There is a famous Chinese short story about a woman who was sitting in a garden when something like a walnut fell into her lap. She took it up, opened it, and from it there emerged two small objects which moved so fast that she could not tell what they were. They flew round and round her head, emitting strange and distressing noises. They could not be driven away and eventually she had to leave the garden. The things then disappeared.
Being an intelligent woman and the wife of a prominent official, she knew this event must have some meaning. She therefore went to a soothsayer to find out whether the omen was of good or evil fortune for her family. The soothsayer heard her describe the unearthly beings, the feeling of dread they inspired, and their final disappearance. His face grew grave as he listened, but he was unable to tell her what they betokened. No one else was ever able to interpret the event for her, and nothing remarkable ever happened to her.
That is the whole story; it illustrates one of the arts in which Chinese storytellers excel—that of anti-climax. In some stories event follows event in dramatic succession until the reader is sure the climax and denouement are going to be almost unbearably exciting. And then something quite unexpected happens, or perhaps nothing at all happens, and the reader is left suspended, with his imagination working far beyond the boundaries of the story itself.
The life of Ts'ao Chih, posthumously called Prince Thoughtful, has something of that characteristic ant-climax; he all but reached the heights of glory—but failed. In the 40 years of his life, from 192 to 232 A.D., he had more than his share of excitement and intrigue, but one thinks of him mainly as a man whose ambitions were constantly blocked. He finally died heartbroken, lonely and disappointed, after a life which had once been so full of promise that he might well have become emperor of China.
Ts'ao Chih was born towards the end of the great Han dynasty which, with a short-break, had ruled China for four centuries. The Hans held power from the time they overthrew the short lived tyrannical Ch'in dynasty which first unified China. They had given China stability and might. They had had great success in wars against the fierce nomadic tribes on their northern borders. They had extended their empire far into Central Asia and had gained some control over what are now Indo-China and Korea. They had promoted classical scholarship and made Confucianism the orthodox way of thought for China. And in literature there had been great developments, not only in the writing of scholarly works but also in flexible prose and poetry.
The form of poetry which developed most in Han times was the "fu"—a term which is often translated as "prose poem" since many passages do not rhyme although they make great use of other poetic devices. This form had been used brilliantly by many poets—so brilliantly, indeed, that towards the end of the dynasty poets were becoming repetitive and imitative, and the time was ripe for the introduction of a new form.
It was not only in literature that China was ready for changes. New ways of thought were coming to the land where the strictly earthly Confucianism had left desires for religious solace unsatisfied. Buddhism was spreading fast; Ts'ao Chih may well have come into contact with its adherents. Several Buddhist hymns were later attributed to him, although it is doubtful whether they were his work.
And Taoism, that strange mixture of a philosophy which advocated acceptance of all nature's ways, including death, and a mystic practice which sought physical immortality, and thus resistance to nature, was gaining more and more believers. As the Han dynasty declined and the court and country were racked by factionalism and warfare, it may be that the misery of the times made escape from daily realities a greater pleasure if not an essential. A form of Taoism had inspired one of the first religious popular revolts in China's history—that of the Yellow Turbans—only a few years before Ts'ao Chih's birth. The mystical search for immortality which formed so great a part of Taoist thought is strikingly evident in Ts'ao Chih's writing, particularly in his later period.
That is the setting in time-an age of restlessness, doubt and change, when orthodoxy was challenged but not overthrown, and when new ways of thought were burgeoning and immensely inviting to young men.
The place was the China of the second and third centuries, where the imperial power of the Han dynasty had weakened, where the nomadic barbarians from the north were again making bloody incursions, and where a swarm of adventurers was struggling for control. This was the "Robin Hood" age of China—a time of derring-do, duplicity and popular distress; the great novel "The Three Kingdoms" tells of it, and many of the most famous plays of the Chinese theater were based on episodes in that novel.
Most successful of the contenders for power, until 220 A.D., was Ts'ao Ts'ao, the father of Ts'ao Chih and certainly one of the best known characters in Chinese history. Ts'ao Ts'ao was bold and often unscrupulous. He reputedly said, and put into practice his belief, that he "would rather betray the whole world than have the world betray him." By his machinations he gained control over the last Han emperor and exercised imperial power even while the emperor was still on the throne.
However, although contending generals had in practice divided China into the three kingdoms mentioned in the title of the novel even before the fall of the Han dynasty, there was nominal unity. Even Ts'ao Ts'ao, with all his ambition, found it politic in his wars against his rivals to use the name of the Han emperor who was in theory the focal point for the loyalty of the Empire. Unlike his son, Ts'ao P'i, he did not usurp the throne, although he arrogated many of the trappings of imperial power.
