SOURCE: Hu, Pin-Ching. “The Works of Li Ch'ing-chao.” In Li Ch'ing-chao, pp. 41-77. New York: Twayne Publishers, Inc., 1966.

[In the following excerpt, Hu characterizes Li Ch'ing-chao as a purely lyrical and aesthetic poet, showing how her love of nature, her profound sensibility, her love for her husband, and her desire to be free and natural inform her poetry. Hu also describes the poet's critical views, her use of language, and the major themes in her work.]

I LI CH'ING-CHAO AS A LYRIC POET

A great poet should have three fundamental qualities: sensibility, ideals, and creative power. Without sensibility, a poet would not be able to endow his works with life. Without lofty ideals, a poet would not be able to endow his works with a transcendental character. Without creative power, a poet would not be a real poet but only an imitator of his forerunners or contemporaries. Under the Sung, when few poets possessed these qualities, Li Ch'ing-chao was one who did. It is universally accepted that Li Ch'ing-chao is China's greatest poetess. Her delicate sensibility, her keen observation, her profound love of nature, her clear and simple language, her original imagery and expression, and, above all, her rich experience in life made her worthy of this title.

In order to appreciate her works, we must first understand her as a woman. A many-sided genius, she was not only a great tz'u composer but also an excellent prose writer, musician, and painter. Ch'en tzu-liang of the Ming dynasty had a painting by her illustrating the Tang poet Po Chu-i's famous poem entitled The Song of the Guitar, and Mo Yen-han owned one of her paintings of bamboo. Nevertheless, her genius and erudition did not deprive her of femininity. She remained a woman: she was elegant and coquettish; she sang bewitchingly; she played various musical instruments. In short, she was an accomplished lady.

In ancient China, where most women lived in seclusion and were by tradition kept in ignorance, Li Ch'ing-chao had the good fortune to live as a free human being. She came from a bourgeois family and was given an education just as though she were a boy. She had a happy childhood. Her marriage was a successful one; she loved her husband dearly and lived with him in perfect harmony and equality. Her experiences in life were abundant. She knew the tenderness of love, the sadness of separation; experienced the miseries of war; traveled far and wide; and was condemned to loneliness and wandering in her old age. She felt deeply and lived intensely, and emotion occupies, therefore, an important place in her tz'u. She delivered no message, developed no theory, and was not interested in moralizing. Her works contain neither philosophical abstractions nor social-minded concepts. She was by nature romantic and artistic. In spite of her erudition, she was neither a scholar nor a philosopher. She was simply a poet, purely lyric and esthetic. Every line of her poetry revealed the quivering of a delicate feminine soul.

The three dominant traits of Li Ch'ing-chao's character were a deep love of nature, a profound sensibility, and a strong desire to be free and natural. In ancient Sung China, where women with bound feet were confined to the inner rooms, Li Ch'ing-chao lived in complete freedom. She loved the green earth with its infinite beauty; she listened to the melodious chirping of birds among the trees; she watched with delight the sinking sun, the gathering clouds, and the intricate process of the blooming of flowers in her garden. As her home city was one of lakes, willows, and lotus, she sailed alone or in the company of others to enjoy the natural scenery. She liked sports. She used to play on the swings until her silk robe was soaked with perspiration. When she was in Nanking, on snowy days, clad in a palm-leaf cloak and wearing a bamboo-plaited hat, she sometimes walked as far as the suburbs in search of inspiration. Because of this profound love of nature, she wrote exquisite verse about mountains and lakes, birds and flowers, and the ever-changing scene of the passing seasons and natural phenomena. The following poem about red plum flowers shows the extent to which Li Ch'ing-chao was a friend of the flowers:

“MODELED ON THE FISHERMAN'S PRIDE”

In the snow, I already know spring's message,
The jade boughs of the plum tree being adorned
                    with delicate blossoms.
Half-open, their scented face is full of charm.
In the middle of the garden,
They look like beauties just coming out of a bath.
On purpose, the Creator made the moon shine
Bright as a precious stone.
Newly-brewed wine in goblets of gold;
Let's drink and fear not tipsiness,
For tonight we celebrate an incomparable flower.

We can see from the poem above the detail in which Li Ch'ing-chao paints her favorite flower. She knows that spring is not far away since the plum tree, herald of the wondrous season, is in bloom. In order to show the elegance of the plum tree and its blossoms, she likens the boughs to jade, while the half-open blossoms are compared to the beautiful face of a woman whose skin is perfumed, delicate, and smooth. Moreover, the flowers are so fresh that they look like beauties just coming out of a bath. As moonlight enhances the beauty of the plum flowers, Li Ch'ing-chao expresses her gratitude to the Creator for the shaft of light, which she compares to the glistening of a precious stone. She then invites her husband to drink with her to their hearts' content because she wants to celebrate the blooming of this incomparable flower, symbol of nobility.

This poem about plum flowers, purely esthetic and sensual, is representative of Chinese descriptive poetry. The Chinese poet limits his description to outward beauty without going into the depth of what he describes. In this connection, I should like to quote two stanzas by Emily Dickinson on flowers:

To pack the bud, oppose the worm,
Obtain its right of dew,
Adjust the heat, elude the wind,
Escape the prowling bee,
Great nature not to disappoint,
Awaiting her that day—
To be a flower is profound
Responsibility!

From the comparative study of these two poems, we can state that Chinese poetry is characterized by concreteness and that it excludes the domain of abstraction. The Chinese poet describes what is visible rather than what is invisible.

In former days, the only feminine wine drinkers were the courtesans who accompanied men of letters. However, wine seemed to be a favorite drink of our poetess as well, for she used beautiful words in praise of it:

Newly-brewed wine in goblets of gold.
Let not the deep cup be filled with amber-colored wine!
In tipsiness, I adorn myself with plum flowers.
Awakening from tipsiness, I prefer bitter tea.
My home town I forget not, save in tipsiness.
Two or three cups of wine resist not the rapid evening wind.
Wine is worried when sorrows are heavy.

As readers of Chinese poetry may note, the word chiu (wine) and the word tsui are often associated with the poems of such great wine lovers as Li Po and T'ao Ch'ien. The word tsui is usually translated as “drunk,” but it has a slightly different meaning; it does not imply gross sensual enjoyment nor does it suggest hilarity or riotousness. It refers only to the escape through wine from the miseries of the world into oblivion, and from one's personal emotions and normal anxieties. Therefore, wherever there are references to drinking and to becoming tsui in Li Ch'ing-chao's poetry, I have translated the word tsui as “tipsiness” or as “being tipsy,” to distinguish it from the word “drunk,” which usually carries an unpleasant implication or association.

Li Ch'ing-chao drank on happy occasions:

“MODELED ON AS IN A DREAM”

Often, in the river bank pavilion, at dusk,
Drowsy with wine, we know not our way home.
At the height of bliss, homeward we sail
But our nocturnal boat penetrates by error into
                    the depth of lotus flowers.
Pushing ahead, pushing ahead,
We wake up the sea gulls and herons of the bank.

This poem shows that Li Ch'ing-chao loves outdoor life. She likes to sail and to roam about scenic places. Her experience in life forms the woof and warp of her poetry, and she does not rely upon fancy in her poems. For these reasons, her works are devoid of artificiality.

She also counts on wine to drown her sorrows:

“MODELED ON PARTRIDGES IN THE SKY”

The cool sun climbs up my window adorned with swastikas.
The plane tree should loathe last night's frost.
After tipsiness, I prefer bitter tea;
Awakening from my dream, I find incense desirable.
Autumn is gone, still lengthy is the day.
Like Wang Ts'an I am homesick.
'Tis better to get tipsy as usual
And enjoy the yellow chrysanthemums near the east hedge.

In ancient China, window frames and balustrades were usually adorned with swastikas. It is late autumn. The plane tree in Li Ch'ing-chao's garden is covered with frost. Even the sunbeams climbing up the window seem cool. Autumn, season of frost, desolation, and blight! All the rich luxuriance of green is changed, all the flowers swept down to earth. Autumn is the season that arouses cares and sorrows, stirs memories, and causes homesickness. Kept from slumber by the melancholy of autumn, our poetess prefers drinking away her sorrow in the company of chrysanthemums, the only flower that blooms in defiance of frost and storm.

