaration about the Southland, that it is lovely or forever in the speaker’s mind, followed by a poetic evocation of the Southland (this following from poetic traditions of composition to a set topic and the pleasure in varying versions).7 Such evocations go back to what may be the earliest works 5. 6. 7.

Zhang Zhang and Huang Yu, Quan Tang Wudai ci, 180. So far as I can tell, this is not called meiren jiao 伶Ṣ哱 until the Ming. If it were already Tang usage, we would have an echo of the meiren in Cen Shen’s poem. This particular pattern is a reflexive version of a larger body of Jiangnan poetry in shi and early ci. Such lyrics include some of the finest pieces in the Dunhuang repertoire, including three “Huan xi sha” 㴋㹒㱁:

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in the ci tradition, such as the Dunhuang “Fan longzhou” 㲃漵凇, believed to be from the Sui, whose second line declares a “vague recollection of Yangzhou” (huanghu yi Yangzhou ⿵⾥ㅞ㎂ⶆ), followed by a description of the beauty of the locale.8 Bai Juyi’s 䘥⯭㖻 (772–846) short sequence (lianzhang 忋䪈) to the tune “Remembering the Southland” (Yi Jiangnan) shows the structure quite clearly:9 I The Southland is best: I came to know its scenes long ago. When the sun comes out the river flowers are redder than the fire, and as spring arrives the river’s waters are as green as indigo. How can I help remembering the Southland? 㰇⋿⤥炻桐㘗冲㚦媛ˤ 㖍↢㰇剙䲭⊅䀓炻㗍Ἦ㰇㯜䵈⤪啵ˤ 傥ᶵㅞ㰇⋿ˤ II Memories of the Southland, and of Hangzhou most of all. At a mountain temple in moonlight I went seeking cassia, from my pillow in the pavilion I watch the high waters come. When will I go there again? 㰇⋿ㅞ炻㚨ㅞ㗗㜕ⶆˤ Ⱉ⮢㚰ᷕ⮳㟪⫸炻悉ṕ㜽ᶲ䚳㼖柕ˤ ỽ㖍㚜慵忲ˤ III Memories of the Southland, and next I remember the palace of Wu.

8.

9.

Ren Batang, Dunguang geci zongbian, #0075, 0117, and 0166–167 (hereafter Ren; the poems are cited by Ren’s numbering rather than by pages). Ren 0061. Note the similarity between the first line of Fan longzhou, 㗍桐䳘暐暹堋㽽 and the final line of Zhang Zhihe’s famous Yufu: 㕄桐䳘暐ᶵ枰㬠. Rather than direct borrowing this suggests the degree to which early ci (and many shi) were composed from metrically appropriate floating phrases. Although not properly “Jiangnan,” Yangzhou, a little to the north of the Yangtze, was part of an imagined “Southland.” Zhang Zhang and Huang Yu, Quan Tang Wudai ci, 121–22. The lianzhang is a set of songs to the same melody. This is an older form than the suite of melodies in the same mode (taoshu) in qu, though qu commonly use lianzhang as well.

Stephen Owen

194 One cup of Wu’s wine in springtime bamboo leaves, paired dancing of Wu’s maidens, drunken lotuses. Sooner or later I’ll meet them again. 㰇⋿ㅞ炻℞㫉ㅞ⏛⭖ˤ ⏛惺ᶨ㜗㗍䪡⣄炻⏛⦫暁㬎愱剁呱ˤ 㖑㘂⽑䚠忊ˤ

Let me call this technique a “snapshot,” very similar to Huangfu Song’s “Dreaming of the Southland.” The first two lines are the “caption”: The Southland is best: I came to know its scenes long ago. Memories of the Southland, and of Hangzhou most of all. Memories of the Southland, and next I remember the palace of Wu.

We have first the categorical “Southland,” followed by its most alluring cities, Hangzhou and Suzhou. This is followed by the poetic “snapshot” itself, two seven-character lines. The last line is a response to the “snapshot”: How can I help remembering the Southland? When will I go there again? Sooner or later I’ll meet them again.

Although this may seem mechanical, the mechanism will prove to be remarkably durable in thinking about the Southland in song. Perhaps the best way to describe it is “poetry framed by verse.” The framing verse belongs to the voice speaking here and now; the beautiful scene in poetry is what one finds elsewhere—remembered, seen in dream, or simply evoked in the imagination. Dreamed or imagined, it is the place to which the speaker wants to go; in memory, as here, it is the place to which one wants to return. Although this develops out of the structure of regulated verse (even more than the quatrain, to which it is most closely related formally), it is the beginning of an important aspect of nascent song lyric (ci): there is a “poetic” element, framed by a speaker who “voices” it by categorizing it or responding to it. The “poetic” is placed in quotation marks by a voice speaking in the here and now, who remembers, anticipates, imagines the poetic image located elsewhere, either in space or the past or future. Bai Juyi’s sequence to “Yi Jiangnan” is closely related to a problematic group of songs to the tune “Pusa man” 厑啑埣. The material of this song appears in three early versions. First there is a single lyric improbably attributed to Li Bai 㛶䘥 (701–762) in the Zunqian ji

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⮲⇵普; second, most of that same song appears distributed in two different versions of “Pusa man” within a group of five “Pusa man” attributed to Wei Zhuang 杳匲 (836–910) in the Huajian ji 剙攻普; third, the first of the Wei Zhuang versions appears with slight variants and a different final couplet attributed to Feng Yansi 楖⺞⶛ (903–960) in the Yangchun ji 春㗍普. The attribution to Li Bai need not be taken seriously (despite all the scholarly articles the attribution has occasioned); it is ninth century at the earliest.10 On the other side, it cannot be by Feng Yansi because it appears earlier under Wei Zhuang’s name in Huajian ji. This is not to say that the lyric is necessarily by Wei Zhuang; its association with two other authors suggests that it circulated without fixed authorship. Most likely the version that appears under Wei Zhuang’s name in Huajian ji is Wei Zhuang’s iteration of and variation on a popular song. That song may have been older, since the predicate “is best,” hao ⤥, seems to have been referenced in Bai Juyi’s sequence. The following are the extant versions of this “Pusa man” (variable elements in shared lines are given in italics): Li Bai11 Travelers all speak of how fine the Southland is; the traveler just should grow old in the Southland. Never go home until he is old, if he goes home it can only break his heart. An embroidered screen with golden hinges, drunk, they spend the night entering clumps of flowers. The spring waters are greener than the sky, in a painted boat lie, listening to the rain. 忲Ṣ䚉忻㰇⋿⤥炻忲Ṣ⎒⎰㰇⋿侩ˤ 㛒侩卓怬悱炻怬悱䨢㕟儠ˤ 三⯷慹⯰㚚炻愱ℍ剙⎊⭧ˤ 㗍㯜䡏㕤⣑炻䔓凡倥暐䛈ˤ Wei Zhuang12 I Everyone says that the Southland is fine, the traveler just should grow old in the Southland. The spring waters are greener than the sky, in a painted boat lie, listening to the rain. Beside the bar the woman is like the moon, her gleaming wrist, paired snow frozen. 10. See Daniel Bryant, “On the Authenticity of the Tz’u Attributed to Li Po.” 11. This clearly erroneous attribution appears in the Zunqian ji ⮲⇵普, from the eleventh or twelfth century. 12. Zhang Zhang and Huang Yu, Quan Tang Wudai ci, 527–29.

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196 Never go home until you are old, if you go home it will surely break your heart. ṢṢ䚉婒㰇⋿⤥炻忲Ṣ⎒⎰㰇⋿侩ˤ 㗍㯜䡏㕤⣑ˤ䔓凡倥暐䛈ˤ ⢂怲ṢỤ㚰炻䘻僽ↅ曄暒ˤ 㛒侩卓怬悱炻怬悱枰㕟儠ˤ II And now I think back on the joys of the Southland, a youth in those days, my spring gown thin, I rode my horse beside the slanting bridge, the upper stories were filled with red sleeves beckoning. An azure screen with golden hinges, drunk, I spent the night entering clumps of flowers. This time when I catch sight of the flowering branches, I vow not to go home till my hair is white. ⤪Ṳ⌣ㅞ㰇⋿㦪炻䔞㗪⸜⮹㗍堓唬ˤ 榶楔ῂ㕄㧳炻㺧㦻䲭堾㊃ˤ 侈⯷慹⯰㚚炻愱ℍ剙⎊⭧ˤ 㬌⹎夳剙㝅炻䘥柕娻ᶵ㬠ˤ

The Feng Yansi version is identical to the first Wei Zhuang song, with the exception that the first line has the inferior reading shuojin 婒䚉 rather than jinshuo; and the obviously superior reading shuang 曄, “frost,” instead of shuang 暁, “pair.” In the last couplet, the Feng version has: Having left this place, when will I return? Hard it was to part from the green windows. 㬌⍣⸦㗪怬炻䵈䨿⇍暊暋ˤ

