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Gems of Chinese Literature/Su Tung-P‘o-The Prince of Literature

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Gems of Chinese Literature (1922)
translated by Herbert Allen Giles
The Prince of Literature by Su Tung-P‘o
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SU TUNG-P‘O.

a.d. 1036-1101

[An almost universal genius, like Ou-yang Hsiu, this writer is even a greater favourite with the Chinese literary public. Under his hands, the language of which China is so proud may be said to have reached perfection of finish, of art concealed. In subtlety of reasoning, in the lucid expression of abstractions, such as in English too often elude the faculty of the tongue, Su Tung-P‘o is an unrivalled master. On behalf of his honoured manes I desire to note my protest against the words of Mr. Baber, recently spoken at a meeting of the Royal Geographical Society, and stating that “the Chinese language is incompetent to express the subtleties of theological reasoning, just as it is inadequate to represent the nomenclature of European science.” I am not aware that the nomenclature of European science can be adequately represented even in the English language; at any rate, there can be no comparison between the expression of terms and of ideas, and I take it the doctrine of the Trinity itself is not more difficult of comprehension than the theory of “self abstraction beyond the limits of an external world,” so closely reasoned out by Chuang Tzŭ. If Mr. Baber merely means that the gentlemen entrusted with the task have proved themselves so far quite incompetent to express in Chinese the subtleties of theological reasoning, then I am with him to the death.

There is one more point in regard to which I should be glad to cleanse the stuffed bosoms of some from a certain perilous stuff―the belief that Chinese sentences are frequently open to two and even more interpretations. No theory could well be more mischievous than this. It tends to make a student readily satisfied with anything he can get out of an obscure paragraph rather than push on laboriously through the dark passages of thought until the real sense begins to glimmer ahead, and finally to shine brightly upon him. I wish to place it on record, as my opinion, after the arduous task of translation now lying completed before me, that the written language of China is hardly more ambiguous than English; and that an ordinary Chinese sentence, written without malice aforethought, can have but one meaning, though it may often appear at the first blush to have several. There are exceptions, of course; but the rule remains unchanged. I have frequently been trapped myself, and may be again; trapped into satisfaction with a given rendering which I subsequently discovered to be wrong, and which I could then feel to be grammatically wrong though I had previously accepted it as right. The fault in such cases, I venture to suggest, should be sought for outside the text. (I leave this to stand as it stood in 1884, merely suggesting that it is the extreme difficulty of the book-language which is mistaken for ambiguity.)

To revert to the subject of this note, Su Tung-P‘o shared the fate of most Chinese statesmen of the T'ang and Sung dynasties. He was banished to a distant post. In 1235 he was honoured with a niche in the Confucian temple, but his tablet was removed in 1845. After six hundred years he might well have been left there in peace.]

Su Tung-P‘o1524176Gems of Chinese Literature — The Prince of Literature1922Herbert Allen Giles
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(See p. 113).

How has the simple and lowly one become a Teacher for all generations? Why has a single word of his become law for the whole world? Because he could place himself in harmony with Nature, and adapt himself to the eternal sequence of fulness and decay.

Life does not come to us without reason: it is not without reason that we lay it down. Hence, some have descended from the hills to live among us; others have joined the galaxy of the stars above.[1] The traditions of old lie not.

Mencius said, “I am able to nourish my divine spirit.”[2] That spirit may lodge in a specified area; but its volume fills all space. For him who possesses it, the honours of princes and kings, ​the wealth of millionaires, the sagacity of counsellors, the courage of heroes, the subtlety of diplomatists,―these are but empty names. But who plants this spirit within us? It stands, independent of form; it moves, independent of force; it waits not for life, to exist; it perishes not in the swoon of death. Above, it assumes the shape of heavenly bodies; on earth, that of hills and streams: in the dark, that of spiritual beings; in the broad light of day, it returns again to man. But let this pass.