In China, chrysanthemums are highly esteemed by men of letters because they are symbols of pride, solitude, and fortitude. In autumn, when the flowers are faded and gone, chrysanthemums alone bloom in spite of cold weather. Consequently, they are considered to have the qualities required of men of letters and particularly of poets: solitude, nobility of soul, and distinction. For this reason, Li Ch'ing-chao admired this noble flower and wrote prolifically about it.

In another poem, she complains that a sound sleep did not dissipate the effect of wine:

“MODELED ON AS IN A DREAM”

Last night, the rain was light, the wind sudden.
A heavy slumber did not dissipate my tipsiness.
I ask the one who rolls up the screen how the begonias are.
She says they are as of yore.
“Know you not? Know you not?
“Tis time when green should be fat and the red thin.”

This tz'u is comprised of only thirty-three words. Despite its conciseness, it attains perfection from every point of view. Metrically speaking, the poem is harmonious and strictly conforms to rules governing the arrangement of tones. And the poem itself is such a vivid picture that it produces a dramatic effect. The first line denotes time: a late spring with fine rain and sudden wind. During the night, after drinking, our poetess fell into a profound sleep. Awakening in the morning, she still remembers last night's wind and rain, which must have spoiled the begonias. Being a great lover of flowers, she is worried about the begonias and asks her maidservant about them. The maid, quite indifferent to their fate, answers absent-mindedly that they are just the same. Then the poetess becomes impatient and emphatically replies, “Don't you know that the wind must have ruined the flowers, while the rain fattened the leaves?” But instead of using the words “leaves” and “flowers,” she uses the adjectives “green” and “red,” just as she employs the word “thin” to denote the withered flowers, and the word “fat” to denote the glistening leaves washed by the rain.

As has already been mentioned, there existed between the poetess and her husband real love and perfect harmony. This constituted a rare exception in conjugal life in ancient China, where spiritual communion between husband and wife was nearly impossible. The reason was that the men, at least those of high station, were usually cultured, while the women were generally ignorant.

But Li Ch'ing-chao's marriage was different. There existed between the spouses not only a deep affection but also a continuous intellectual relationship. She was not only on an equal plane with her husband, but she even outshone him in the composition of verse. While Chao Ming-ch'eng was absent, Li Ch'ing-chao once sent him a letter containing this poem:

“MODELED ON TIPSY AMONG THE FLOWERS (THE DOUBLE NINTH FESTIVAL)”

Thin fog, heavy clouds, sad and endless is the day.
Here again is the Double Ninth Festival.
Last night, coolness first penetrated the precious
                    pillow and the muslin bed curtains.
Having drunk wine near the east hedge at dusk,
My sleeves are imbued with a discreet perfume.
Say not it is not heart-rending.
When the west wind stirs the screen,
I am as frail as the yellow chrysanthemums.

In China, the ninth moon is the season of chrysanthemums. On the ninth day of the ninth moon by the lunar calendar, poets drink wine near the east hedge, where chrysanthemums are supposed to be planted. In spite of the absence of Chao Ming-ch'eng, Li Ch'ing-chao still observes the poets' tradition of drinking in front of the chrysanthemums.

In the first line, thin fog and heavy clouds create a melancholy atmosphere. The day seems sad and endless to Li Ch'ing-chao in the absence of her husband. In the second line, the words “here again” suggest that time is fleeting, even though the day seems interminable. In the third line, we note that the weather has changed. Coolness has set in with the Double Ninth Festival, and our poetess feels cold in body and soul. The last two lines are the best. Though simple in appearance, they reach an unusually elevated realm of pathetic beauty.

Chao Ming-ch'eng admired this tz'u so much that he shut himself up for three days and refused either to receive guests or to attend to official business in order to compose some fifteen poems with a view to competing with his wife. He then mixed his own poems with the one she had sent him and showed them to his friend Lu Te-fu in order to ask his opinion. After having read them carefully, Chao's friend declared that there were only two good lines. When he eagerly asked him what they were, his friend replied: “When the west wind stirs the screen, / I am as frail as the yellow chrysanthemums.”

Fortunately, Chao Ming-ch'eng was not an egoist, and the knowledge of his being a minor poet did not mar the harmony between the spouses. When they were together, Li Ch'ing-chao wrote delicate and tender verses in praise of love:

“MODELED ON PLUCKING THE MULBERRIES”

In the evening, a puff of wind mingled with rain
Washed away the heat of the day.
Having stopped playing on the sheng and huang,(1)
Slightly, slightly, I paint my cheeks in front of the mirror.
Through the thin red silk appears my skin,
White as jade, pure as snow, smooth and perfumed.
Smiling, I say to my beloved:
Tonight, the muslin bed curtains, the mat and the pillows will be cool.

Li Ch'ing-chao wrote this poem shortly after her marriage. It was one of the happiest moments in her life. She was in the flower of youth. The roses of her cheeks blushed bright, and her rounded arms were dazzling white. She was newly wed, tender, and affectionate. Can anything reveal better a young bride's tender heart than the line, “Tonight, the muslin bed curtains, the mat and pillows will be cool”?

The whole poem centers in summer. The air has been sticky and stifling. Quite unexpectedly, a puff of wind mingled with rain washes away the day's heat and heralds a cool night. After she has finished playing the musical instrument, she busies herself with make-up in front of her mirror, which reflects her rosy cheeks, cherry lips, and white skin. The poem comes to a climax when, coquettishly smiling, she whispers to her husband that the pillows and mat will be cool when night sets in, suggesting that it will be an ideal night for lovers.

But happiness never lasts. Shortly after her marriage, Chao Ming-ch'eng, who was still a young student, had to absent himself frequently from home. His bride pined for him within the inner chamber. Deeply grieved by his absence, Li Ch'ing-chao wrote touching verses:

“MODELED ON NOSTALGIA OF THE FLUTE IN THE PHOENIX PAVILION”

Incense is chilled in the lion-shaped gold burner.
My coverlet unfurls its red waves.
Though up from my couch, I am too weary to comb my hair.
Let the dust cover my precious coiffure,
And the sun climb up the hooks of my bed curtains.
I most fear the bitter sorrow of separation.
So much to tell, yet I keep silent.
I have become more slender of late,
Neither on account of being ill with drinking,
Nor due to the melancholy of autumn.
Finished, finished!
This time he is gone.
Farewell songs repeated a thousand times did not keep him
                    from parting.
My thoughts are with him in Wuling,
My pavilion of Ch'in is sealed by fog.
Only the flowing water in front of the pavilion
Knows that my eyes are fixed thereupon all day long.
Where there are my strained eyes,
There is a newborn chagrin.

This tz'u also belongs to the cycle of separation. Alone, she lies in her inner chamber. Awakened from slumber, up from her couch, she feels the same weariness: she does not wipe the dust covering her dressing table; she dallies in bed and gets up late when the sun is already high. She avoids speaking of her husband so as not to increase the sorrow of separation. She finds that she has lost weight, neither because of being ill from drinking, nor because of the melancholy season of autumn, but because of her husband's absence. He is far away in Wuling—an ancient geographic name denoting South China. (The geographic names “Wuling” and “Ch'in” are only symbolic; they do not really mean that Chao Ming-ch'eng is in Wuling while Li Ch'ing-chao is in Shensi, but only suggest that the lovers are separated by a long distance.) She is in her pavilion in the north. What can she do but strive to pierce with strained eyes the distance between them?

The poems devoted to the theme of separation are moving and pathetic, but they are illumined with hope. But those written in her widowhood represent the mournful cries of an agonized soul:

“MODELED ON STROLLING IN THE ROYAL STREET”

In the morning I get up from my wicker bed covered
                    with paper curtains.
To tell my chagrin, words suffice not,
Good ideas are wanting.
The scent of sandalwood is gone, the jade burner chilled
To harmonize with my heart cold as water,
Three notes break from a lute,
Waking up the plum flowers.
What a springtime atmosphere!
The whispering breeze, the pattering rain
Force a thousand lines of tears from my eyes.
The flutist is gone, the jade pavilion empty.
I pluck a branch of flowers,
No one to send them to,
Neither on earth nor in heaven.

