by Цао Сюэцинь
them all revive.
This morn my spirits still rise high, as the buds burst in bloom
bedecked with frost.
Now that it's cool, a thousand stanzas on the autumn scenery I sing.
In ecstasies from drink, I toast their blossom in a cup of cold, and
fragrant wine.
With spring water. I sprinkle them, cover the roots with mould and
well tend them,
So that they may, like the path near the well, be free of every grain
of dirt.
"Facing the chrysanthemums," by the "Old friend of the Hall reclining on the russet clouds."
From other gardens I transplant them, and I treasure them like gold.
One cluster bears light-coloured bloom; another bears dark shades.
I sit with head uncovered by the sparse-leaved artemesia hedge,
And in their pure and cool fragrance, clasping my knees, I hum my
lays.
In the whole world, methinks, none see the light as peerless as these
flowers.
From all I see you have no other friend more intimate than me.
Such autumn splendour, I must not misuse, as steadily it fleets.
My gaze I fix on you as I am fain each moment to enjoy!
"Putting chrysanthemums in vases," by the "Old Friend of the hall reclining on the russet clouds."
The lute I thrum, and quaff my wine, joyful at heart that ye are meet
to be my mates.
The various tables, on which ye are laid, adorn with beauteous grace
this quiet nook.
The fragrant dew, next to the spot I sit, is far apart from that by
the three paths.
I fling my book aside and turn my gaze upon a twig full of your autumn
(bloom).
What time the frost is pure, a new dream steals o'er me, as by the
paper screen I rest.
When cold holdeth the park, and the sun's rays do slant, I long and
yearn for you, old friends.
I too differ from others in this world, for my own tastes resemble
those of yours.
The vernal winds do not hinder the peach tree and the pear from
bursting forth in bloom.
"Singing chrysanthemums," by the "Hsiao Hsiang consort."
Eating the bread of idleness, the frenzy of poetry creeps over me both
night and day.
Round past the hedge I wend, and, leaning on the rock, I intone verses
gently to myself.
From the point of my pencil emanate lines of recondite grace, so near
the frost I write.
Some scent I hold by the side of my mouth, and, turning to the moon, I
sing my sentiments.
With self-pitying lines pages I fill, so as utterance to give to all
my cares and woes.
From these few scanty words, who could fathom the secrets of my heart
about the autumntide?
Beginning from the time when T'ao, the magistrate, did criticise the
beauty of your bloom,
Yea, from that date remote up to this very day, your high renown has
ever been extolled.
"Drawing chrysanthemums," by the "Princess of Heng Wu."
Verses I've had enough, so with my pens I play; with no idea that I am
mad.
Do I make use of pigments red or green as to involve a task of
toilsome work?
To form clusters of leaves, I sprinkle simply here and there a
thousand specks of ink.
And when I've drawn the semblance of the flowers, some spots I make to
represent the frost.
The light and dark so life-like harmonise with the figure of those
there in the wind,
That when I've done tracing their autumn growth, a fragrant smell
issues under my wrist.
Do you not mark how they resemble those, by the east hedge, which you
leisurely pluck?
Upon the screens their image I affix to solace me for those of the
ninth moon.
"Asking the chrysanthemums," by the "Hsiao Hsiang consort."
Your heart, in autumn, I would like to read, but know it no one could!
While humming with my arms behind my back, on the east hedge I rap.
So peerless and unique are ye that who is meet with you to stay?
Why are you of all flowers the only ones to burst the last in bloom?
Why in such silence plunge the garden dew and the frost in the hall?
When wild geese homeward fly and crickets sicken, do you think of me?
Do not tell me that in the world none of you grow with power of
speech?
But if ye fathom what I say, why not converse with me a while?
"Pinning the chrysanthemums in the hair," by the "Visitor under the banana trees."
I put some in a vase, and plant some by the hedge, so day by day I
have ample to do.
I pluck them, yet don't fancy they are meant for girls to pin before
the glass in their coiffure.
My mania for these flowers is just as keen as was that of the squire,
who once lived in Ch'ang An.
I rave as much for them as raved Mr. P'eng Tse, when he was under the
effects of wine.
Cold is the short hair on his temples and moistened with dew, which on
it dripped from the three paths.
His flaxen turban is suffused with the sweet fragrance of the autumn
frost in the ninth moon.
That strong weakness of mine to pin them in my hair is viewed with
sneers by my contemporaries.
They clap their hands, but they are free to laugh at me by the
roadside as much us e'er they list.
"The shadow of the chrysanthemums," by the "Old Friend of the hall reclining on the russet clouds."
In layers upon layers their autumn splendour grows and e'er thick and
thicker.
I make off furtively, and stealthily transplant them from the three
crossways.
The distant lamp, inside the window-frame, depicts their shade both
far and near.
The hedge riddles the moon's rays, like unto a sieve, but the flowers
stop the holes.