It is only a song, so we need not brood with discomfort on the fact that Feng Yansi could never “return” to the Southland because he never left the Southland. It is significant that in the Wei Zhuang sequence the opening declarations that frame the descriptions of the Southland are identical to the opening declarations in the first two of Bai Juyi’s “Yi Jiangnan”: “The Southland is best”; “I remember the Southland.” We do not have sufficient collateral examples to decide whether this sequencing principle was a case of imitating a predecessor (either Bai Juyi following a popular song set, or Wei following Bai Juyi), or a more general principle of sequencing in lianzhang composition (here it should be reasserted that we have only a very small and skewed sampling of heterometric song lyrics from the Tang). The internal structure of the lyrics is also identical to that of Bai’s “Yi Jiangnan”: an opening declaration is followed by descriptions of the Southland, and

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concluding with an evaluative comment (The “Li Bai” version differs here, concluding with an image of the Southland, like the Huangfu Song lyric). What is particularly interesting about this lyric appearing under so many names is how that echoes the opening of the lyric itself: “everyone says that the Southland is best.” It is, depending how one values the import of such claims, “consensus” or “cliché.”13 The site of desire is routine or commonplace; the role of the “poetry” of song is to give an image in words that will confirm universal assent. The last of Wei Zhuang’s “Pusan man” sequence in the Huajian ji is clearly based on the structural pattern of “the Southland is best,” but substitutes Luoyang and its famous sites for the Southland. Troping on the Southland “Pusa man” opening couplet and using its rhymes, this version begins: Within the walls of Luoyang spring’s light is best, but the young talent of Luoyang grows old in another land. 㳃春❶塷㗍⃱⤥炻㳃春ㇵ⫸Ṿ悱侩ˤ

What is interesting here is that this is not a reperformance of the Southland song, an  amplification, or transformation for another melody, but a clear literary troping on the “the Southland is best” variations. This is the version that is probably actually by Wei Zhuang, working with popular song. Moving into the later tenth century, we can see such literary forces at work on the motif, as in the pair of lyrics to “Wang Jiang mei” 㛃㰇㠭 (the same as “Yi Jiangnan”) attributed to Li Yu 㛶䄄 (937–978). If they were indeed composed by Li Yu (and most lyrics under Li Yu’s name are very uncertain), they probably would have been written after his removal to the Song capital, when the old Southland song would have come back with a particular poignancy.14 I In idle dreams I go afar, to southern lands right in sweet spring. Strings and pipes on a boat, the river’s surface is green; flying floss filling the city, mixed with light dust: in desperate haste, those who look at the flowers. 攺⣊怈炻⋿⚳㬋剛㗍ˤ 凡ᶲ䭉䳫㰇朊䵈炻㺧❶梃䴖㶟庽⠝ˤ ォ㭢䚳剙Ṣˤ

13. This needs to be read against a Tang poetic type that asks: “For X (e.g., spring) what place is best?” The poet then gives one or many answers. The song tropes on that judgment, proposing universal assent. 14. Quan Tang Wudai ci 458–59. This lianzhang is sometimes printed as a single song in two stanzas. There are variants.

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198 II In idle dreams I go afar, to southern lands right in clear autumn. A thousand miles of rivers and hills, cold scene in the distance; at a deep spot in the reed flowers, I moor my solitary boat: a flute in the upper story in bright moonlight. 攺⣊怈炻⋿⚳㬋㶭䥳ˤ ⋫慴㰇Ⱉ⭺刚㙖炻單剙㶙嗽㱲⬌凇ˤ 䫃⛐㚰㖶㦻ˤ

Although the basic structure and certain topics, such as mentioning the green of the river, remain constant, the asymmetrical and open sequencing of the earlier sequence (the Southland is fine; I remember the Southland) is transformed into a closed pair: the Southland in spring and the Southland in autumn. This movement from essentially narrative sequence to “itemizing” sequence is a general tendency as we move into the Song. As Huangfu Song’s “Meng Jiangnan” (to which this pair is closely related) not only moved across space but also across time, to the days when the plums were ripe, Li Yu moves to the two representative seasons (zheng 㬋, “right at the moment when the season is most characteristic”) of the Southland, now spoken of more formally as the “southern lands” (nanguo ⋿⚳). The most stable elements are the opening declaration and the “poetic” description that is “quoted” (“this is what I dreamed: . . .”). We note, however, two distinct kinds of closure: first the return to the speaking voice, who offers a comment (“When will I go there again?”); second, the image, as in the “Li Bai” version of “Pusa man,” the Huangfu Song “Wang Jiangnan,” and here. Critics of song lyric have always stressed how the lyrics are shaped by the music and the form imposed by the melody. In this they are absolutely correct, but at the same time they often ignore the “something” that is shaped. It should be recognized that there was a body of “material”—conventional situations, images, and structural patterns—which could quite easily be transferred from one melody to another. To a large degree this is what a lyricist did: he (or, we suspect, often “she,” the singer) “set” received material in a new melody, just as he/she might rewrite or transform a classical poem, shi, for the requirements of a melody.15 Different melody patterns do quite distinct things to received material (which is why it is agreed that the beauty of song lyric is the manner of presentation rather than the material itself); but the actual text is a confluence of the shape given by the melody pattern and the traditions of exposition of various bodies of material. It is important to recognize how fluid that “material” was, permitting variation of diction, expansion and contraction, and the assimilation of some components from one set to other 15. This is yinkuo 㨫㊔, recasting a text in a different form, usually recasting shi as ci or one ci tune pattern to another, but sometimes recasting prose in ci.

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sets. Early song lyric was essentially an art of variation—not only the variation that necessarily occurred in “setting” the material to a given tune pattern, but also a sheer pleasure in variation. Although this is to some degree true of classical poetry, shi, it is even more true of song lyric, ci; and one consequence of such an art of variation is particular attention to fine differences, the particular quality of a commonplace structure when it is rearranged or rephrased. Against a tradition of songs about “the Southland,” if Li Yu did indeed write of nanguo, “southern lands,” the phrase would indeed acquire a particular weight by its difference, a weight that makes it not inappropriate to hear a degree of “my southern kingdom” in the conventional compound. For the “Pusa man” and Bai Juyi’s “Yi Jiangnan,” the Southland may be “best,” hao ⤥; but hao is a rather flat qualification, no matter how beautiful the exposition that proves the point. Substituting the older, more literary qualification of the Southland as “a lovely land,” the shi poet Wang Yucheng 䌳䥡Ῡ (954–1001) wrote lyrics to the tune “Dian jiang chun” 溆䴛僋, lyrics with an interesting but oblique relation to the tradition of the Southland songs we are considering.16 As an educated man, Wang was less interested in what “everyone says” (renren jin shuo ṢṢ䚉婒) than in what “has formerly been claimed” 冲䧙: a gesture not to timeless fantasy, but to a cultural past. And the scenes by which he chooses to illustrate the Southland’s “loveliness” are neither those of imperial splendor as in Xie Tiao’s fifthcentury song nor the sensual attractions of the Tang versions; instead he gives us the misty and melancholy Southland that appears so commonly in ninth century classical poetry. Rain-resentment, cloud-gloom: as formerly the Southland is praised as lovely. River village, fishermen’s market— that thin and solitary thread of smoke. At sky’s edge swans in passage, from a distance I take their line to be joined. All that has happened in my life— my fixed gaze at this moment, who understands my state of mind here by the railing? 暐【暚ォ炻㰇⋿ὅ冲䧙Ἓ渿ˤ 㯜㛹㺩ⶪ炻ᶨ䷟⬌䄁䳘ˤ ⣑晃⼩泣炻态娵埴⤪䵜ˤ ⸛䓇ḳˤ㬌㗪ↅ䛯ˤ婘㚫ㄹ㪬シˤ

The opening scene of gloomy clouds and rain (we may take this as a mood in the weather, perhaps with some erotic implications, very much a part of the Southland image) becomes the context in which to read the claim of the Southland’s “loveliness.” Instead of 16. Tang Guizhang, ed., Quan Song ci, 2.