There was one admirable feature about Ts'ao Ts'ao which was to have a great influence on his sons. He was a reasonably good poet himself and a considerably patron of the arts. Ts'ao Chih described in one of his letters to a friend, Yang Hsiu, which incidentally contained one of the first notable passages of literary criticism in Chinese literature, how Ts'ao Ts'ao gathered a brilliant group of writers at his court. It also outlined Ts'ao Chih's view of the importance of literature and of what his role in life should be. A Portion of this letter, written in 216, says:
When I was young I had a liking for poetry, which has lasted up to the present time, when I am in my 25th year. Thus it is that I can briefly describe the writers of the present age.
Some years ago, in various parts of the country Wang Ts'an walked alone, Ch'en Lin was soaring like an eagle, Hsu Kan was making a name for himself, Liu Cheng was displaying his elegant writings, Ying Chang was beginning his progress, and you, my friend, were looking round from on high in the capital. At that time, when each of these men thought he had dug out the "pearl of the spirit snake" and had the "jade of Ch'ing Mountain," our king (Ts'ao Ts'ao) spread his "heavenly net" in order to get hold of these writers. He kept order within the Eight Corners of the Universe so as to protect them and they are now all gathered in this state,
Even so, these gentlemen still cannot "flap their wings and disappear from sight" and "make one leap and travel a thousand li. " Take Ch'en Lin—he isn't very good at poetry, so he often describes himself as having the same gifts as the great prose writers of the past. This is like the saying "if your painting doesn't look like a tiger, go over it again and turn it into a dog!"
Some time ago I wrote a letter criticizing him, but he wrote another essay in which, believe it or not, he made out that I had praised his writing! Yet to this day people praise him.
The reason why I do not dare to give rash praise is because I fear that people in the future may laugh at me. When the writings of the men of one age are transmitted, they cannot fail to have faults. I always like to have others criticize my works, and if there is something amiss with them I rectify it at a suitable time. Ting Ching-li once wrote a short piece and sent it to me asking me to polish it. I personally think my talent is no greater than anyone else's, so I declined. Ting Ching-li then said "Why were you worried? I created the beauty of the piece myself, and who in later ages will know that we settled the last draft of the composition together?" I often admire this shrewd saying and consider it admirably expressed.
In the past, when Confucius wrote, he joined the stream of his thought to that of others and when he had compiled "The Spring and Autumn Annals" disciples such as Tzu-yu and Tzu-hsia could not add a word. But if we speak of anything beyond this, I have seen nothing that was faultless.
Undoubtedly, if one has the beauty of the lady Nan Wei, one then has a right to speak of loveliness, and if one has the sharpness of the sword Lung Yuan one then has a right to talk about cutting. But Liu Chi-hsu's talents are not enough for him to write himself, yet he loves to criticize literature and pick out and indicate good and bad points....
Every man has things which he personally likes and esteems. The scent of sweet flowers is what most people like, yet by the sea there are peoples who like things that stink. Some passages of music delight most people, yet in the works of the philosopher Mo Ti there is an essay saying that we should do away with music. How can there be uniformity?
I am sending you a collection of poems which I wrote when I was younger—"In the speech of the streets and the chatter of the lane ways there must be things worth collecting. Among the songs sung to the bumping of a cart, there are ones as good as some in the Book of Songs, for the longings of the common people are not easily belittled and cast aside. "
But writing poetry is a petty occupation; it isn't important enough for one to show great righteousness thereby, and thus to be known to future generations. Your ancestor Yang Tzu-yun also wrote that "a brave man would not write poetry." I have little power but I am ranked among the aristocracy and I still hope to exert all my efforts for the state, to direct a stream of kindness to the people; to set up everlasting achievements, and to have a flooding succession of exploits recorded on metal or stone. But how could I consider brush and ink as glory or writing poems and panegyrics as lordliness? Only if my ambitions do not bear fruit and my would-be way of life is untravelled shall I study the records of historians and discourse on the mutability of times and customs. I would then define the principles of goodness and righteousness and perfect the teaching of one school of philosophy. Even if I could not become a sage I should pass my thoughts on to those of similar tastes. But this requires a white head, so how can I talk about today?