From the age of the Hans, the Truth began to be obscured, and literature to fade. Supernatural religions sprang up on all sides; and many eminent scholars failed to oppose their advance, until Han Wên-kung, the cotton-clothed, arose, and blasted them with his derisive sneer.[3] Thenceforth, not one but adopted him as their guide, returning into the true path,―now three hundred years ago. From the dead ashes of the immediate past his genius soared up: his message brought help to many in the hour of their affliction. His loyalty (to the commonwealth) called down the wrath of his Imperial master; his bravery eclipsed that of the bravest warrior. Was not this to place himself in harmony with Nature, and adapt himself to the eternal sequence of fulness and decay?

The human, they say, is all-powerful, except as against the divine. What is this distinction between the human and the divine? Cunning may deceive kings and princes, but cannot impose upon pigs and fishes.[4] Brute force may conquer an empire, but cannot win over the hearts of the people. So Han Wên-kung’s purity of heart dispersed the clouds at the summit of Mount Hêng,[5] but could not free him from Imperial suspicions. He tamed the fierce monster of the river, but could not shake off the calumnies of his foes. He endeared himself to the inhabitants of the southern shores, where his memory is held sacred after many generations; but he could not secure to himself a day’s repose as a courtier about the Throne. His failures were human, his successes divine.

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The people of Ch‘ao-chou were sunk in ignorance. Han Wên-kung appointed a superintendent of education; and ever since, their city has been a centre of learning, a rival to the classic seats of old. To this day its inhabitants are known for their peace-loving ways; for their faith in the maxim that the “true doctrine inspires lofty natures with love for their fellow-men, inferior natures with respect for the authority of government.” And so, when they eat or drink, a portion is always devoted to the memory of their Master. Or if flood, or drought, or pestilence come upon them, it is to him they betake themselves for aid. But his shrine was behind the chief magistrate’s yamên, and inconvenient of access; and an application to the Throne to build a new shrine had been refused, when a Governor came to rule over the district whose administration was modelled upon that of his great predecessor. This popular official issued a notice that if the people themselves wished to erect a new shrine, they were at liberty to select a suitable site at a given spot; and within the year the building was completed.

Then some one said, “Han Wên-kung was banished to this spot, a thousand miles from his home, with no hope of return. If knowledge is given to him after death, it will hardly be with feelings of affection that he will look back upon his sojourn at Ch‘ao-chou.”

“Not so,” I replied. “Our Master’s spirit pervades space as water pervades the earth: there is no place where it is not. The Ch‘ao-chou people trusted and loved him more than others, and still venerate his spirit which hovers over their soil. Fancy, if a man boring for water should strike a spring and say, ‘Water is here!’”

“Han Wên-kung’s full designation is given in the inscription; and as the inhabitants of Ch‘ao-chou desired me to prepare a record to be engraven on stone, I indited the following lines to the memory of this great man:―

He rode of old on the dragon in the white cloud domain;

He grasped with his hand the glory of the sky;
The Weaving Damsel[6] robed him with the effulgence of the stars,
​ The wind bore him delicately from the throne of God.
He swept away the chaff and husks of his generation.
He roamed over the limits of the earth.
He clothed all nature with his bright rays,
The third in the triumvirate of genius.[7]
His rivals panted after him in vain,
Dazed by the brilliancy of his light.
He cursed Buddha: he offended his prince.
He journeyed far away to the distant south.
He passed the grave of Shun, and wept over the daughters of Yao.
The water-god went before him and stilled the waves.
He drove out the fierce monster as it were a lamb.
But above, in heaven, there was no music, and God was sad,
And summoned him to his place beside the Throne.
And now, with these poor offerings, I salute him;
With red lichees and yellow plantain fruit.
Alas, that he did not linger awhile on earth,
But passed so soon, with streaming hair, into the great unknown.

  1. ↑ Two mythological allusions.
  2. ↑ Dr. Legge, in his translation of Mencius, renders this term by “vast, flowing, passion-nature.” It is, in fact, untranslatable; but what is meant may be easily understood from Wên T‘ien-hsiang’s splendid poem, headed Divinæ Particulam Auræ. See p. 201.
  3. ↑ Cf. “Sapping- a solemn creed with solemn sneer.”
  4. ↑ Alluding to a passage in the Book of Changes.
  5. ↑ One of the numerous legendary tales of his supernatural power.
  6. ↑ The star α Lyrae.
  7. ↑ The other two were Tu Fu and Li T‘ai-pŏ (q.v.).
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