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“remembering the Southland” or “dreaming of the Southland,” the lyricist is apparently there in the Southland, but with that same sense of loss and absence. Something interesting has happened to the word “lovely,” jiali; in Tang poetry it can refer to women and to places (always with Xie Tiao’s line in the background), but not to such a lonely and melancholy scene. As in the Tang lyrics, the statement of the Southland’s beauty is followed by a scene that illustrates such beauty: but in this case the thread of smoke rising over the fishing village by the river is coded with associations of isolation and loneliness. This is not the scene that stirs desire, as in the Tang Southland lyrics, but a scene to be contemplated. Wang Yucheng was primarily a classical poet, and he shows the compositional sensibilities of classical poetry in other ways besides the explicit gesture to tradition and the literary past. The descriptive couplets in the Tang and Five Dynasties versions of the Southland lyric, though sometimes parallel, were essentially “song” couplets, without the close interplay of pattern that makes for a “strong couplet,” jingju 嬎⎍, in more “literary” classical poetry. Even though Wang is not working with parallel couplets here, the sensibility of the shi poet is inscribed in his handling of the huantou ㎃柕 (stanza transition). The single line of rising smoke is “answered” by the horizontal line of swans on the horizon. Whether writing the character yi ᶨ, “one” (“alone”), or acting in their conventionally figurative function as message bearers, the scene of the swans completes the mood of isolation in the scene of the column of smoke by creating a vector across the horizon, toward home or another person elsewhere. Wang Yucheng then himself explicitly enters the scene to comment. At this point we can see one of the gifts of the form: even though late Tang poets had often tried to break the classical poetic line into paratactic components, permitting rich and open relation between those components, the nature of the poetic line and of the parallel couplet tended to determine the relation between those elements. The short line of song lyric, however, allowed the nominal phrase to stand independent, allowed it to have a truly indeterminate yet significant relation to the predicate. To a certain degree the opening lines of the lyric accomplished this. But in the closing section we can see this all the more clearly: All that has happened in my life— my fixed gaze at this moment . . . ⸛䓇ḳˤ㬌㗪ↅ䛯ˤ

The “fixed gaze” implicates both the scene in the eyes and the mood that calls for such attention; the relation between this pairing and “all that has happened” to the poet is called into question without being explained. It is however a gesture to his personal past from the perspective of the present, just as the “loveliness” of the scene invokes past usage in a present that may be experientially very different from even though the scene is the same. The displacement that was so much a part of earlier songs on the Southland may here be a displacement in time.

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Wang Yucheng’s “Dian jiang chun” is one of the many metamorphoses of the “Southland” motif in the Northern Song and a fine example of how parts of the motif—the displacement of the speaker from the Southland—can be preserved in new configurations, with the speaker viewing the scene with a sense of loneliness and loss. The simple and more common transformation of the Southland motif was to make the place of fantasy more local and specific, as Bai Juyi moved from the Southland as a whole to Hangzhou and Suzhou. Pan Lang’s 㼀敔 (d. 1009) sequence of ten songs to the tune “Jiu quanzi” 惺㱱⫸ focus on Qiantang 拊⠀, West Lake 大㷾, Lone Mountain (Gushan ⬌Ⱉ), and other sites around Hangzhou.17 The filiation of these songs to Bai Juyi’s “Remembering the Southland” is apparent, but in place of the speculative movement of the ninth century sequence (“The Southland is best”; “I remember the Southland”), here the act is the same, “always I remember,” chang yi 攟ㅞ, with variation occurring in the places remembered, which together constitute a map of famous sites in and around Hangzhou. One example of Pan Lang’s consciousness of the earlier tradition within which he is working can be seen in the third song, in a clear transformation of the “Pusa man” line “the traveler just should grow old in the Southland” 忲Ṣ ⎒⎰㰇⋿侩 into “The man of the wilds should grow old here” 慶Ṣ䣯⎰℞ᷕ侩. And in the fourth song, the seasonal designation, “right in clear autumn,” is identical to the setup for the “poetic couplet” in Li Yu’s “Wang Jiang mei” (In “Jiu quanzi” the pair of seven character lines also follows immediately, beginning the second stanza and illustrating “right in clear autumn”). I Always I remember Qiantang: it’s not of the human realm but is in heaven. Ten thousand homes appearing half hidden in blue haze; everywhere the sound of water trickling. In all four seasons strange flowers bloom at your window, their coming and going is clear upon the screens. Since I left how many autumns have the willows of the Sui Dike been through? When can I get to travel there again? 攟ㅞ拊⠀炻ᶵ㗗Ṣ⮘㗗⣑ᶲˤ 叔⭞㍑㗈侈⽖攻ˤ嗽嗽㯜㼢㼢ˤ 䔘剙⚃⬋䔞䨿㓦炻↢ℍ↮㖶⛐⯷晄ˤ ⇍Ἦ昳㞛⸦䴻䥳ˤỽ㖍⼿慵忲ˤ IV Always I remember West Lake where all day long I would lean on railings of towers and gaze. 17. Tang Guizhang, ed., Quan Song ci, 5–6.

Stephen Owen

202 By two’s and three’s the fishing boats, its islands right in clear autumn. The sound of a flute, indistinct, among the flowers of the reeds; white birds form lines as they startle up suddenly. Since I left I’ve been idly readying my fishing pole; longing to enter into the chill of water and clouds. 攟ㅞ大㷾炻䚉㖍ㄹ㦻整ᶲ㛃ˤ ᶱᶱℑℑ憋欂凇ˤⲞⵤ㬋㶭䥳ˤ 䫃倚ὅ䲬單剙塷ˤ䘥沍ㆸ埴⾥樂崟ˤ ⇍Ἦ攺㔜憋欂䪧ˤ⿅ℍ㯜暚⭺ˤ X Always I remember watching the tidal bore; all through the town everyone rushed to watch the river. When it came it seemed the grey sea would be entirely emptied; ten thousand faces in the sound of its drumming. The surf-riders were standing on their waves, their hands holding red pennons, the pennons not wet. Since I left how many times have I watched this in dream? And when I woke from dream my heart was still cold. 攟ㅞ奨㼖炻㺧悕Ṣ䇕㰇ᶲ㛃ˤ Ἦ䔹㹬㴟䚉ㆸ䨢ˤ叔朊溻倚ᷕˤ ⺬㾌⃺⎹㾌柕䩳ˤㇳ㈲䲭㕿㕿ᶵ㹤ˤ ⇍Ἦ⸦⎹⣊ᷕ䚳ˤ⣊奢⯂⽫⭺ˤ

The Southland has become “idyll,” a generic designation still best understood in Schiller’s sense in Naïve and Sentimental Poetry as a representation of the world not as it is, but as it should be. The representation of the Southland and its sites did not entirely lose its specificity, but it also became the image of a desired place. Ouyang Xiu 㫸春ᾖ (1007–1072), who had been posted to Yingzhou 㻩ⶆ, in modern Anhui, loved it so much that he retired there and composed a famous sequence of lyrics to “Cai sangzi” 慯㟹⫸ on Yingzhou’s “West Lake.”18 Since Yingzhou’s “West Lake” is not marked as Yangzhou’s “Little West Lake” ⮷大㷾 is, it is easy to confuse Ouyang Xiu’s “West Lake” with the far more famous “West Lake” of Hangzhou—especially because Ouyang Xiu ends the first line of every song in the sequence with the phrase “West Lake is best” (Xihu hao 大㷾⤥). The predicate “is best” should take the subject “the Southland,” Jiangnan. Hangzou’s West Lake would be a proper substitute—but not some lake much farther north in Anhui. Ouyang Xiu’s ideal landscape—the place to which he retired—is represented in terms that are usually associated with the poetry and song of the Southland. The description of the 18. Tang Guizhang, ed., Quan Song ci, 121–22.

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Southland has become strangely detached from real geography and has become the imagery of a desired place. In the first lyric of the sequence we realize that, even brought back to celebrating the present occasion, the lyric still evokes the ideal occasion, the fantasy—not necessarily timeless, but whose time is a time of poetic phases that overlap with, but do not coincide with the time of the present performance. A light skiff and short oars, West Lake is best, with green waters winding away along a long bank with fragrant plants. And the muted sounds of reed-organs and songs follow you everywhere. With no breeze the surface of the water is as slick as glass, and one has no sense the boat is moving, barely moving tiny ripples which startle into flight sand birds that fly off hugging the shore. 庽凇䞕㢡大㷾⤥炻䵈㯜忞後ˤ 剛勱攟⟌ˤ晙晙䫁㫴嗽嗽晐ˤ 䃉桐㯜朊䎱䐫㹹炻ᶵ奢凡䦣ˤ ⽖≽㻋㻒ˤ樂崟㱁䥥㍈Ⱡ梃ˤ

Ouyang Xiu may have in mind the fourth of Pan Lang’s lyrics on Hangzhou’s more famous West Lake, where the music startles the birds into flight. We cannot say that the image of the Southland entirely lost its geographical specificity. For many centuries tourists have gone to the famous sites in Jiangsu and Zhejiang and recalled the idyllic images created in poetry and song lyric. The Southland is both a clichéd cluster of images and an industry. But the tourist is trying to see the present scene “as” the image known from reading far away. The idyllic scene is always cluttered with the world as it is, rather than the world “as it should be.” This brings us to one of the strangest and most famous of Song lyrics, which invites more complex reflection on what the “Southland” came to mean. We actually know very little about Zhou Bangyan ␐恎⼍ (1056–1121), the darling of specialists in song lyric. We do know that he was a native of Hangzhou and that, in his remarkably undistinguished career, he was once magistrate of Lishui 㹏㯜. Some geography is necessary here. Lishui was south of Nanjing, only some 140 miles from Hangzhou—not “next door,” but not far away. Travel was slower in Song China, but the world was less heavily scheduled than ours. Lishui has some mountains, but not yet the mountains that would appear as one came closer to Hangzhou. Yet Lishui was, indisputably, part of the “Southland” in its most narrow definition. The lyric is to “Gepu lian” 昼㴎咖.19 19. Quan Song ci 602.