This is really a widow's poem, for “wicker” bed and “paper” curtains form a sharp contrast with the “precious” pillows and “jade” mat she used to mention. Of course, such words as “wicker” and “paper” should not be taken literally as meaning that her bed is made of wicker and that her bed curtains are made of paper. In Chinese poetry, adjectives have symbolic value. In her happy days, she used the word “emerald” to qualify screen and the word “orchid” to modify boat. Candles and halls were “painted,” goblets were “of gold,” balustrades were “sculptured.” These adjectives denoted not only elegance and sumptuousness but also blissfulness and gaiety. In her widowhood, she would no longer speak of phoenix hairpins nor talk about silk robes.

“The flutist is gone, the jade pavilion empty” is a line that needs explanation. Chinese poets are rarely outspoken, which is why they resort to allusion. Allusion refers to historical personages and events, legends and myths, and can be employed as an economical means of presenting a situation. Here the “flutist” refers to the son-in-law of Duke Mu of the Kingdom of Ch'in of the feudal period. He was a skilful flutist and imitated perfectly on his instrument the singing of the phoenix, the traditional sacred bird. His father-in-law therefore had a pavilion built for him called the Phoenix Pavilion. One day, while he was playing the flute in the company of his wife, he attracted a phoenix who carried them both away on its wing. In this poem, the flutist is Chao Ming-ch'eng, and the allusion is used to provide contrast. The flutist left with his wife, but Chao Ming-ch'eng left alone without taking with him the bereaved spouse.

For the poets, from Dante to Villon to T. S. Eliot, Time has always been an obsession. They are always haunted by the idea of the division of Time; past, present, and future. The Romantic poets regret the passing of blossoming youth and deplore the coming of doddering age. Modern writers such as Eliot, Proust, and Kierkegaard dream of an eternal instant, the fulness of which abolishes duration. But Chinese poets are not metaphysicians; they do not lose themselves in a labyrinth of abstraction. This too is true of Li Ch'ing-chao. She deplored the fading of spring, grieved over the coming of autumn, and was sensitive to the falling of spring petals, the withering of autumn leaves, the glimmering of the setting sun, and the rolling of Time's winged chariot:

“MODELED ON FAIRIES ON THE RIVER BANK”

Profound, profound is my courtyard, how profound?
Wrapped in clouds and fog, my windows and doors are shut.
Little by little new willows and plum blossoms appear.
Spring is back on the boughs in Mo-ling,
Old age is coming to me in the city of Chien-k'ang.
How I used to sing of moon and breeze!
Today I chant naught, aged and gray.
Who pities a withered creature?
Neither is my heart set on trying the lamp
Nor on treading snow.

As has already been mentioned, Li Ch'ing-chao formerly liked to be out-of-doors; now voluntary seclusion marks the turning point in her life. She was then in Nanking, “Chien-k'ang” and “Mo-ling” being its ancient names. It is springtime. The willows have tender leaves, the plum trees are in bloom. Spring is back once more, but her youth is gone forever. She thinks of bygone days when, young and lighthearted, she wrote many poems in praise of moon and breeze. Today, old and weary, she is indifferent to all because joy is lost at the thought that youth has slipped away and that old age is coming.

Readers of Chinese poetry must have noticed the abundance of poems on nostalgia. Chinese poets seem to be perpetually lamenting their exile and manifesting the desire to return home. This longing is not mere sentimentality, if one bears in mind the vastness of Chinese territory, the difficulties of communication in ancient times, and the importance of the family in traditional Chinese society. Therefore, it is not surprising that homesickness should become a constant theme in Chinese poetry. Like most Chinese, Li Ch'ing-chao was deeply attached to her native home. When she joined her husband in the south, she thought nostalgically of North China where, as a young maid, she enjoyed the company of feminine companions:

“MODELED ON THE ETERNAL JOY OF MEETING”

The melting gold of the sinking sun,
The gathering jade of the evening clouds.
Where is he?
Heavy fog soaking the willows,
Mournful notes of a flute playing the tune “Plum Flower,”
What a springtime atmosphere!
'Tis the Lantern Festival.
Mild is the weather.
Will there be no wind or rain at this moment?
My drinking companions and poet friends
Came with perfumed chariots and precious horses,
But I declined their invitation.
When the Empire was prosperous,
We ladies were much at leisure,
And highly valued the fifteenth day of each moon.
Wearing emerald-adorned coiffures
And gold-threaded, willowlike, snow-white belts,
We rivaled one another in elegance.
Today I am withered,
With windy hair and frost temples.
I dare not go among the flowers,
But prefer listening to others' speeches and laughter
Across my bamboo screen.

This poem begins with two brilliant images: the melting gold of the sinking sun; the gathering jade of the evening clouds. The precision of imagery, mastery of language, and keen observation merit profound admiration. This poem was probably written during Chao Ming-ch'eng's absence, since she asks, “Where is he?” It is springtime, but spring is disheartening for her; for she is far away from both her husband and her home. Her friends come to invite her out, but she finds no solace in their company; she thinks of her home, where as a young girl she enjoyed going out dressed in rich array with her friends. Today, the Central Plain has been taken by the enemy. She is lonely and in exile; her hair is gray and disheveled. Everything conspires against her. How can she, who used to rival the flowers in beauty, go among them at this moment, when she is faded and dull?

II THE ESTHETE

Li Ch'ing-chao did not establish a theory of art nor express esthetic ideas, but everything about her person and her style was esthetic: she wrote as her feelings led her to do, and her poems spoke more eloquently than any abstract essays on esthetics. She was a many-sided artist and led a very artistic life in the company of her husband. She played the lute well and she could also sing; the lines of her poetry were fluent and harmonious as a consequence. Li Ch'ing-chao was also a good painter. She had keen observation, her images were well-molded, her descriptions minute and precise, and her poems had the value of the plastic arts. As she was also an excellent phonetician, she attached great importance to the auditory effect of language in poetry. Her models were well-chosen, her tone pattern and rhyme scheme carefully studied. She took no liberty with regard to the arrangement of tones or subtones. Each of her poems, therefore, is a piece of magnificent architecture, solid and unshakable.

Let us now examine some of her poems esthetically:

“A NEW VERSION OF WASHING BROOK SAND (THE KUEI FLOWER)”

Thousands of light specks of gold,
A myriad of well-cut leaves of jade.
You have the air of Yen Fu,
How bright!
Plum blossoms seem too vulgar,
Lilacs seem too melancholy.
But your strong perfume keeps me from dreaming afar;
How cruel!

This tz'u is written in praise of the kuei flower, which probably belongs to the family of laurels. The flowers, tiny and yellow, look like specks of gold. Li Ch'ing-chao, who has a strong predilection for this flower, likens it to Yen Fu, a person of dazzling intelligence who lived during the Six Dynasty period. And the comparison is perfect. She says that the plum flowers seem vulgar and that the lilacs seem melancholy in the presence of the kuei, but she denounces it for its strong perfume, which keeps her awake and prevents her from dreaming of her husband, who is a thousand miles away. In this tz'u, the accuracy and originality of comparison, and the contrast between the kuei flower and the plum blossoms and lilacs deserve our admiration.

The following tz'u was written immediately after her marriage. She is young, with a face as fair as a flower and movements full of grace. It is a spring night. The young bride, in nocturnal array, is boating on a river covered with peach blossoms. As she is a good singer, she sings coquettishly so as to captivate her lover's heart. But the spring night is too short. Soon they have to sail homeward, and the bride gazes regretfully at the moon, which casts its rays over their boat:

“MODELED ON WAVES WASH AWAY THE SAND”

Wont am I to bind my slender waist,
Too frail to bear the melancholy of spring.
The plum flowers cast their shadows on my person in
                    nocturnal array.
Graceful, slim, what can I be likened to?
A trail of blue clouds.
While sailing on the river covered with peach blossoms,
Opening my vermilion lips, how skilfully I sing!
Every word is coquetry and charm.
My eyes turned to the sky, regretfully I gaze at the moon
Shining upon our boat of return.