As their reflection cold and fragrant tarries here, their soul must
too abide.
The dew-dry spot beneath the flowers is so like them that what is said
of dreams is trash.
Their precious shadows, full of subtle scent, are trodden down to
pieces here and there.
Could any one with eyes half closed from drinking, not mistake the
shadow for the flowers.
"Dreaming of chrysanthemums," by the "Hsiao Hsiang consort."
What vivid dreams arise as I dose by the hedge amidst those autumn
scenes!
Whether clouds bear me company or the moon be my mate, I can't
discern.
In fairyland I soar, not that I would become a butterfly like Chang.
So long I for my old friend T'ao, the magistrate, that I again seek
him.
In a sound sleep I fell; but so soon as the wild geese cried, they
broke my rest.
The chirp of the cicadas gave me such a start that I bear them a
grudge.
My secret wrongs to whom can I go and divulge, when I wake up from
sleep?
The faded flowers and the cold mist make my feelings of anguish know
no bounds.
"Fading of the chrysanthemums," by the "Visitor under the banana trees."
The dew congeals; the frost waxes in weight; and gradually dwindles
their bloom.
After the feast, with the flower s
how, follows the season of the
'little snow.'
The stalks retain still some redundant smell, but the flowers' golden
tinge is faint.
The stems do not bear sign of even one whole leaf; their verdure is
all past.
Naught but the chirp of crickets strikes my ear, while the moon shines
on half my bed.
Near the cold clouds, distant a thousand li, a flock of wild geese
slowly fly.
When autumn breaks again next year, I feel certain that we will meet
once more.
We part, but only for a time, so don't let us indulge in anxious
thoughts.
Each stanza they read they praised; and they heaped upon each other incessant eulogiums.
"Let me now criticise them; I'll do so with all fairness!" Li Wan smiled. "As I glance over the page," she said, "I find that each of you has some distinct admirable sentiments; but in order to be impartial in my criticism to-day, I must concede the first place to: 'Singing the chrysanthemums;' the second to: 'Asking the chrysanthemums;' and the third to: 'Dreaming of chrysanthemums.' The original nature of the themes makes the verses full of originality, and their conception still more original. But we must allow to the 'Hsiao Hsiang consort' the credit of being the best; next in order following: 'Pinning chrysanthemums in the hair,' 'Facing the chrysanthemums,' 'Putting the chrysanthemums, in vases,' 'Drawing the chrysanthemums,' and 'Longing for chrysanthemums,' as second best."
This decision filled Pao-yue with intense gratification. Clapping his hands, "Quite right! it's most just," he shouted.
"My verses are worth nothing!" Tai-yue remarked. "Their fault, after all, is that they are a little too minutely subtile."
"They are subtile but good," Li Wan rejoined; "for there's no artificialness or stiffness about them."
"According to my views," Tai-yue observed, "the best line is:
"'When cold holdeth the park and the sun's rays do slant, I long and
yearn for you, old friends.'
"The metonomy:
"'I fling my book aside and turn my gaze upon a twig of autumn.'
is already admirable! She has dealt so exhaustively with 'putting chrysanthemums in a vase' that she has left nothing unsaid that could be said, and has had in consequence to turn her thought back and consider the time anterior to their being plucked and placed in vases. Her sentiments are profound!"
"What you say is certainly so," explained Li Wan smiling; "but that line of yours:
"'Some scent I hold by the side of my mouth,....'
"beats that."
"After all," said T'an Ch'un, "we must admit that there's depth of thought in those of the 'Princess of Heng Wu' with:
"'...in autumn all trace of you is gone;'
"and
"'...my dreams then know something of you!'
"They really make the meaning implied by the words 'long for' stand out clearly."
"Those passages of yours:
"'Cold is the short hair on his temples and moistened....'
"and
"'His flaxen turban is suffused with the sweet fragrance....;'"
laughingly observed Puo-ch'ai, "likewise bring out the idea of 'pinning the chrysanthemums in the hair' so thoroughly that one couldn't get a loop hole for fault-finding."
Hsiang-yuen then smiled.
"'...who is meet with you to stay'"
she said, "and
"'...burst the last in bloom.'
"are questions so straight to the point set to the chrysanthemums, that they are quite at a loss what answer to give."
"Were what you say:
"'I sit with head uncovered....'
"and
"'...clasping my knees, I hum my lays....'
"as if you couldn't, in fact, tear yourself away for even a moment from them," Li Wan laughed, "to come to the knowledge of the chrysanthemums, why, they would certainly be sick and tired of you."
This joke made every one laugh.
"I'm last again!" smiled Pao-yue. "Is it likely that:
"'Who plants the flowers?....
...in autumn where do they go?
With sandals waxed I come from distant shores;....
...and as on this cold day I can't exhaust my song;....'
"do not all forsooth amount to searching for chrysanthemums? And that
"'Last night they got a shower....