Stephen Owen

204 Grove of new bamboo shakes kingfisher tassels. A winding path leads through to deep recesses. Of summer fruit, gather the fresh and crisp, the golden ball falls, startling a bird into flight.20 A dense haze hides the plants on the bank. Frogs make a racket. A sudden downpour makes sounds on the pool. The pavilion by the water is small. Where the duckweed gapes open reflections of flowers by the eaves and curtains are upside down. With turban and feather fan I lie woozy by the north window in clear dawn. In dream I reach the mountains of Wu on the painted screen. I wake with a start. As before here I am Beyond the River. 㕘䭩㎾≽侈叮ˤ㚚⼹忂㶙䨰ˤ⢷㝄㓞㕘傮炻慹ᷠ句ˣ樂梃沍ˤ 㽫曬徟Ⱡ勱ˤ嚁倚櫏ˤ樇暐沜㰈㱤ˤ 㯜ṕ⮷ˤ㴖厵䟜嗽炻䯦剙䯟⼙栃Ὰˤ䵠ⶦ佥㇯炻⚘再⊿䨿㶭㙱ˤ ⯷塷⏛Ⱉ⣊冒⇘ˤ樂奢ˤὅ䃞幓⛐㰇堐ˤ

Dreaming of entering a landscape painting of the Southland on the screen around one’s bed was already a well-established convention in song lyric—even a cliché. Zhou Bangyan constructs one of his wonderful, artful scenes of a spot around Lishui that leads him to a pavilion where he falls asleep and, like Cen Shen, dreams of the Southland, specifically the “mountains of Wu” on the painted screen. In song lyric when you wake from the commonplace “dream of the Southland,” you always find yourself no longer there. But when Zhou Bangyan wakes with a start, he is in the Southland. We can say that more “mountains of Wu” lay farther south, but there were some very beautiful “mountains of Wu” close by. Everyone knows that the “mountains of Wu” on the screen around his couch cannot be identified as any particular mountains in your local county; they are images of fantasy and art. “Here I am Beyond the River,” is a phrase demanded by the rhyme biao 堐 of Jiangbiao 㰇堐; but everyone knows that is functionally equivalent to—but not as poetically resonant as—Jiangnan, literally “south of the River,” the “Southland.” As if winking at us, he seems to tell us: “I’m no longer in Jiangnan; I find myself only in Jiangbiao.” Jiangnan and the “mountains of Wu” can exist only in the imagination and art; they are a place of desire to which one wants to go. Jiangbiao may occupy roughly the 20. The fruit is figured as the golden shot extravagantly used by young nobles for bird-hunting with slingshot crossbows.

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same geographical territory, but it is quotidian geography, the area in which Zhou Bangyan holds his office as magistrate of the empire. If one actually gets to the famous sites around Hangzhou and the “mountains of Wu” proper (or the mountains around Suzhou), you can no longer dream of them, only celebrate those sites particularly through a textual legacy. You can no longer dream about them, but you are compelled to admire them. By any standard Zhou Bangyan is already in the “Southland,” Jiangnan. What is striking is the strange beauty of the intimate landscape in Lishui in the first part of the lyric, far less generic than the “mountains of Wu” that he seeks in dream. He cannot name the physical site in which his dream occurs as the “Southland,” Jiangnan, or its mountains, “the mountains of Wu.” Jiangnan and the “mountains of Wu” are the site of desire without specificity. Somehow he cannot say “Jiangnan” or even “the mountains of Wu” for where he is. He is only in Lishui; he is only in the empire, specifically in Jiangbiao; Jiangnan can be reached only in dream.

Coda At last “the Southland is best” survives only as a quotation, a quotation with a heavy freight of associations that is invisible in the simplicity of the statement. Thus Su Shi’s 喯度 (1037– 1101) “Manting fang” 㺧⹕剛 (Fragrance fills the yard).”21 Hollow glories won on a snail’s horn, some small advantage gained on a fly’s head: when I think about it, why do we go to such pointless trouble? Everything that happens has been settled long before— no one comes out short, no one comes out ahead. So I’ll make the most of my leisure, and the fact I’m not yet too old, and indulge myself to my limit in a little wildness. In life’s possible hundred years you should let yourself get drunk in total thirty-six thousand times. I have considered it, and how much longer can it be— with gloomy winds and rain keeping us from half? Also why do we have to spend the rest of our lives arguing 21. Tang Guizhang, ed., Quan Song ci, 278.

Stephen Owen

206 over what’s better, what’s worse? Luckily we have a cool breeze and the silvery moon, a cushion of moss spread for us, a tent of cloud stretched high. The Southland is best, a thousand cups of fine ale, and a song: “Fragrance Fills the Yard.” 圠奺嘃⎵炻垭柕⽖⇑炻䬿Ἦ叿䓂Ḧ⾁ˤ ḳ䘮⇵⭂炻婘⻙⍰婘⻟ˤ ᶼ崩攺幓㛒侩炻⃀㓦ㆹˣṃ⫸䔷䉪ˤ 䘦⸜塷炻㷦㔁㗗愱炻ᶱ叔ℕ⋫⟜ˤ ⿅慷ˤ傥⸦姙炻ㄪォ桐暐炻ᶨ⋲䚠⥐ˤ ⍰ỽ枰炻㉝㬣婒䞕婾攟ˤ ⸠⮵㶭桐䘻㚰炻剼勝⯽ˣ暚ⷽ檀⻝ˤ 㰇⋿⤥炻⋫揀伶惺炻ᶨ㚚㺧⹕剛ˤ

Su Shi begins by talking about all those things that the poetry of the Southland wants to leave behind. Only toward the end can he invoke the scene that the lyric seeks. He quotes the phrase of song, “The Southland is best”; he adds the drink that Huangfu Song did not need; and he includes his own song, which reminds him of the struggle to get from the larger world that still entangles him to where he wants to be.

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Zhang Baojian ⻝ᾅ夳. “Song Minqiu Henan zhi kao: jian yu Gao Min, Dang Baohai xiansheng shangque” ⬳㓷㯪㱛⋿⽿侫ȹȹℤ冯檀㓷ˣ源⮞㴟⃰䓇⓮㥟. Henan tushuguan xuekan 2003.5: 79–82. Zhang Cengming ⻝㚦㖶. “Ji Zha ji qi zai Wu wenhua fazhan shi shang de diwei” ⬋∬⍲℞⛐⏛㔯 ⊾䘤⯽⎚ᶲ䘬⛘ỵ. Suzhou jiaoyu xueyuan xuebao (Shehui kexue ban) 1997.4: 84–86. Zhang Chen ⻝⾙. “Ji Zha tansuo er ti” ⬋∬㍊䳊Ḵ柴. Changzhou gongye jishu xueyuan xuebao (Shehui kexue ban) 1996.3: 50–53. Zhang Chengzong ⻝㈧⬿. “Sanguo ‘Wu sixing’ kaoshi” ᶱ⚳“⏛⚃⥻”侫慳. Jiangsu shehui kexue 1998.3: 117–22. ———. “Ji Zha ji qi guli Yanling kaolüe” ⬋∬⍲℞㓭慴⺞昝侫䔍. Suzhou daxue xuebao (Zhexue shehui kexue ban) 2008.1: 109–13. Zhang Xuhua ⻝㖕厗 and Wang Zongguang 䌳⬿⺋. “‘Wu sixing’ fei ‘Dong Wu sixing’ bian— yu Zhang Chengzong xiansheng shangque” ˬ⏛⚃⥻˭朆ˬ㜙⏛⚃⥻˭彐ȹȹ冯⻝㈧⬿ ⃰䓇⓮㥟. Xuchang shizhuan xuebao 2000.4: 64–67. Zhang Zhang ⻝䐳 and Huang Yu 湫䔔. Quan Tang Wudai ci ℐⒸḼẋ娆. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1986. Zhao Hongling 嵁䲭䍚. Liuchao ni shi yanjiu ℕ㛅㒔娑䞼䨞. Shanghai: Shanghai cishu chubanshe, 2008. Zhongguo lidai zhuming wenxuejia pingzhuan ᷕ⚳㬟ẋ叿⎵㔯⬠⭞姽⁛. Edited by Lü Huijuan ⏪ㄏ泹 et al. Jinan: Shandong jiaoyu chubanshe, 1985. Zhou li zhushu ␐䥖㲐䔷. See Shisanjing zhushu. Zhu Dongrun 㛙㜙㼌. “Lu Ji nianbiao” 映㨇⸜堐 (261–303). Wuda wenzhe jikan 1.1 (1930): 173–87. Rpt. in Wen xuan xue yanjiu 㔯怠⬠䞼䨞, edited by Nan Jiangtao ⋿㰇㾌, 3: 170–84. Beijing: Guojia tushuguan chubanshe, 2010. Zhuangzi jishi 匲⫸普慳. Edited by Guo Qingfan 悕ㄞ喑 (1844–1896?). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1961. Zizhi tongjian 屯㱣忂揹. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1956. Zottoli, Angelo (1826–1902). Cursus litteraturæ sinicæ: neo-missionariis accommodatus, Part V: Pars oratoria et poetica. Shanghai: Zikawei Catholic Mission, 1882. Zou Yilin 悺忠湇. Zhongguo lishi dili gaishu ᷕ⚳㬟⎚⛘䎮㤪徘. Fuzhou: Fujian renmin chubanshe, 1993.