From the foregoing poem, we can see how esthetically she lived, how carefully she adorned herself. When we read this poem, we can imagine a perfect picture, with the poetess herself in the foreground. The surroundings are fairylike. The spring night is in all its splendor. The moon sheds its silver rays on the river where the barge glides under an arbor of peach blossoms. The poetess, elegant, coquettish, richly arrayed, and freshly made up, opens her cherrylike lips to sing a beautiful song.

Yes, she really lived those happy moments and wove them into her poems. Consequently, the esthetic experience of Li Ch'ing-chao lies in the expression of the emotions felt and in the enjoyment of the emotions expressed in her poems. If we choose to speak in terms of modern philosophy, let us say that she has immortalized those happy moments, realized the infinite in the finite.

Another poem, simple and plain in appearance, is rich in sensibility and musicality.

“MODELED ON PLUCKING THE MULBERRIES”

I planted banana trees in front of my window.
Their shade fills up the courtyard.
Their shade fills up the courtyard.
Leaves, leaves! Hearts, hearts!
Now rolled, now unrolled, the leaves evoke the emotions
                    of human hearts.
Grieving is the midnight rain upon my pillow.
Every drop is sadness.
Every drop is sadness.
Worn by absence,
I am loath to get up to listen.

In this tz'u, Li Ch'ing-chao employs a great number of repeated words and sentences. The repeated lines, “Their shade fills up the courtyard, their shade fills up the courtyard,” are not only pleasing to the ear but also suggest the luxuriance of the foliage. The repeated words, “Leaves, leaves! Hearts, hearts!” pronounced as if in a sigh, sound beautiful and pathetic. Then the poetess likens the banana leaves to human hearts. We human beings with our joy and pain are now lighthearted, now heavyhearted, just as the banana leaves are now rolled, now unrolled. Finally, the repeated lines, “Every drop is sadness, every drop is sadness,” are an imitation of the dripping rain.

In another tz'u, Li Ch'ing-chao uses ordinary words from beginning to end. But under her touch, as if by magic, the commonplace is transmuted into wonder. Although simple in appearance, this poem is most touching:

“MODELED ON AS IN A DREAM”

Who sits by the lit window?
Two of us: my shadow and I.
At bedtime, the lamp wick being burned out,
Even my shadow forsakes me.
What to do? What to do?
Poor me!

As mentioned before, everything about Li Ch'ing-chao was esthetic. She found pleasure in adorning her hair with plum flowers; she was fond of beautiful clothes; she painted; she enjoyed singing and playing musical instruments; she took delight in contemplating the flowers and birds and in loitering about the countryside. Above all, she enjoyed weaving the color and music of her soul into her works, so that her poems are possessed of musical harmony, pictorial beauty, and architectural structure.

III THEMES

Li Ch'ing-chao was a pure lyric poet, with limited inspiration. The themes of her poetic works were built upon love: love for her husband, love for nature, love for her native home. Her love for her mate is expressed in the following:

“MODELED ON GRUDGE AGAINST THE LORD”

My dream is gone, the clepsydra is stilled.
Coolness is born on my pillow,
The emerald screen faces the dawn.
Who has swept the fallen petals out-of-doors?
Last night's wind.
The sound of the jade flute is stilled; where is he?
Spring is gone again,
How could he bear to stay away from home?
This love of mine, this grudge of mine,
Fain would I confide to the passing clouds
And the God of Spring.

Waking at daybreak, the poetess lies in solitude within her inner chamber. She has drunk wine before going to bed. When she awakens, the effect of the wine is gone, and her heavy sorrows are not submerged. There is continuous longing for her husband, but she does not tell us so directly in the first stanza; but what is merely implied is just as impressive: “Coolness is born on my pillow.” She feels cold, perhaps less physically than spiritually. In the second stanza, however, she is impatient and becomes outspoken. She asks where he is, why he puts off his date of return. She even wants to tell the passing clouds about her feelings and to ask the God of Spring why her husband lingers abroad. Her love for Chao Ming-ch'eng is profound; profound too is the resentment she bears against him because of his frequent and prolonged absence. This weight of love and grudge requires expression; that expression is art.

Nature is an inexhaustible source of joy. It not only contains woods, lakes, and hills, but also those woods, lakes, and hills take a new form by contact with the poetess, who wraps them in a cloak of human emotion and unites with them. This world which takes its form from the mold of the poetess' perception becomes a world of her senses, emotions, and mind; partial but independent, eternal and absolute:

“MODELED ON GRUDGE AGAINST THE LORD”

The wind rises, the lake ripples far and wide.
Late autumn.
Flowers are few, fragrance is scanty.
The glow of water and the color of mountains become
                    enamored of us.
To tell about their infinite charms,
Words suffice not.
Lotus seeds have ripened,
Lotus leaves are faded.
Flowers and weeds of the bank
Are soaked with dewdrops.
Sea gulls and herons of the bank turn their backs to us,
As if grudging our homeward faring.

In the following poem, it is early spring, the beginning of the wondrous season, and the poetess feels lighthearted because of the coming of the days of splendor. Nevertheless, high-spirited as she is, there is still the perpetual longing for home.

“MODELED ON BUDDHIST COIFFURE”

Gentle breeze, mild sun, early spring.
Lightly clad, lighthearted I suddenly feel.
Up from my couch, I am slightly shivery.
The plum flowers have died in my hair.
Whither is my native land?
I forget it not, save in tipsiness.
The sandalwood was burning during my slumber.
The scent is gone but the wine remains.

IV THE LANGUAGE OF THE POETESS

As has already been seen, Li Ch'ing-chao's poetry chiefly deals with the flight of time, the sadness of parting, the love for her husband, natural beauty, nostalgia, and solace in drinking. In poetry of such limited subject matter, language occupies a very important place, enabling the reader to forget the monotony of inspiration. And Li Ch'ing-chao is a master of her language. Sometimes she simply looks around and describes what she sees in very plain words, which under her magic touch become infinitely poetic:

Clouds flying to and fro, moonlight is dimned.
At dusk, fine rain soaks the swing.
The moon casts its rays athwart
And soaks the pear flowers.
A pool surrounded by verdant grass,
A courtyard covered with green shades,
The coolness of a fine evening penetrating the
                    muslin-veiled casement.

Sometimes she creates original images and invents new expressions:

A goblet of spring.
Double doors loaded with the shadows of flowers,
Grossly plaited screen spread with pale moon,
What a beauteous evening!
A thousand skeins of sorrow bind my tender heart.
The melting gold of the sinking sun,
The gathering jade of the evening clouds.

Sometimes she relies upon the repetition of words to produce musical and rhetorical effect. In a tz'u modeled on Andante, she begins with fourteen repetitive words:

Searching, searching,
Seeking, seeking,
Lonely, lonely,
Solitary, solitary,
Sad, sad,
Grieved, grieved,
Mournful, mournful.

The repeated words were employed so naturally that she has won the admiration of many critics. “The fourteen repeated words sound like large and small pearls dropping onto a jade plate,” said Hsü Hung-t'ing.

Li Ch'ing-chao's language is usually characterized by delicacy and elegance, but sometimes she also writes in a powerful style and leads us to a new world, a wider field of vision, a higher sphere of thought:

“MODELED ON THE FISHERMAN'S PRIDE”

The sky, the waves of clouds, the morning mist blended in one.
The Milky Way was shimmering, a thousand sails were dancing.
Methinks I was borne to the throne of God.
“Whither are you going?” a celestial voice asked me.
Sighing, I replied: “Long, long is the way, the day is
                    dying.”
In vain, I compose astonishing verses.
The roc-bird is soaring upon the wind for a ninety-
                    thousand-mile journey.
Stop not, O wind!
Blow my boat to fairyland.