The reply to this letter was couched in excessively flattering terms, but shows clearly the high esteem in which Ts'ao Chih was held by the best writers of the day. Some of these men in fact suffered as a result of their liking for and loyalty to Ts'ao Chih in intrigues which took place soon after these letters were written. Yang Hsiu replied:
You have grown up to fill a noble and prosperous position; in your person you have the stuff of the worthies of the past, and you have absorbed the teaching of the sages. But those who look to you from far and near say only that you have the ability to display and evoke the most excellent moral power, and to be of striking assistance to the Empire-that is all. They do not say that you have the further ability to collect and peruse the transmitted records and devote all thoughts to literature….
I think you excel all the masters of the day, for those who look at your writings tremble at the sight and rub their eyes, and those who hear them bow their heads and listen attentively. If you are not "thorough by character and penetrating by disposition" so as to "understand things intuitively," which of them reaches that point? Moreover, I once·saw you when you were holding your tablet and gripping your brush, about to write something. It was as if you had recited it in your mind and simply borrowed a book to jot it down. Never for a moment did you even slightly check your thoughts and ponder. "Confucius is the sun and the moon; there is nothing higher than they"—and the way I look up to you is truly like that.
You cannot forget how splendid it would be to direct the state, to send a stream of flourishing fame on for a thousand years and to have your achievements engraved on the bronze bells and your name written on bamboo and silk in the historical records. These are things which have been cherished by you in your plans—but how can there be any conflict between this and the writing of literature?
This high opinion of Ts'ao Chih's literary ability was shared by those who had known him since he was a boy. He had shown an interest in literature from his earliest years and had one of those phenomenal memories possessed by many of the great figures in Chinese literature; for example, at the age of about ten he already knew by heart "several tens of thousands" of words of the classics and poetry.
He won favor with his father, Ts'ao Ts'ao, because of his literary excellence. In 212, when Ts'ao Ts'ao read some of his writings, he thought them so good that he could scarcely believe that Ts'ao Chih had written them himself. True to his suspicious nature, he asked whether Ts'ao Chih had "borrowed" them from someone else. Ts'ao Chih, understandably nervous of his violent father, knelt before him and asked for a chance to prove that he was not a plagiarist. He said: "As my words emerge they take literary form, and whenever I wield my brush I make polished pieces! I should like to be examined here and now, when there is no chance for me to 'borrow' from someone else."
Ts'ao Ts'ao agreed and led a number of his sons—of whom he had 25—up on to a terrace overlooking the city of Yeh, the capital of Ts'ao Ts'ao's state. Ts'ao Chih took up his brush and quickly completed a prose poem which ran:
Following the Bright Ruler we roamed happily
And climbed the lookout terrace to find diversion.
We saw the broad approaches to the great buildings
And gazed on those things his sage power had built.
He set up those lofty gates like mountain ranges
And those twin towers floating in the sky.
He built this flowery terrace in mid-air
With its soaring pavilions by the Western wall.
We looked down the long sweep of the Chang waters
And saw the profusion of fruit trees in the gardens.
Around us the pleasant serenity of the spring wind-
And we heard the cries of a hundred birds.
The clouds in the sky stood still around his buildings.
When his house wish to get something
They get their wish.
He displays his influence for good in the universe
And is complete in his calm respect to the capital.
Only the Sage Kings Huan and Wen are considered to have been "prosperous"
But how are they worthy to compare with his Sage Brightness!
Fortunate! Lovely!
His kindness and favor are shown far and wide.
He helped our Imperial House and pacified the Four Regions.
He is equal in magnitude to Heaven and Earth.
He shines as brightly as the Sun and Moon.
May he ever have rewards and honors without limit;
May he match in longevity the immortal King of the East.
This was not a very good poem, but it was mainly designed to appeal to Ts'ao Ts'ao, who did in fact admire it greatly. Ts'ao Ts'ao was particularly susceptible to flattery along these lines, for he had done a great deal of building to improve and beautify his city of Yeh. Palaces and lookout pavilions had been built, orchards and woods planted, and a stream diverted to run partly around the city and then into it. This diversion was not purely for artistic purposes; in those tempestuous times Ts'ao Ts'ao fully appreciated that a properly located river not only added to a city's defenses by serving as a moat, but also provided a water supply in case of siege. Ts'ao Ts'ao also had the river dammed to form a lake on which he trained an amphibious force for use against his rivals.
The custom of holding poetry-writing competitions, such as that conducted by Ts'ao Ts'ao among his sons this time, was quite common at the court and in private households. In Ts'ao Chih's works there are many references to occasions on which he and his friends all wrote poems on one topic and criticized them genially and sometimes drunkenly. (The custom persists in some parts of East Asia today, but seems to be rapidly dying out. Older men are nostalgic as they recall picnics and "moonviewing" expeditions on which they reveled and wrote verses. In some places one sees pavilions overlooking splendid views, or artificial hillocks in parks made for such excursions. And in towns and villages one can still have occasional amusing evenings with the elders, exchanging Confucian tags over cups of rice wine; the penalty-or reward-for inability to cap a quotation is to drain another cup).