Index Page numbers in italics refer to figures.

alienation, 82, 97, 106 Anzhong ⬱䛦 fan, 37, 39 Bai Juyi 䘥⯭㖻 (772–846), “Remembering the Southland,” 193–94 Baisheng 䘥䓇, 88 baiyu shan 䘥佥㇯, 33 Ban Gu 䎕⚢ (32–92), 6 Ban jieyu 䎕⧽⥌ (Lady Ban, d. ca. 6 BCE), 14, 80, 81, 89, 90, 91, 95, 100, 101, 107 Ban Zhao 䎕㗕 (45?–117?), 90, 91, 107, 162 Bian He ⌆␴ (fl. 8th century BCE), 100, 101, 102 “Bian wang lun” 彐ṉ婾, 21 Bu Chan 㬍斉 (d. 272), 20 Cai Yan 哉䏘 (ca. 177?–239?), 81, 106 Cai Yong 哉怽 (133–192), 61, 86, 97, 106 Cangwu 呤㡏, 5 Cao Cao 㚡㑵 (155–220), 13, 49–55, 56n51, 58n61, 61, 63; “Short Song” 䞕㫴埴 (Duan ge xing), 61 Cao Daoheng 㚡忻堉, 109n2 Cao Man zhuan 㚡䝆⁛ (The story of Cao the Trickster), 49 Cao Pi 㚡ᶽ (187–226), 49, 53, 55, 77 Cao Rui 㚡䜧 (204–239), 55 Cao Zhi 㚡⽿ (d. 288), 53 Cao Zhi 㚡㢵 (192–232), 131, 190; “Sending off Mr. Ying” 復ㅱ㮷, 46–47; “Presented to Biao, Prince of Baima” 岰䘥楔䌳⼒, 48; “Seeing off Biao, Prince of Baima,” 61 Cen Shen ⰹ⍫ (715–770), “Spring Dream” 㗍⣊, 191 Cenzou ⰹ昔, 82, 83, 84

Chan, Keith, 2 Chengdu, 13 Cheng Yu-yu 惕㭻䐄, 9 Chen Sheng 昛⊅ (?–208 BCE), 103 Chen Zi’ang 昛⫸㖪 (ca. 660–ca. 702), “Xianshan huaigu” ⲜⰙ㆟⎌ (Reflecting on the past on Mount Xian), 175, 176, 177 Chiting 崌ṕ, 13 Chiyou 噑⯌, 144 Chu 㤂, ancient kingdom of; song form, 8; territory, 4, 5, 137 Chu ci 㤂录 anthology, 2, 4, 11, 14–15, 60, 62, 75, 76; “Anguish of Sorrow” ㄪ劎, 120; “Great Summons” ⣏㊃, 139; “Grieving at the Eddying Wind” ず⚆桐, 120; “Jiu ge” ḅ㫴 (Nine songs), 115, 132, 139; “Li sao” 暊槟, 115, 127, 139; “Nine Plaints” ḅ彗, 145; “Ode to the Tangerine” 㨀枴, 4; “Summons to the Soul” ㊃櫪, 15, 126, 137–46; “Xiang jun” 㸀⏃ (The Goddess of the Xiang) and “Xiang furen” 㸀⣓Ṣ (The Lady of the Xiang River), 75; Zhuang Ji 匲⽴, “Ai shi ming” ⑨㗪␥ (Lamenting time’s fate), 112, 120 “Chu Consort’s Lament” 㤂⤫⏇, 97, 98, 99, 100, 104 “Chu ditty” 㤂⺽, 102 Chu, King Ling of 㤂曰䌳 (r. 540–529 BCE), 36 Chu, King Xiang of 㤂壬䌳 (aka King Qingxiang 枫壬, r. 298–263 BCE), 11, 36, 38 Chu, King Zhuang of 㤂匲䌳 (r. 613–590 BCE), 98 “Chu traveler,” 145

220 “Chu tunes” 㤂婧, 100 ci 娆 lyric, 17 Cloud Terrace 暚冢, 190 “Consort Ming of Chu” 㤂㖶⤫㚚, 104 Cui Bao Ⲽ尡 (fl. 290–306), Gujin zhu ⎌Ṳ㲐 (Notes on antiquity and the present), 23, 37 Cui Junmiao Ⲽ⏃剿 (n.d.), 53, 54 defamiliarization, 17 Derrida, Jacques, 57 displacement, 45, 65, 92, 97, 102, 106 Donghai 㜙㴟, 110 Dongting 㳆⹕ Lake, 109 Du Fu 㜄䓓 (712–770), 146, 169n15, 179 “Duijiu ge” ⮵惺㫴 (Song of facing wine), 171 Duke Shen 䓛℔, 88 Dunhuang 㔎䃴 song lyrics, 192–93 Du Shenyan 㜄⮑妨 (ca. 645–708), 165 Eastern Jin 㜙㗱 (317–420), 12, 13, 33, 72, 109, 134, 173 “Eastern Martial Pipa Ballad” 㜙㬎䏝䏞⏇埴, 100 Eliot, T. S., 150 Empress Dowager Dou 䩯⣒⎶ (?–135 BCE), 89 Empress Jia 屰⎶ (d. 300), 27 Empress Xu 姙䘯⎶ (d. 8 BCE), 90 fans, 12. See Anzhong fan “fan writing,” 45, 55, 57 Fei wang 偍䌳 (Obese King, n.d.), 83, 84 Feng Liao 楖⪥ (n.d.), 84 Feng Xiong 楖䄲 (d. 305), 22 Feng Yansi 楖⺞⶛, 196 “Flowing Chu” 㳩㤂, 100 “Four Hoary Heads from Mount Shang” ⓮Ⱉ ⚃䘻, 103 Fuchun ⭴㗍 (modern Fuyang ⭴春, Zhejiang), 24, 25 Fuqiu Bo 㴖᷀ỗ, 88 fu 岎 genre, 9 Fujian 䤷⺢ province, 110, 112 Furen ji ⨎Ṣ普 (Collection of writings by women), 37 Fu Xian ‭① (239–294), 22, 35, 36n98, 36n43

Index Gao Jin 檀䐦 (fl. 680s), 179 “Gaoyangchi” 檀春㰈 (Pond of the Drunkard from Gaoyang), 168, 181, 182 Gao Zhengchen 檀㬋冋 (fl. 660–690), 179 Ge Hong 吃㳒 (283–343), 41 geographical treatises, 10 Gibbon, Edward, 45 “Greater Barbarian Reed-Whistle” ⣏傉䫛沜, 100 Green Pearl 䵈䎈, 95, 97, 98 “Guangling Ballad” ⺋昝㔋, 100 Guan Yu 斄佥 (d. 219), 19 Guizhou 㬠ⶆ, 145 Gu Rong 栏㥖 (d. 312), 21, 22, 31, 35, 36 Gusu ⥹喯, 13 gu tuhua ⎌⚾䔓 (ancient illustrations), 90 Haiyang 㴟春, 5 Han, Emperor Cheng of 㻊ㆸⷅ (r. 33–7 BCE), 89 Han, Emperor Guangwu of 㻊⃱㬎ⷅ (6 BCE–57 CE), 165 Han, Emperor Wu of 㻊㬎ⷅ (r. 141–87 BCE), 134, 160 Han, Emperor Yuan of 㻊⃫ⷅ (r. 48–33 BCE), 95 Han fu, 60 Hangzhou 㜕ⶆ, 201 Han shu 㻊㚠, 14 Han Zhongxuan 杻ẚ⭋ (fl. 680s), 179 Hawkes, David, 140, 141n15, 144 Helü 敼敕, King (r. 51–496 BCE), 24 He Shao ỽ≕ (236–302), 22 homesickness, 82, 97, 102 Hopkins, Gerard Manley, 150 Hou Han shu ⼴㻊㚠, 85, 88, 92, 93, 94 Huainan 㶖⋿, 16 Huangfu Song 䘯䓓㜦 (n.d.), “Dreaming of the Southland” ⣊㰇⋿, 192, 206 Huang Linggeng 湫曰⹂, 143 huantou ㎃柕 (stanza transition), 200 Hua Tan 厗嬂 (ca. 250s–324), 44 Huating 厗ṕ (Hua Neighborhood), 19–21 “Huiri chongyan” 㘎㖍慵⭜ (Feasting again on the last day of the first month), 179 Jia Chong 屰⃭ (217–282), 27