This piece of work is powerful and visionary. The poem gives an account of a dream of the poetess and is based upon fancy and imagination. The flow of verse is as rapid as a galloping horse. In this regard, the critic Lung Mu-hsün says that Li Ch'ing-chao's poetry combines esthetic restraint with romantic abandonment.

From the examples given above, one cannot fail to see that Li Ch'ing-chao not only had great sensibility but also was able to express this quality in poetic language. With her natural gift for words, as well as acquired verbal skill, she created original images or relied upon simple language to convey effectively her feelings of bliss, idleness, or depression. The scenes and emotions she explored are universal and as old as mankind itself, but she was able to find new words to create new worlds. A poet's task is not simply to say something for the first time but also to say in a different manner what has been said a thousand times before. As Li Ch'ing-chao was a poet of limited inspiration, the literary value of her poetry lies chiefly in her great capacity to explore the possibilities of language.

V THE THINKING OF LI CH'ING-CHAO

Chinese poetry is said to have been highly influenced by the three principal oriental philosophies: Confucian morality, Taoist mysticism, and Buddhist nihilism. To Confucius, who preached humanitarianism and social harmony, who taught rites and good manners, who encouraged moderation of feeling and expression, and who distinguished good from evil, Chinese poetry owes its realistic, utilitarian, reasonable, and moral character. To Lao-tzu, the founder of Taoism, who preached quietude and non-activity, who recommended a detached attitude towards worldly vanities, and who invited us to return to nature, Chinese poetry owes its cosmic and transcendental character. According to Buddhism, life is suffering: birth, old age, illness, and death. Worldly pleasures are transient and ephemeral. Sounds, colors, scents, and tastes are merely illusions. Desire is the root of evil. Therefore, Buddhism teaches the suppression of desire in order to reach nirvana, or the extinction of the flames of life.

To these three guiding principles is added the individualist view of poetry as self-expression. Consequently, one may conclude that there are three traditional Chinese views on poetry: the didactic view attributed to Confucius, the philosophical view attributed to Taoist mysticism and Buddhist nihilism, and the individualist view, which advocates that poetry is nothing but the expression of the heart's desires, its emotions, and one's own personality.

For those who hold the didactic view, poetry is a kind of moral instruction and social comment. It should describe the suffering of the people, reflect their feeling toward the government, and expose social evil. For those with the philosophical view, poetry is the embodiment of the poet's contemplation of the world and of his own mind. A poet should always seek to attain that calm, contemplative state of mind. In other words, a poet should not assert his own personality but identify himself with the object of his contemplation, so that there is an overflowing of himself into the object of being contemplated. For those who hold the individualist view, poetry expresses one's nature and emotion. If its language moves the heart, if its color strikes the eye, if its flavor pleases the mouth, if its sound delights the ear, then it is good poetry. Thus, Chinese poetry is mainly social, philosophical, and lyrical. Its subject matter is very limited. It usually deals with emotion, natural beauty, warfare, the separation of friends or spouses, the flight of youth, the passing seasons, and altruistic or philosophical ideas.

Now let us examine the extent to which Li Ch'ing-chao was influenced by the above mentioned critical views on poetry. If Li Ch'ing-chao's poetry lacks that realistic, utilitarian, and moralizing character, which is usually attributed to Confucian morality, she observes, at least from the technical point of view, Confucius' teaching that poetry should be gentle, moderate, sincere, and deep. She expresses joy without licentiousness, grief without agony. And we may now study analytically, from this point of view, a short poem by Li Ch'ing-chao:

“MODELED ON PAINTED LIPS”

In the depth of my silent chamber,
A thousand skeins of sorrow bind my tender heart.
Spring I love but spring is gone,
Some raindrops sweep the flowers down to earth.
Leaning against the balustrade, shifting from one
                    end to the other,
I am no less disheartened.
Whither is he?
Leaves of grass spread to the horizon
And hide from my eye the road of return.

This poem of Li Ch'ing-chao, so short and simple in appearance, is highly appreciated for its power of suggestion. In the first line, the word “depth” emphasizes the idea of solitude because the wider the space, the lonelier one feels. In the second line, sorrow is likened to entangled threads that bind the poetess' loving heart, and from which there is no escape. In the third line, spring is a symbol of youth. Our poetess loves youth, but youth does not linger on forever, just as flowers fall to earth at the end of spring. In the fourth line, the raindrop is a symbol of adversity. Flowers cannot elude raindrops, just as men cannot elude old age.

Overly oppressed by the silence that reigns in her inner chamber, the poetess then leaves it and leans against the balcony. She shifts from one place to another along the balustrade but does not feel more cheerful, nor does she find delight in the contemplation of nature, she who used to be a great lover of natural beauty. Why? Because it is the end of spring and Li Ch'ing-chao is saddened by the fleeting of the glorious days. Moreover, there is a continuous longing for her husband, and the sight of fallen flowers and raindrops reminds her of the passing of youth and plunges her into a deeper lassitude.

The seventh line asks: “Where is the loved one?” She does not see him. What she sees is only a vast stretch of grass that hides from her sight even the road that her husband should take when he returns. And this uncertainty about his homecoming increases the sadness of separation.

Since Confucius teaches moderation of feeling and expression, Chinese poets are rarely outspoken. As a result, the very essence of Chinese poetry is its power of suggestion. Chinese poets attach no importance to detailed description. Chinese poems are generally short, but in spite of their conciseness they are still long enough for a skilled poet to introduce, develop, embellish, and conclude his theme according to certain established rules. In a short poem, if a thousand details are intentionally omitted, the one that has the greatest power of suggestion is never neglected. As in a Sung painting, where a single brush stroke evokes a whole landscape; so does a single verse, a single image, express all the emotion of the poet. Chinese poets, unlike the Parnassians, are not painters of reality. They do not imitate nature but create a poetic world that invites our imagination to soar to infinity.

Thus, in order to understand Chinese poetry, one has to read meaning into the lines; or, according to a Chinese saying, one tries to listen to the sound that has ceased on the lyre, because often the Chinese poet does not dot his i's but rather lets the reader do it, each according to his own fancy.

It has already been noted that Chinese poets do not impress us by the variety of their themes. However, Li Ch'ing-chao's subject matter is even more limited than that of others. Her scope of interest lies only in herself and her husband. From the didactic point of view, her works, therefore, are not marked by Confucianism. She does not consider poetry a means of moral instruction or of social comment. Her favorite and almost unique theme is love, esthetic or sensual; and she sometimes expresses herself with less moderation and discretion than the great Master would have recommended. That is why a certain critic has said in this regard that, of all the woman writers, Li Ch'ing-chao is the most shameless.

From the philosophical point of view, she is influenced by neither Taoism nor Buddhism. When Lao-tzu speaks of returning to nature, he means an overflowing of oneself into nature, a spiritual communion with nature in order to forget the self. Undoubtedly, Li Ch'ing-chao has a profound love for nature but in an entirely different sense. In her opinion, nature serves only as a beautiful setting for the easy flow of her verse. She does not forget herself because of surrounding natural beauty. On the contrary, she places herself in its center. She never writes as did the great T'ang poet Li Po in this quatrain:

“QUESTION AND ANSWER IN THE MOUNTAIN”

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountains.
Smiling, I reply not, heart in peace.
When fallen flowers are carried afar by the flowing water,
Methinks I am in another world and not among the mortals.

Nor does she write like the hermit-poet Szu K'ung-t'u:

“THE NATURAL”²

Stoop, and there it is;
Seek it not right and left.
All roads lead thither,
One touch and you have the spring!
As though coming upon opening flowers,
As though gazing upon the new year,
Verily I will not snatch it,
Forced, it will dwindle away.
I will be like the hermit on the hill,
Like duckweed gathered on the stream,
And when emotions crowd upon me,
I will leave them to the harmonies of heaven.

When Li Ch'ing-chao describes natural scenery, she herself is the central figure:

“MODELED ON P'IN LING”³

Fallen flowers
Red as rouge;
Catkins softly flying;
The shooting of new bamboo;
Spring's affair.
Alone I sit in my inner chamber,
Facing a garden of tender leaves.
Over water and land hardly have I roamed,
His home-coming being too short.
In dreams I shall stroll with light steps
To the north of the city, by the meandering stream,
In whose icy ripples my eyes will lie mirrored for you.