And this morn ... bedecked with frost,'
"don't both bear on planting them? But unfortunately they can't come up to these lines:
"'Some scent I hold by the side of my mouth and turning to the moon I
sing my sentiments.'
'In their pure and cool fragrance, clasping my knees I hum my lays.'
'...short hair on his temples....'
'His flaxen turban....
...golden tinge is faint.
...verdure is all past.
...in autumn ... all trace of you is gone.
...my dreams then know something of you.'
"But to-morrow," he proceeded, "if I have got nothing to do, I'll write twelve stanzas my self."
"Yours are also good," Li Wan pursued, "the only thing is that they aren't as full of original conception as those other lines, that's all."
But after a few further criticisms, they asked for some more warm crabs; and, helping themselves, as soon as they were brought, from the large circular table, they regaled themselves for a time.
"With the crabs to-day in one's hand and the olea before one's eyes, one cannot help inditing verses," Pao-yue smiled. "I've already thought of a few; but will any of you again have the pluck to devise any?"
With this challenge, he there and then hastily washed his hands and picking up a pen he wrote out what, his companions found on perusal, to run in this strain:
When in my hands I clasp a crab what most enchants my heart is the
cassia's cool shade.
While I pour vinegar and ground ginger, I feel from joy as if I would
go mad.
With so much gluttony the prince's grandson eats his crabs that he
should have some wine.
The side-walking young gentleman has no intestines in his frame at
all.
I lose sight in my greediness that in my stomach cold accumulates.
To my fingers a strong smell doth adhere and though I wash them yet
the smell clings fast.
The main secret of this is that men in this world make much of food.
The P'o Spirit has laughed at them that all their lives they only seek
to eat.
"I could readily compose a hundred stanzas with such verses in no time," Tai-yue observed with a sarcastic smile.
"Your mental energies are now long ago exhausted," Pao-yue rejoined laughingly, "and instead of confessing your inability to devise any, you still go on heaping invective upon people!"
Tai-yue, upon catching this insinuation, made no reply of any kind; but slightly raising her head she hummed something to herself for a while, and then taking up a pen she completed a whole stanza with a few dashes.
The company then read her lines. They consisted of-
E'en after death, their armour and their lengthy spears are never cast
away.
So nice they look, piled in the plate, that first to taste them I'd
fain be.
In every pair of legs they have, the crabs are full of tender
jade-like meat.
Each piece of ruddy fat, which in their shell bumps up, emits a
fragrant smell.
Besides much meat, they have a greater relish for me still, eight feet
as well.
Who bids me drink a thousand cups of wine in order to enhance my joy?
What time I can behold their luscious food, with the fine season doth
accord
When cassias wave with fragrance pure, and the chrysanthemums are
decked with frost.
Pao-yue had just finished conning it over and was beginning to sing its praise, when Tai-yue, with one snatch, tore it to pieces and bade a servant go and burn it.
"As my compositions can't come up to yours," she then observed, "I'll burn it. Yours is capital, much better than the lines you wrote a little time back on the chrysanthemums, so keep it for the benefit of others."
"I've likewise succeeded, after much effort, in putting together a stanza," Pao-ch'ai laughingly remarked. "It cannot, of course, be worth much, but I'll put it down for fun's sake."
As she spoke, she too wrote down her lines. When they came to look at them, they read-
On this bright beauteous day, I bask in the dryandra shade, with a cup
in my hand.
When I was at Ch'ang An, with drivelling mouth, I longed for the ninth
day of the ninth moon.
The road stretches before their very eyes, but they can't tell between
straight and transverse.
Under their shells in spring and autumn only reigns a vacuum, yellow
and black.
At this point, they felt unable to refrain from shouting: "Excellent!" "She abuses in fine style!" Pao-yue shouted. "But my lines should also be committed to the flames."
The company thereupon scanned the remainder of the stanza, which was couched in this wise:
When all the stock of wine is gone, chrysanthemums then use to scour
away the smell.
So as to counteract their properties of gath'ring cold, fresh ginger
you should take.
Alas! now that they have been dropped into the boiling pot, what good
do they derive?
About the moonlit river banks there but remains the fragrant aroma of
corn.
At the close of their perusal, they with one voice, explained that this was a first-rate song on crab-eating; that minor themes of this kind should really conceal lofty thoughts, before they could be held to be of any great merit, and that the only thing was that it chaffed people rather too virulently.
But while they were engaged in conversation, P'ing Erh was again seen coming into the garden. What she wanted is not, however, yet known; so, reader, peruse the details given in the subsequent chapter.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
The tongue of the village old dame finds as free vent as a river that
has broken its banks.
The affectionate cousin makes up his mind to sift to the very bottom
the story told by old goody Liu.
Upon seeing, the story explains, P'ing Erh arrive, they unanimously inquired, "What is your mistress up to? How is it she hasn't come?"