An important result of the Ts'ao family poetry competition in 212, apart from its gaining favor for Ts'ao Chih, was that it established him as a better poet than any of his brothers. This must have been particularly irksome to one of them, Ts'ao P'i, who was a fair poet himself, proud of his poetic ability, and five years older than Ts'ao Chih. The rivalry between these two brothers was to become more intense as the years went by, to reach a climax in a struggle to become Ts'ao Ts'ao's heir (and thus the effective ruler of much of China), and to end only with Ts'ao P'i's death. Before he died, Ts'ao P'i usurped the imperial throne of China from the Han dynasty, and by his implacable dislike of Ts'ao Chih effectively frustrated the latter's ambitions to win a reputation by serving the state in any real capacity.
It is not quite clear when the rivalry began. One story has it that there was already some bitterness between them some eight years before the poetry-writing contest, as a result of a dispute over a woman.
In 204 Ts'ao Ts'ao had defeated and killed some very persistent opponents—from the Yuan family—in the north, and had given the wife of one of them to Ts'ao P'i as a concubine. She was at first his favorite and became the mother of a later emperor. However, the story goes that Ts'ao Chih fell in love with her at the time of the defeat of the Yuan family and was resentful when she was given to his elder brother. He is said to have remained in love with her always and his most famous poem is popularly believed to have been written about her after her death.
This is a splendidly romantic story, and it is a pity to cast any doubt on it. But at the time the girl was given to Ts'ao P'i she was 23. (Ts'ao P'i was 18) Ts'ao Chih was then 13, so that she was 10 years older than he. Although it is possible that in his impressionable adolescence he might have fallen in love with her, it seems unlikely that it would have been very lasting love. However, Ts'ao Chih was undoubtedly precocious, affectionate and emotional and there may be something in this story of enduring love.
The woman concerned lost favor with Ts'ao P'i as she grew older. When she died in 221, she was 40 and Ts'ao P'i 35. She had grown sad and lonely over the last few years of her life and some stories aver that Ts'ao P'i had her killed. Ts'ao Chih's most famous poem, "The Spirit of the Lo River," was written in 221-222, and may in fact have been partly inspired by her death, which coincided with his loss of other hopes of success. In this poem Ts'ao Chih describes his meeting with and parting forever from the spirit of a woman he might have loved.
At the time Ts'ao Chih was still a young man of 30; the poem differed from those written in his later years in that Ts'ao Chih himself remained on earth while his beloved spirit was lost to him. Later, Ts'ao Chih, disappointed and frustrated on earth, wrote many poems in which he wandered with the immortals in spirit realms and longed to remain there. But in "The Spirit of the Lo River," Ts'ao Chih remained definitely earthly as he cataloged the spirit's feminine charms in some detail, and described her and other spirits in words which bring to mind vividly dances and dancers one can still see today.
This poem, which is an example of Ts'ao Chih's best work, runs as follows:
Leaving the capital, returning to the East,
I passed I Chueh and climbed Huan Yuan,
Went through T'ung Gorge and up Mount Ch'ing.
As the sun sank low, I grew chariot-weary and my horses spent,
So,
Stopping by the river, I fed them where rare herbs grew
And strolled in a willow grove to gaze at the stream.
Then,
My soul was moved, my spirit troubled, and sudden thoughts ran wild!
Below me I saw nothing, but, looking across,
I saw a lovely woman on the other craggy shore.
Later
I called my coachman, told him and said
"Did you behold her? Who was she, so fair as that?
" My coachman replied:
"They say the river spirit is called Mi Fei;
Was it not she Your Highness has seen?
What was she like? I should like to hear. " I told him:
"She seemed—
To flutter like a swan alarmed—lithe as a wandering dragon,
Bright as an autumn chrysanthemum, fair as a pine in spring.
She looked like the moon half-hidden in light clouds
As if breeze-borne-like snow whirled in the streaming wind. "
Far off I beheld her—bright as the sun in morning mists;
Nearer I saw her—like a lotus glowing on green waves.
Perfect in figure, perfect in height,
Finely-formed shoulders, waist as if silk-bound,
A graceful neck, a lovely neck, its fair skin showing—
Cosmetics were needless and powder unused!