From this poem, we can see that the first four lines furnish a beautiful setting that serves only as a pretext for exalting “self.” From the sixth line on, she is always present, moving about in the foreground so as to attract our attention constantly. It is early spring; there are tender leaves, new bamboo shoots. When the gentle breeze sweeps by, red flowers come tumbling to earth, while willow flowers soar up into the air. A beauteous season! An auspicious hour for promenade! But Chao Ming-ch'eng is again absent, and the poetess is left alone pining for him. She then recalls that he has come back for awhile but has not stayed long enough to roam with her to her heart's content on the lakes and in the mountains. To make it up, she says, she will stroll in her dream to the north of the city by the stream, her home town Chinan being a city of fountains and lakes, the water of which is as limpid as a mirror.

In the following tz'u, she is even more self-centered than in the preceding one. She is forever present, from the beginning to the end:

“MODELED ON PAINTED LIPS”

Alighting from the swing,
Languorously I trim my tiny, tiny hands.
Thin flowers loaded with heavy dewdrops,
Thin robe soaked with perspiration.
Beholding a visitor's approach,
Away I rush, bashful,
Wearing only stockings, gold hairpins slipping.
Yet back I turn in front of the door
To smell the green plums.

Having descended from the swing, her favorite sport, she trims her hands, white and small. She speaks of heavy dewdrops because it is early in the morning. But we do not know whether it is early or late spring, since thin flowers indicate either early spring, when few trees are in bloom, or late spring, when few flowers are left on the boughs. But that is not an important question. She talks about thin flowers loaded with heavy dewdrops only to compare them with her thin robe soaked with perspiration. Then somebody approaches unexpectedly. She feigns to rush away without putting on her shoes because a young lady is supposed to be shy. But she is born coquettish and cannot resist the temptation to look at the young man or to be looked at by him. So she turns back at the door and feigns to smell the green plums.

Li Ch'ing-chao is not at all influenced by Buddhist philosophy. Neither does she observe the principle of altruism which is extended even to the humblest animals, as does Han Yü who writes in the following poem:

Chase not the morning mosquito,
Spare the evening fly.
If they prove to be a nuisance,
Let a partition stop their flight.
Their life is ephemeral,
Let them have their small share like us.
The cool wind of the ninth moon
Will sweep them away with no trace left.

Nor does Li Ch'ing-chao express Buddhist philosophical ideas such as Po Chü-i does in the following poem:

The pine tree lives to a thousand years,
The hibiscus flower lasts a single day.
Both go to nothingness;
Why do we boast of our years and months?
P'eng Tzu distinguishes his death from ours,
But his is just the same.
Better learn not to appear,
Not to appear is also not to disappear.

The ideas expressed in the foregoing poem are representative of the Buddhist philosophy that consists in identifying life with death, one with ten thousand, reality with void. P'eng Tzu, a legendary personage referred to in the fifth line, is said to have lived eight hundred years. But from the Buddhist point of view, to die young and to die at the age of eight hundred are one and the same.

Nor does Li Ch'ing-chao write like Tu Fu, the great realist poet of the T'ang dynasty: “Wine and meat become stale within the vermilion gate, / Bones of those who died of cold lie on the road.” Li Ch'ing-chao is not at all social-minded. She is pleasure-loving and aristocratic, not necessarily in a disparaging sense. In other words, she enjoys life. She has also experienced war, but her poetry never deals with warfare. Tu Fu, who has suffered cold and hunger because of war, regards it as the root of all evil:

“AN ANCIENT BATTLEFIELD”

Descending from horseback on an ancient battlefield,
I look around: a vast stretch of emptiness.
The whining wind chases the floating clouds,
Yellow leaves fall in front of me.
In the anthills lie rotten bones,
Mingled with entangling grass.

“NORTHERN EXPEDITION”

Long did I wander amid the frontier dust.
Upon my return, my hair turned gray.
After a year's journeying, I came back to my thatched house.
My wife and my children were in rags;
The sighing pines seemed to cry bitterly with us in unison,
The flowing fountains mingled their sad murmuring with our sobs.
My beloved children with snow-white complexion turned away their faces to weep,
They were dirty and wore no stockings.

Such realism is never found in Li Ch'ing-chao's poetry. This is the way in which she recalls the prosperous days of the Northern Sung dynasty:

When the Empire was prosperous,
We ladies were much at leisure
And valued highly the fifteenth day of each moon.
Wearing coiffures adorned with emerald
And gold-threaded, willowlike, snow-white belts,
We rivaled one another in elegance.

On the contrary, when her contemporaries, such as Lu Yu and General Yüeh Fei, picture in their memory the glorious days of the Northern Sung Empire, their poems are animated by patriotism. Lu Yu: “The barbarians are not yet annihilated; / Autumn has already come to my temples.” Yüeh Fei wrote one of the most beautiful poems ever inspired by the sentiment of patriotism:

“MODELED ON THE WHOLE RIVER IS RED”

From afar I behold the Central Plain.
Beyond the evening fog lie many a city and wall.
Nostalgically I recall the days of yore:
Flowers and willows protecting the Jade Arbor and Phoenix Pavilion,
Men and women in rich array,
Covered with pearls and emeralds,
Parading in front of Longevity Mount.
Yesterday the Fairy Palace echoed with songs and flutes,
Today iron hooves fill up the empire.
The air is filthy with dust.
Whither are our fellow countrymen?
They fill up the ditches.
Whither are our soldiers?
Their flesh greases the enemy sword.
A thousand villages have become wasteland
Though mountains and rivers remain.
When will the Emperor provide me a good army?
Whipping my horse, the river will I cross and purify.
Upon my return, I shall take a stroll in Hanyang,
As happy as the immortal who mounted a yellow crane.

But we should neither judge Li Ch'ing-chao's poetry from the moral point of view, nor blame her for not being patriotic, altruistic, or social-minded just because she does not write like Tu Fu or Yüeh Fei. The moralists make the mistake of confusing the motives and effects of poetry with poetry itself. While one may be motivated by moral, political, or social reasons to write a poem, these motives or themes alone will not make one a poet. Moreover, whatever our motives, the act of writing a poem is not a moral, political, or social act; it is an individual and creative act. Therefore, one should not judge poetry by non-artistic standards.

Similarly, poetry may exercise great influence on our moral, political, or social views; but such influence cannot determine its value as poetry. A reader has the right to object to a poem for moral, political, or social reasons; but he has no right to condemn it as a bad poem for the same reasons. As literary critics, we should only assess literary value; it is not our duty to relate a work of art to other systems of value.

An artist has the right to choose his subject matter and to handle it as he likes. What are really precious in an artist are his spontaneous feelings. Li Ch'ing-chao did not suffer from poverty and privation like Tu Fu, nor did she go to war like General Yüeh Fei. If she had tried to concern herself with social ideas or warfare, her poems would have been artificial and affected. She was true to herself: she wrote about what she felt and what she had experienced. Li Ch'ing-chao was purely an individualist and considered poetry as a means of self-expression. She was able to express her emotions and personality in poetic language, but her poetry lacks intellectual reflection. It is desirable that a poet have great sensitivity, but emotion alone is liable to lead to monotony, triviality, and superficiality.

As already pointed out, Li Ch'ing-chao placed herself in the center of her writings. Next came Chao Ming-ch'eng, for whom her love was inexpressibly profound. As a young bride, she wrote poems full of charm and coquetry:

“MODELED ON WASHING BROOK SAND”

Smiling, I draw aside the hibiscus-colored bed curtains,
Place my perfumed cheeks against the duck-shaped incense burner.
Hardly have I turned my rippling eyes than he divines my thoughts.
Profound and tender is my love.
To a leaflet I confide my intimate thoughts:—
To invite him to renew love's affair when the flowers cast shadows in the moonlight.

Although Li Ch'ing-chao's marriage was arranged, she did feel true love for her husband. That is why she sang prolifically of love in its manifold phases: the ecstacy of love, the sorrows of separation, the yearning for the absent one, the torment of uncertainty, the bliss of reunion, and the final despair of bereavement.