Index jiali Ἓ渿, 200 Jia Mi 屰媸 (d. 300), 27, 28 Jiang. See Yangtze River Jiangling 㰇昝, 145 Jiangnan (Southland), 1–4, 14–17, 70, 109, 114, 120, 137, 189, 204–5 Jiang Yan 㰇㶡 (444–505), 14, 109–35, 145; “Bei chu wei Wuxing ling, cijian yi Jianping wang” 塓溄䁢⏛冰Ẍ录䇳娋⺢⸛䌳, 111–12; “Caomu song” 勱㛐枴, 127–29; “Chi hong fu” 崌嘡岎, 129–31; “Chiting zhu” 崌ṕ㷂, 125–26; “Dai zui Jiangnan si beigui fu” ⼭伒㰇⋿⿅⊿㬠岎, 113–20; dating of his poems, 113; “Discourse of wuwei” 䃉䁢婾, 111; “Du Quanqiao chu zhushan zhi ding” 㷉㱱ⵈ↢媠Ⱉᷳ枪, 126–27; “Qingtai fu” 曺剼岎, 124; “Shijie fu” 䞛⇤岎, 124–25; “Shuishang shennü fu” 㯜ᶲ䤆⤛岎, 131–32; “Sishi fu” ⚃㗪 岎, 120–24; “You Huangnie shan” 忲湫䲝 Ⱉ, 132–34 Jiankang ⺢⹟, 6, 13, 109, 173 Jiannan ∵⋿, 16 Jianye ⺢惜 (modern Nanjing), 10, 48 Jia Yi 屰婤 (200–168 BCE), 93 Jieyou 妋ㄪ (n.d.), 83, 84, 85 jieyu Ὴẫ or ⧽⥌ (Favored Beauty), 90 Jin Emperor Huai 㗱㆟ⷅ (Sima Chi ⎠楔䅦, 284–313), 168 Jing-Chu 勲㤂, 165, 166, 172, 173, 174, 188 Jing Chu suishi ji 勲㤂㬚㗪姀 by Zong Lin ⬿ㅵ (ca. 502–566), 174 Jingzhou 勲ⶆ, 14–15, 20, 166, 168, 172, 173 Jingzhou ji 勲ⶆ姀 by Fan Wang 劫㰒 (ca. 308– ca. 372), 174 Jingzhou ji by Guo Zhongchan 悕ẚ䓊 (d. 454), 174 Jingzhou ji by Sheng Hongzhi 䚃⻀ᷳ (fl. 403–444), 174 Jinling 慹昝, 169 “Jiu ge” ḅ㫴 (Nine songs). See Chu ci Ji Zha ⬋∬ (ca. 590–ca. 510 BCE), Viscount of Yanling ⺞昝⫸, aka Yanling Jizi ⺞昝 ⬋⫸ (Viscount Ji of Yanling), 23, 24, 25, 26 Kenkō ℤ⤥, 151

221 Knechtges, David R., 10–11 Kong Ningzi ⫼䓗⫸ (d. 425), 73, 74, 75, 76 Kong Yan ⫼埵 (258–320), 86, 91 Kroll, Paul W., 14 Kuang Wang 䉪䌳 (Wild King, fl. 1st century BCE), 84 Kunmo 㖮卓 (fl. 2nd century BCE), 81, 82 “Lady Fan of King Zhuang” (Chu Zhuang Fan ji 㤂匲㦲⦔), 98, 99, 100 lament, 23, 32, 67, 97–102, 104, 170, 175, 176, 186, 187 “lament tunes” (yinhan qu ⏇㫶㚚), 97 “Lesser Barbarian Reed-Whistle” ⮷傉䫛沜, 100 Liang Hong 㠩泣 (fl. 1st century), “Song of Five Alases” Ḽ☓ᷳ㫴, 46 Liang shu 㠩㚠, 110 Li Bai 㛶䘥 (701–762), 15; “Cherishing the Last of Spring” や检㗍岎 152–56; “Classical Airs” ⎌桐 (Gu feng), 159–62; fu writings, 152; “Jiang jin jiu” ⮯忚惺 (Pray Drink the Wine), 185; “Imitation of the Fu on Bitter Regret” 㒔【岎, 151–52; “Melancholy for Springtime” ォ春㗍 岎 156–58; “Pusa man” 厑啑埣, 195; “Question and Answer in the Mountains” Ⱉᷕ⓷䫼, 158; “Sword Gallery” ∵敋岎, 152; “Xiangyang qu” 壬春㚚 (Melody of Xiangyang) and “Xiangyang ge” 壬春㫴 (Song of Xiangyang), 182–185; “Xianshan huaigu” ⲜⰙ㆟⎌, 185–186 Lienü zhuan ↿⤛⁛ (Biographies of women), 88 Li Gongzuo 㛶℔Ỹ (early 9th century), 158–59 Li Jiao 㛶ⵈ (ca. 646–ca. 715), 172 Lingnan ⵢ⋿, 16 Lin Wen-yueh 㜿㔯㚰, 10–11, 19, 44n6 “Li sao” 暊槟. See Chu ci Li Si 㛶㕗 (ca. 280–208 BCE), 185 Liu Bang ∱恎 (256–195 BCE), 4, 8, 88, 103 Liu Biao ∱堐 (142–208), 173 Liu Bijiang ∱彇䔮 (fl. 1st century BCE), 88, 89 Liu, James J. Y., 182 Liu Jiao ∱Ṍ, King Yuan of Chu 㤂⃫䌳 (?–179 BCE), 88, 89

222 Liu Jingsu ∱㘗䳈 (452–476), 110, 112, 114nn14–15, 135 Liu Shi ∱⭼ (220–310), 22 Liu-Song dynasty, 12, 109, 173 Liu Wu ∱ㆲ (?–154 BCE), 83 Liu Wu ∱㬎, King Xiao of Liang 㠩⬅䌳 (r. 168–144 BCE), 89 Liu Xiang ∱⎹ (79–8 BCE), 88, 89 Liu Xijun ∱䳘⏃ (fl. 110–105 BCE), 81–85, 89, 92, 95, 97, 107 Liu Xin ∱㫮 (d. 23) (son of Liu Xiang), 89 Liu Xiu ∱䥨 (5 BCE–57 CE), 166 Liu Xiufan ∱ᾖ劫 (n.d.), 111 Liu Yao ∱㚄 (d. 329, r. 318–329), 168 Liu Ying ∱䙰 (210–188 BCE), 103 Liu Yiqing ∱佑ㄞ (403–444), 85, 174 Liu Yixuan ∱佑⭋ (415–454), 174 Liu Yu ∱塽 (363–422), 174 Liu Zhiji ∱䞍⸦ (661–721), Shi tong ⎚忂, 174 Li Yannian 㛶⺞⸜ (d. ca. 87 BCE), 75, 80, 106 Li Yu 㛶䄄, “Wang Jiang mei” 㛃㰇㠭, 197–99 Li Zhi ≃ᷳ, 140 Longqiu Gao 漵᷀檀 (n.d.), 102 Lu Changgeng 映攟⹂ (1554–1631), Xiangyang qijiu zhuan 壬春侮冲⁛, 187. See also Xiangyang qijiu ji Lu Dan 映俥 (d. 303), 20 Lu Ji 映㨇 (261–303), 11, 19–36, 39–41, 43–57, 60–65, 67–74, 76, 78, 98–99, 187; An Account of Luoyang 㳃春姀 (Luoyang ji), 47; “Eulogy for Our Two Ancestors” Ḵ䣾枴 (Er zu song), 26; “Fu on a Feather Fan” 佥㇯岎 (Yushan fu), 33, 41; “Fu on Longings While Traveling” 埴⿅岎 (Xing si fu), 32; “Fu on Longing to Return Home” ⿅㬠岎 (Si gui fu), 31; “Fu on Yearning for My Native Land” ㆟⛇岎 (Huai tu fu), 31; “The Gentleman Longs for Someone” ⏃⫸㚱㇨⿅埴 ( Junzi yousuosi xing), 46; “Going out West Gate” ↢悕大攨 (Chu guo ximen), 61; “Qi ou xing” 滲嫛埴, 187; “The Soccer Song” 杈㫴埴 ( Juge xing), 62; “Song of Joining the Army” ⽆幵埴 (Congjun xing), 64; “Song of Oars” 㢡㫴埴, 71; “The Song of Perambulating the East and