Cloudy hair set high—brows that met in long curves—
Red lips most vivid, white teeth ashine,
Bright eyes gleaming, cheeks so shapely—
Gaily beautiful, exquisite, sedate.
Calm in her movements, unhurried in person,
Mild-natured, gentle-mannered, charming in speech,
Excelling all in this empty world-a picture to see.
Her clothes were filmy and of splendid hues;
Delicate jade adorned her ears.
And gold and kingfisher pins her hair.
Her dress was all embroidered with pearls
And on her feet were "far-wandering" shoes.
Trailing her light skirt of misty silk
She surpassed the fragrant beauty of dark orchids
As she wandered on the hillside.
Then,
Quickly, happily, she roamed at her pleasure
Leaning on rainbows
And shaded by flowers.
Baring white wrists on that fairy shore
She plucked mystic plants at the torrent's edge.
My soul took delight in her pure beauty—
My wild-beating heart could not be calmed!
But lacking a matchmaker to join us in happiness
I asked the wavelets to carry my words.
Wanting my wishes to be known to her quickly
I held up my jade seals to seek to attract her—
Beauteous pledges to give to her beauty.
Alas!
Polite as the maiden renowned in the Songs
She lifted her jewels in response to my move,
Pointed down to the water and waited my words.
But I, with this firm reply in my reach,
Feared lest the spirit might yet deceive me.
I was stirred by Chiao Fu's words of farewell
And stood in two minds, disappointed yet happy.
Hiding emotions, I stilled my desire—
Thought of propriety, was cautious, held back.
Thereupon—
The Lo River Spirit was stirred and moved restlessly,
Her radiance fitful, now like day, now like night.
Her light form stood poised like a bird
Wishing to fly but not yet on the wing.
She trod underfoot the fairest of flowers
And trampled thin stems which poured forth their scent.
She gave a great cry of eternal devotion-
A sound that was desolate, passionate, long.
At this there came
A crowd of spirits, a motley throng!
She called to her comrades, cried to her friends
Who played in the torrent and o'erflew fairy isles
Gathering pearls and kingfisher plumes.
There came the two maids from the Southern Hsiang
Hand in hand with the girl who roams the Han shore.
They lamented her "bitter fruit" as she "had no mate"
And sang of the Herdboy star dwelling alone.
They swung their soft jackets, gently, voluptuously,
Making fans of gay sleeves, with slow moves and pauses.
Then their mood quickened—like wild geese flying,
Borne on the breeze, of a sudden like sprites!
Lightly they walked over hillocks and ripples
Their gauzy silk slippers stirring the dust.
Their movements kept changing, sometimes stiff, sometimes fluid,
As they drew nearer or stopped without any fixed plan—
Retreating, returning, alert eyes full of meaning
Shining and elegant, an exquisite sight.
Restrained in voice, fragrant as flowers—
Their beauty enchanted me. I forgot I was hungry.
Then,
The Rainmaster stilled the wind, the River Queen calmed the waves,
The Count of the River drummed, and clearly sang Nu Wa.
There came prancing hooves and an awesome chariot
Ringing jade phoenix bells, to take her to the dead.
Six fearsome dragons, their heads in line,
Bore on high the graceful cloud chariot—
Huge fishes leapt by the wheels as it came
And water birds soared around it as guards.
Then,
As they passed across the isle to the north
And the color faded from the hills to the south
She looked back with a clear gaze
And her red lips spoke slow words
About the great net of our intermeshed lives:
"How sad that men's and spirits' ways must differ—
I grieve that our flourishing years did not match! "
She raised a gauze sleeve to brush away tears
Which wet the flowing folds of her coat.
"My soul is wounded-such happy meetings are not for me.
I mourn that once parted we shall live apart.
My feelings are strong—I give you my love
And give you too these bright rings from Chiangnan.
Although I go to live in deepest shade
My thoughts will dwell on my lord and prince.
Suddenly I no longer see where I go—
Sad at heart I rise, and my light grows dim."
At this,
Turning her back on all below she rose out of sight.
Her footprints faded-but her soul remained
After she went to the spirits' resting place.
Left to my feelings, I remembered her form
And gazed all round with a mournful heart
Hoping the spirit body would again take shape.
I took a small boat and went upstream;
Moving slow on the long river I forgot to turn back.
Full of tortuous thoughts ever more tangled.
My mind in turmoil, at night I could not sleep.
When dawn came coated in heavy frost,
I ordered my coachman to make ready the chariot
And prepared to return to the road to the East.
I took up the reins and grasped the whip—
But sad and irresolute, I could not leave.