While Chao Ming-ch'eng was away, she was plunged into a pervasive lassitude:

“MODELED ON THE BEAUTEOUS NIEN NU”

Desolate is the courtyard.
Oblique wind, fine rain.
Doors should be shut.
The Cold Food Festival is nigh.
Adorable willows, coquettish flowers, unpleasant weather of
                    all kinds.
Having composed a difficult poem,
Awakened from drowsiness caused by strong wine,
I feel particularly idle.
Wild geese all pass by,
Bearing not on their wings my thoughts for him.
For days, spring chilliness reigned in my pavilion,
With screens unrolled on every side.
I am too weary to lean against the jade balustrade.
My coverlet being chilled, the incense burnt out, I awaken from another dream,
Grieved, I cannot remain couched.
The dripping of clear morning dew,
The sprouting of new plane tree leaves,
What an auspicious hour for spring promenade!
Fog disappears when the sun is high.
I shall see if the day will be fine.

This poem depicts the poetess' solitude, lassitude, and longing for her beloved. The profundity of sadness is couched in very plain language. At the outset, wind and drizzle combine to create a world of desolation. The third line, “Doors should be shut,” increases the sentiment of solitude, since the poetess is confined to the depth of her chamber, completely isolated from the outside world. With shut doors, the distance between her and the surroundings seems to widen.

Then she mentions the approach of the Cold Food Festival, suggesting that on festival days one is particularly inclined to think of those who are absent. Here she tells us that the weather is still more unpleasant with the approach of festival, in spite of the “adorable willows” and the “coquettish flowers.”

In the sixth line, Li Ch'ing-chao speaks of escaping into oblivion through poetry and wine. But when she has finished writing, when tipsiness is gone, she feels particularly idle. The word hsien, which I have translated as “idle,” has different meanings in Chinese poetry. Sometimes it implies a kind of philosophical contemplation, and does not mean just being unoccupied, but rather denotes a state of mind free from worldly cares and desires. But in this poem, the word “idle” has another connotation. Here it has no philosophical import; it signifies a nonchalant, listless, and wistful state of mind that resembles languor and ennui. This idle feeling is a kind of mood—subtle, elusive, intangible; and, at the same time, it is tinged with gentle melancholy. It is a kind of indefinable emotion, which could exist only in a highly cultured, aristocratic, and leisured society. While feeling idle, her thoughts are again with her absent husband, but she cannot ask the passing wild geese to bear them on their wings and convey them to the loved one, since birds are only insensitive creatures.

In the second stanza, the poetess says that for days the weather has been cold, so cold that she cannot roll up her bamboo screens. She no longer cares to lean against the balustrade to contemplate the landscape, and spends the endless days in seclusion. During the night, she cannot rest in peace but wanders from one dreamland to another. But when the coverlet is chilled, when incense is reduced to ashes, when she is awakened from another dream, she is so saddened that she must arise.

The morning scenes are most attractive: the dripping of dewdrops; the sprouting of the tender leaves of the plane tree. The day is meant for a spring promenade. But without company, she hesitates. So she says that she will wait to see if the day will be fine. If the day remains foggy, she will stay at home. But even if the sun chases away the fog, is she certain to go out for a stroll? No, the gloominess of her spiritual fog will prevent her from doing so.

In the following poem, the poetess contrasts her own indefinite separation from her husband with a mythical couple's happy annual reunion, so as to bring to light the hopelessness of her own situation. In order to have a correct understanding of the poem, we should first know the ancient legend of the Cowherd and the Spinning Maid. The Maid, who lived on the east side of the Milky Way, was a daughter of the Emperor of Heaven. Her work consisted in weaving cloudlike silk for making gorgeous celestial garments. Taking pity upon her loneliness, the Emperor of Heaven married her to the Cowherd on the west bank of the Milky Way. After the marriage, the love of the Spinning Maid for her husband was so profound that she neglected weaving and needlework. This irritated the Emperor of Heaven; he recalled the daughter from the west side of the Milky Way, giving her permission to meet her husband only once a year, on the night of the seventh day of the seventh moon. On that night, a group of magpies stretch out their wings to make a bridge over the Milky Way so that the celestial spouses can meet thereupon. That is why the night of the seventh day of the seventh moon is now bright, now gloomy, because at the hour of their meeting, the moon shines bright; when the sad hour of parting comes, the Spinning Maid sheds abundant tears; these are turned into raindrops, and the moon is dimmed thereby.

“MODELED ON HSING HSIANG TZU”⁴

Frightened by the chirping of insects in the grass,
The leaves of the plane tree come tumbling to the ground.
Heavy are the sorrows up in the sky and here below.
So far away is the Moon Palace
And cloud perrons.
Thither we go not,
Even with rafts plying to and fro
Over the seas.
On the magpie bridge over the Milky Way,
The Cowherd and the Spinning Maid meet but once a year.
Eternal should be their sadness of parting.
Why is the night now fine, now rainy, now windy?
Is it the sad hour of farewell?

In the following poem, the word “separation” is never mentioned, but “sad dreams” suggest a continuous longing for her husband. And the poem is to be appreciated for its power of suggestion. It is late spring because the cuckoo is singing mournfully, deploring the dying of the glorious season. The wind has calmed down into tranquillity, but there are heaps of fallen petals, red and white, which create a sad atmosphere. The poetess declares that she always feels melancholy after the blooming of the begonias. In order to escape into oblivion, she resorts to wine and music, but they do not prevent her from having sad dreams.

“MODELED ON THE HAPPY EVENT IS NIGH”

Calm is the wind, deep are the fallen flowers.
Heaps of rouge and snow on the other side of the screen.
After the blooming of the begonias
Melancholy comes the spring,
Ever do I recall.
Wine is drunk, songs are sung, the jade cup is empty.
The lamp is now dim, now bright.
Sad enough are my dreams;
How can I still bear the mournful notes of the cuckoo?

Solitude and sadness form the woof and warp of this poem, which, like the preceding one, is also full of imagery:

“MODELED ON THE MOON SHINES UPON THE PEAR FLOWERS”

Late spring in the imperial city …
Double doors, courtyard profound.
Grass is green up to my perrons.
No wild geese crossing the nocturnal sky,
Who bears my letter afar?
Skeins of sorrows.
A tender soul is forever amorous.
Indifference is no easy affair.
Here again is the Cold Food Festival.
Motionless is the swing, silent is the street.
The moon casts its rays athwart
And soaks the pear blossoms.

In the second line, “double doors” and “courtyard profound” give us an idea of isolation. The next line suggests that nobody has come to see the lonely poetess, because the grass has not been trodden black by footsteps. Then the thoughts of Li Ch'ing-chao are again with Chao Ming-ch'eng. She complains that she cannot even ask the wild geese to convey her thoughts to her husband, since there are no wild geese passing through the nocturnal sky. Once more, sorrows are likened to skeins of sorrows binding her tender heart, which cannot remain indifferent, especially on festival days. The last three verses form a beautiful setting. It is a silent night. The swing is motionless; human voices in the street are stilled. Only the soft and glistening moonbeams, comparable to water, soak the pear flowers.

This poem was written in Li Ch'ing-chao's widowhood, probably not soon after Chao Ming-ch'eng's death, because the anguish expressed here is not so violent as that revealed in the tz'u entitled Promenade in the Royal Street:

“MODELED ON NAN KE TZU”⁵

High up, the Milky Way is shimmering,
Here below my curtains are drooping.
Coolness is born on my pillow soaked with tears.
Getting up to undress myself,
I wonder how advanced is the night.
Small are the emerald envelopes of the lotus seeds,
Few are the lotus leaves of gold.
The same weather and robe as before,
Only my heart is not as of yore.

It is an autumn night. Our poetess, who has first gone to bed without undressing, awakens late at night, gets up to undress, and wonders what time it is. The first two lines of the second stanza are a vivid picture of autumn: the lotus leaves have turned yellow and are few, the green envelopes of the lotus seeds are still small. While undressing, Li Ch'ing-chao pictures in her memory the happy days of old and says that autumn is the same, her robe is the same, but her heart is no longer the same.