Index West Gates” 枮㜙大攨埴 (Shun dong xi men xing), 58; “Song of Yuzhang” 尓䪈埴, 67; “Wu qu xing” ⏛嵐埴, 23, 98 Lu Jia 映屰 (ca. 240–170 BCE), 66 Lu Jing 映㘗 (249–280), 20, 21 Lu Kang 映㈿ (226–274), 19–20, 26, 27 Luo Binwang 榙屻䌳, 147 Luoyang 㳃春, 11–12, 13, 19, 21–22, 27, 30–32, 35, 39–41, 43–49, 56, 62, 66, 67, 71, 78, 97, 168, 172, 176, 178–79, 197 Luoyi 㳃怹, 5 Lu Sidao 䚏⿅忻 (530–581), 76, 77 Lu Xuan 映䌬 (n.d.), 20 Lu Xun 映怄 (183–245), 19, 20, 25, 26 Lu Yan 映㗷 (d. 280), 20, 21 Lü Yanji ⏪⺞㾇, 140 Lu Yun 映暚 (262–303), 11, 19–22, 26–27, 30, 41–44, 49, 51–55, 78; “Eulogy for My Grandfather and Late Father” 䣾侫枴 (Zukao song), 26, 45n7; “Fu on Ascending the Terrace” 䘣冢岎 (Dengtai fu), 53, 54 Lu Zhi 䚏㢵 (d. 192), 27 Lu Zhi 䚏⽿ (d. 312), 26, 27, 30 Mao Qiang 㮃⫁ (fl. 5th century BCE), 92–93 Ma Yuan 楔䋐 (14 BCE–49 CE), 126 Meng Haoran ⬇㴑䃞 (689–740), 165, 176; “Climbing Mount Xian with Several Friends” 冯媠⫸䘣ⲜⰙ (Yu zhuzi deng Xianshan), 169–70; “Seeing off Zhu the Second at the Drunkard’s Pond” 檀春 㰈復㛙Ḵ (Gaoyangchi song Zhu er), 180–82 Mian 㰼 River (present-day Han River), 166 Miluo 㰐伭 River, 6 Min Hong 攼泣 (fl. 280), 36 Mingjun 㖶⏃, 94. See also Wang Qiang “Monograph on Music” 㦪⽿ (Yue zhi) in the Song History ⬳㚠 (Song shu), 55 “Mount Liangfu Ballad” 㠩䓓⏇埴, 100 “Mount Tai Ballad” 㲘Ⱉ⏇埴, 100 Mount Xian Ⲝ, 165, 166, 169–171, 175, 176 Mount Xing 昀Ⱉ, 5 Musheng from Lu 欗䧮䓇 (fl. ca. 2nd century BCE), 70 Music Records of Yuanjia (425–453) ⃫▱㈨ 抬, 97

Index Nanjun ⋿悉, 13 Nan shi ⋿⎚, 110 Nan Yongzhou ji ⋿晵ⶆ姀 by Bao Zhi 欹军 of the Liang, 174 Nan Yongzhou ji by Guo Zhongchan 悕ẚ䓊 (d. 454), 174 Nimi 㲍有, 84 Northern and Southern Dynasties (317–589), 45, 70, 78 “Ode to the Tangerine.” See Chu ci Ouyang Xiu 㫸春ᾖ (1007–1072), “Cai sangzi” 慯㟹⫸, 202–3; “Xianshanting ji” ⲜⰙṕ 姀 (On the pavilion of Mount Xian), 186 Ouyang Xun 㫸春娊 (557–641), 172 Ovid, 112, 115 Owen, Stephen, 17, 57, 90, 169 “Pacifying Hu Empress” (Ning Hu Yanzhi ⮏傉 敤㮷), 91 Pan Lang 㼀敔 (d. 1009), “Jiu quanzi” 惺㱱⫸, 201–2 Pan Ni 㼀⯤ (ca. 250–311), 22, 36, 43, 44 Pan Yue 㼀ⱛ (247–300), 11, 19, 27–30, 44n6 Pei 㱃, 4, 5, 8 Pei Qi 墜┇ (2nd half of 4th century), Yulin 婆㜿, 33 Pengcheng ⼕❶ (modern Xuzhou), 88, 89 Peng Xian ⼕①, 141 Pi Rixiu 䙖㖍ẹ (ca. 834–ca. 902), 165, 181, 182; “Xichi chenqi” 佺㰈㘐崟 (Getting up in the morning by the Xi Family Pond), 181 plaint (yuan ⿐), 14, 80, 85, 86, 87, 95, 100, 101, 107 Poyang 惙春 Lake, 109 Pucheng 㴎❶, 112 “pure conversationalists” (qingtan jia 㶭婯⭞), 34–35 Qianzhong 湼ᷕ commandery, 3, 5, 16 Qi dynasty, 135 Qin cao 䏜㑵, 85, 86, 91, 95, 97–98, 102, 104, 106 Qin Shihuang 䦎⥳䘯, First Emperor of Qin (r. 220–210 BCE), 134

223 Qu Yuan ⯰⍇ (ca. 300 BCE), 1–18, 80, 81, 85, 95, 104, 139–52 “reflection on the past” (huaigu ㆟⎌), 169, 170, 175, 176, 178, 181, 185 rendan ả娽 (reckless and unbridled), 170 Ren Fan ả侣 (fl. 843), “Jing Duoleibei” 䴻⡖ 㶂䠹 (Passing by the stele for shedding tears), 178 Sanguo zhi ᶱ⚳⽿, 20 sao 槟, 85, 95, 97, 105, 107, 140. See also Chu ci Schafer, Edward H., 15, 17 separation, 69, 80, 82, 102 shamanism, 141n16 Shaman Yang ⶓ春, 140–41 Shan Jian Ⱉ䯉 (253–312), 165–175, 178–187 Shan Tao Ⱉ㾌 (205–283), 168 Shen Jian 㰰⺢ (Song dynasty), Yuefu guangti 㦪⹄⺋柴, 63 Shi Chong 䞛ⲯ (249–300), 27, 95–100, 105, 106, 171n23, 188 Shi pin 娑⑩ (Gradations of poets), 79 Shishuo xinyu ᶾ婒㕘婆, 34, 85, 94, 168, 170 Shoumeng ⢥⣊ (r. 585–561 BCE), Wu king, 23, 25 si ⃽ (rhinoceros), 142n24 Sikong Shu ⎠䨢㚁 (720–790), 138 Sima Qian ⎠楔怟 (145–86 BCE), 9 Sima Yan ⎠楔䀶 (236–290), 20, 166 Sima Yan ⎠楔㗷 (281–311), 30 Sima Yi ⎠楔ㆧ (179–251), 33, 173n36 Sima Ying ⎠楔䧶 (279–306), 30, 31, 51 Sima Yu ⎠楔怡 (d. 300), 21, 27 Sima Zhao ⎠楔㗕 (211–265), 20, 95, 173n36 Song Mingdi ⬳㖶ⷅ (r. 466–472), 110 “Song of Oars” 㢡㫴埴 (Zhaoge xing), 11, 69–77. See also Lu Ji “Song of Yuzhang” 尓䪈埴 (Yuzhang xing), 65. See also Lu Ji Song Wendi ⬳㔯ⷅ (r. 424–454), 110 Song Yu ⬳䌱 (fl. 3rd century BCE), 11, 36–39, 140, 145, 161 soul duality, 141–42 “southern consciousness,” 19, 41–45 “southern metal,” 29, 30, 41 “Summons to the Soul.” See Chuci

224 Sun Hao ⬓䘻 (r. 264–280), 28 Sun Qing ⬓⌧ (aka Xunzi 勨⫸, ca. 313–238 BCE), 88 Sun Quan ⬓㪲 (r. 222–252), 19, 20, 25 Su Qin 喯䦎 (?–317 BCE), 3–4 Su Shi 喯度 (1036–1101), 17; “Manting fang” 㺧⹕剛, 205–6 Tang dynasty, 16 Tang Huixiu 㸗ㄏẹ (d. after 466), 104 Tang Le Ⓒ≺ (fl. 3rd century BCE), 36, 38, 39 Tian Xiaofei, 11–12 transience, 158 “Traveler’s Lament” 忲⫸⏇ (Youzi yin), 102 “Trust Established, One Withdraws: A Song of Plaint” ᾉ䩳徨⿐㫴, 101 Wang, Ping, 14 Wang Bi 䌳⻤ (226–249), 41 Wang Bo 䌳≫ (649?–676?), 15, 146–151; Poems from My Journey to Shu ℍ嚨䲨 埴娑, 147; “Relating My Inspiration in a Foreign Land” Ṿ悱㔀冰, 149–50; “Roaming in Spring” 㗍忲, 149–50; “Spring Longings” 㗍⿅岎, 146–49; “Traveling in Spring” 估㗍, 149–50 Wang Can 䌳䱚 (177–217), “Song of Joining the Army” ⽆幵埴 (Congjun xing), 63, 64, 65 Wang Dao 䌳⮶ (276–339), 34, 38n20 Wang Fuzhi 䌳⣓ᷳ (1619–1692), 138 Wang Guanguo 䌳奨⚳ ( jinshi 1119), 94 Wang Hun 䌳㷦 (233–297), 22, 43n5 Wang Ji 䌳㾇 (d. ca. 292), 22, 43n5 Wang Jun 䌳㴂 (206–285), 21 Wang Lin 䌳䏛, 174 Wang Mang 䌳卥 (45 BCE–23 CE), 94 “Wang Mingjun” 䌳㖶⏃, 97 “Wang Mingjun ci” 䌳㖶⏃娆 (Lyrics of Mingjun) attributed to Shi Chong, 95, 97 Wang Qiang 䌳㩋, better known as Wang Zhaojun 䌳㗕⏃ (fl. 48–33 BCE), 14, 81, 84–87, 91–98, 100, 104–6 Wang Rong 䌳ㆶ (234–305), 22, 171 Wang Sengqian 䌳₏嗼 (426–485), Records of Musicians ㈨抬 ( Jilu), 56n51, 58n61, 100 Wang Yan 䌳埵 (265–311), 35, 41

Index Wang Yi 䌳忠 (2nd century CE), 4, 139–40, 143–44 Wang Yucheng 䌳䥡䧙 (954–1001), “Dian jiang chun” 溆䴛⒯, 199–201 Wang Zhaojun 䌳㗕⏃. See Wang Qiang Wang Zhengjun 䌳㓧⏃ (71 BCE–13 CE), 94 Wei dynasty (220–265), 49 Wei, Emperor Ming of 櫷㖶ⷅ (r. 226–239), attributed, “Song of Oars,” 70 Wei Zhuang 杳匲 (836–910), “Pusa man” 厑啑 埣, 195–97 Wenying 㔯䧶 (fl. 3rd century), 91 Western Jin (265–317), 6, 10–12, 19, 27–30, 36, 41, 43, 49, 54, 55n50, 56, 72, 165, 166 “White Hair Ballad” 䘥柕⏇埴, 100 “White Snow in Springtime” 春㗍䘥暒, 162 Wu, Jie, 15 Wu state, 11–12, 19–28, 30–36, 39, 41, 43, 44, 48, 52, 53, 56, 63–65, 70, 71, 77, 78, 99, 173, 193–94 Wu Jing ⏛䪞 (670–749), Yuefu guti yaojie 㦪⹄ ⎌柴天妋, 60 Wujun ⏛悉 (Wu commandery, modern Suzhou in Jiangsu), 3–4, 5, 23–26 Wu lu ⏛抬 (Record of Wu), 25 “Wu qu xing” ⏛嵐埴 (Song of Wu), “Wu qu qu” ⏛嵐㚚, 23, 98 Wuxing ⏛冰, Jian’an, 13, 110, 112–13, 135 Wu Yuanheng 㬎⃫堉 (758–815), 179 Wu Zixu ẵ⫸傍 (d. 485 BCE), 24 Wuming Ḽ㖶 (Five visions) fan, 37, 39 Wusun 䁷⬓, 81–85, 92, 95 wuyan Ḽ妨, or pentasyllabic form, 94, 97, 100, 105, 106, 107 Xiangfu 䚠⣓, 84 “Xiang jun” 㸀⏃ (The Goddess of the Xiang) and “Xiang furen” 㸀⣓Ṣ (The Lady of the Xiang River), 75 Xiang 㸀 River, 75, 76, 151 Xiangyang 壬春, 15, 20, 165–188 Xiangyang qijiu ji 壬春侮冲姀, 172. See also Lu Changgeng Xiang Yu 枭佥 (232–202 BCE), 8 Xianyang ①春, 5 Xiao Daocheng 唕忻ㆸ (427–482), 111, 134 Xiao Gang 唕䵙 (503–551), 75–77, 174n73

Index Xiazhou ⢷ⶆ, 5 Xie Huilian 嫅よ忋 (407–433), 72 Xie Lingyun 嫅曰忳 (385–433), 10, 72 Xie Tiao (464–499) 嫅傩, “Song for Coming to Court” ℍ㛅㚚, 189–90 Xi Family Pond (Xijiachi 佺⭞㰈), 17, 165–172, 178–183, 185, 187 Xi Han ⳯⏓ (263–306), “Yushan fu” 佥㇯岎 (Fu on the feather fan), 35, 36 Xijing zaji 大Ṕ暄姀, 85, 86, 94 Xi Kang ⳯⹟ (223–262), 35, 185 Xiling 大昝, 21, 27 Xiongnu, 64, 81–87, 91–96, 106 xi № particle, 8, 137n4 Xishi 大㕥 (fl. 5th century BCE), 75 Xi Xi ⳯╄ (fl. mid-3rd century), 35 Xi Yu 佺恩, Marquis of Xiangyang, 165–168, 172, 173, 188 Xi Zuochi 佺搧滺 (d. 383), 167, 173, 174 xuanxue 䌬⬠ (arcane philosophy) 40, 41 Xunyang 㖔春, 5 Yang Hu 伲䤄 (221–278), 15, 165, 166, 168–70, 173, 175–87 Yang Jun 㣲榧 (d. 291), 21 Yang Kan 伲Ἣ (d. 548), 76 “Yangliu ge” 㣲㞛㫴 (Song of the willow), 171, 182 Yangtze River, 6, 35, 49n27, 65, 69, 70, 77, 139 Yang Zhao 㣲倯 (d. 275), 27, 28 Ye 惜, 13, 49–55, 56n51 Yellow Emperor, 144 Yellow River, 19, 32, 36, 71, 73, 74, 173 Yicheng ⭄❶, 145 Ying, Chu capital, 5, 139 Yin-Yang, 6 Yiwen leiju 喅㔯栆倂, 172 Yu 嘆, concubine of Xiangyu, 8 Yuanguimi ⃫屜有, 83 “Yuankuangsi wei ge” ⿐㚈⿅ょ㫴 (Song of plaint, estrangement, and longing), 86 “Yuan shi xing” ⿐娑埴 (Plaint ballad), 100 Yuan Zhen ⃫䧡 (779–831), “Xiangyang dao” 壬春忻 (The roads of Xiangyang), 177, 178 yuefu 㦪⹄, 23, 46, 55–63, 65–73, 75, 76, 97, 100, 182

225 Yuefu shiji 㦪⹄娑普, 59, 62, 63, 97 Yue 崲 state, 133 Yuqiu 嘆᷀ (fl. ca. 6th century BCE), 98 “Yushan fu” 佥㇯岎 (Fu on a feather fan), 33, 35, 36n98, 43n1. See also Lu Ji; Xi Han Yu Shiling ᾆ⢓䍚, 21 Yu Xin ⹦ᾉ (513–581), 134, 146, 171–72, 178–79, 183–84 Zhan Fangsheng 㸃㕡䓇 (Eastern Jin dynasty), 146 Zhang Bo ⻝≫ (3rd century CE), 25 Zhang Heng ⻝堉 (78–139), “Fu on the Western Capital” 大Ṕ岎 (Xijing fu), 61 Zhang Hua ⻝厗 (232–300), 22, 30, 44n5, 48 Zhang Jiuling ⻝ḅ漉 (678–740), “Deng Xiangyang Xianshan” 䘣壬春ⲜⰙ (Climbing Mount Xian of Xiangyang), 175–77 Zhang Kejiu ⻝⎗ᷭ (ca. 1270–after 1348), “Manting fang” 㺧⹕剛, 187 Zhang Qian ⻝槓 (d. ca. 114 BCE), 81 Zhang Terrace 䪈冢, aka Zhanghua 䪈厗 Terrace, 36 Zhang Xian ⻝戹 (n.d.), 139 Zhang Yong ⻝㯠 (410–475), 97, 100 Zhang Zai ⻝庱 (ca. 250–ca. 310), 22, 36, 78n119 Zhao Feiyan 嵁梃䅽 (d. 1 BCE), 89 zhaoyi 㗕₨ (resplendent appearance), 94 Zhaoyi Feng Yuan 㗕₨楖⩃, 94 Zhaoyi Fu shi 㗕₨‭㮷, 94 Zheng Jiaofu 惕Ṍ䓓 ( Jiaofu of Zheng), 186 Zhijiang’s 㘢⋈ Gujin yuelu ⎌Ṳ㦪抬 (fl. second half of 6th century), 97 Zhi Yu 㐗嘆 (d. 311), 27 Zhong Rong 挦ⵠ (468–518), 14, 79, 80, 86, 105 Zhou Bangyan ␐恎⼍ (1056–1121), “Gepu lian” 昼㴎咖, 203–5 Zhou Yanhui ␐⼍廅 (jinshi 674), 179 Zhou Yi ␐柿 (269–322), 12 zhu 渰, 34. See also zhuwei Zhuang Ji 匲⽴, “Ai shi ming” ⑨㗪␥. See Chu ci Zhu Fan 媠㦲 (r. 560–548 BCE), 25 Zhuge Liang 媠吃Ṗ (181–234), 33, 175–77

226 zhuwei 渰⯦, sambar-tail chowry, 33–39 Zuo Si ⶎ⿅ (ca. 250–ca. 305), 27, 49 Zuo Yannian ⶎ⺞⸜ (fl. early to mid-3rd century), “Song of Joining the Army” ⽆幵 埴 (Congjun xing), 63–65, 70

Index