The poems cited in this chapter afford ample evidence that Li Ch'ing-chao is a pure poet but not a great thinker.

VI POETESS AS A CRITIC

As I have already mentioned, Li Ch'ing-chao did not develop any theory of art. However, she did write a very short essay on tz'u. As she began this essay by mentioning Yüeh Fu, it is necessary to comment on it. The Yüeh Fu, or Department of Music, originated with Emperor Wu (reigned 140-87 b.c.) of the Western Han dynasty. This brilliant Emperor, after having driven the Huns to Central Asia, entered into an alliance with Tibet and Turkestan, extended the Chinese frontiers to Annam, and opened an epoch highly favorable for the development of art and literature. Emperor Wu not only enthusiastically patronized literature but also devoted great attention to music. He established the Yüeh Fu, or Department of Music, which was charged with the task of collecting, transcribing, editing, and preserving the folk songs of the empire, as well as those of its neighbors. A contemporary of his called Mei Ch'eng (d. 140 b.c.) had the honor of being the first to bring home from the non-Chinese world the five-word meter, while the Emperor himself was the first to compose a poem of all seven-syllabic lines. Up to then, Chinese poems were still composed on the style of The Book of Odes or The Poems of Ch'u.

Later, men of letters began to write poems in the manner of the Yüeh Fu songs. Thus the term yüeh fu came to denote not only the Department of Music, but also poems written in the manner of the folk songs collected by it. Metrically speaking, the yüeh fu songs approximate those of ancient verse, with the difference being that only the former was set to music. Like tz'u, yüeh fu is also meant for singing. So it can be said that yüeh fu is the direct ancestor of tz'u, with the difference being that, in the case of tz'u the rules of versification are more complicated.

The yüeh fu poems are usually composed of verses of equal length, pentasyllabic or heptasyllabic. The number of lines is indefinite, and there is no fixed tone pattern. Rhyme occurs at the end of the even-numbered lines; one can use one rhyme throughout, or vary it. Prosodically, the construction of tz'u is much more complicated than that of the poems of yüeh fu, since each tune has a separate tone pattern and rhyme scheme of its own. Some liberty is allowed regarding the arrangement of subtones, but the rhyme scheme must be strictly observed. As Li Ch'ing-chao was also a great phonetician and musician, she was very exacting about tone pattern. The reason she attached great importance to tone pattern is not only because different tones produce different auditory effects, but also because they express different feeling. It is said that flat tones express moderate feeling, while sharp tones express violent passion.

In her essay on tz'u, Li Ch'ing-chao began by saying that yüeh fu attained its highest glory during the reign of Emperor Hsüan Tsung of the T'ang dynasty, who founded the Garden of Pear Blossoms for training young boys and girls in the art of music. She noted that the best singer of that period was Li the Eighth. One day, she continued, a high-ranking official entertained some guests at a feast. Among them was a young scholar who asked Li the Eighth to put on a poor man's clothes and go to the feast incognito. He introduced the disguised Li the Eighth as his cousin without mentioning that Li was a singer.

At the feast, the food was rich, the wine abundant, and the music exquisite. A singer called Ts'ao Yüan-Ch'ien sang a song called “The Beauteous Nien Nu” and won everyone's admiration. The young scholar suddenly pointed to Li the Eighth and asked him: “Will you also sing for us, my dear cousin?” Those who were present looked at him disdainfully. But as soon as he opened his mouth, they were moved to tears. The young scholar then revealed that the singer was Li the Eighth.

Later, songs of the states of Cheng and Wei came into vogue, and new tunes were also created. Melodies such as “Buddhist Coiffure,” “Beautiful Spring,” “Washing Brook Sand,” “Dreaming of the South Bank and Fisherman” enjoyed a great fame. Then, during the chaotic period of the Five Dynasties (907-960), literature was on the decline. However, the second king of Nan T'ang (Southern T'ang) and his son, the last king of the dynasty, were highly cultured. The former wrote immortal verse, such as:

Gone is the perfume of the lotus flowers, withered are their leaves of emerald.
From the green waves, melancholy rises with the west wind.

But his poems were so sad that they betrayed the thoughts of a sovereign predestined to lose his kingdom.

The Sung dynasty is remarkable for its literary as well as military achievements, and deserves to be placed in the first rank among builders of civilization. More than a hundred years after the establishment of the dynasty, Liu Yung composed new melodies and wrote new types of tz'u for them. He published a collection of songs and his fame became widespread. Although his verses were harmonious, his language was vulgar. Chang Tzu-yeh, the Sung brothers, Shen T'ang, Yüan Chiang, and Ts'ao Tz'u-ying also managed to write astonishing verses now and then, but on the whole they do not deserve to be called great poets.

Yen Yüan-hsien, Ou-Yang Yung-shu, and Su Tzu-chan were talented scholars but their poems were not suitable for singing. Why? Because they ignored the fact that, in writing an ordinary poem, the poet has only to distinguish flat tones from sharp tones; but, in writing a tz'u, he also has to pay attention to the five subtones, the rhythm and the variation in stress. For instance, in such songs as “Andante” and “Flowers in the Rain,” one may use flat rhyme as well as sharp rhyme. In the melody “Spring in the Jade Pavilion,” one may use any of the five tones at the end of the rhymed lines. But if one uses the fifth tone, then the tz'u will not be suitable for singing.

Li Ch'ing-chao concluded her essay with these comments about her contemporaries. “The prose of Tseng Tzu-ku and Wang Chieh-fu is comparable to that of the writers of the Western Han dynasty, but their tz'u is ridiculous.” Thus she affirmed that the composition of tz'u was a special art, which few could really master. From this essay on tz'u we can also gather that Li Ch'ing-chao possessed little humility and was very severe towards her contemporaries:

“Yen Shu-yüan, Ho Fang-huei, Ch'in Shao-yu, and Huang Lu-chih were initiated into the mystery of tz'u writing. However, Yen's tz'u is poor in description, that of Ho lacks substance, and Ch'in's is rich in sensitivity but lacking in sobriety of language. Therefore Ch'in's tz'u is like a beautiful woman from a poor family, good-looking without being majestic. Huang's poetry, sober but full of weak points, can be likened to a piece of jade, of good quality but not flawless. …

Notes

1. Sheng and huang: These two words, though often mentioned together, denote a single instrument, the sheng, huang being the copper leaves (or the reed) fixed inside the instrument. The sheng is an ancient Chinese musical instrument made of bamboo pipes arranged in such a way that it looks like the fingers on a hand.

2. Translation by Herbert A. Giles, A History of Chinese Literature, p. 181.

3. As the meaning of the title is unclear to me, it is left untranslated.

4. As the meaning of this title is unclear to me, it is left untranslated.

5. As the meaning of this title is unclear to me, it is left untranslated.

Bibliography

Primary Sources

Shu Yü Tz'u. Kaoshiung: The Ta Chung Book Company, 1964. A collection of fifty tz'u by Li Ch'ing-chao.

Chin Shih Lu Hou Hsü. Kaoshiung: The Ta Chung Book Company, 1964. A short autobiography of Li Ch'ing-chao included in the preceding book.

Secondary Sources

Connaissance de l'Orient. Anthologie de la Póesie Chinoise Classique. Paris: NRF, 1963. A very complete anthology of Chinese poetry with accurate but literal translations.

Encyclópedie de la Pléiade. Histoire des Littératures. Paris: NRF, 1956. A history of world literatures with a chapter devoted to Chinese literature.

Giles, Herbert A. History of Chinese Literature. Taipei: The World Book Company, 1963. An introduction to Chinese literature with emphasis laid upon literary translations of original texts.

Hsüeh Li-jo. Sung Tz'u T'ung Luen. Taipei: The K'ai Ming Book Company, 1954. Very remarkable commentaries on Sung Tz'u.

Hu Pin-ching (Guillermaz, Patricia). La Póesie Chinoise. Paris: Pierre Seghers, 1959. An anthology of Chinese poetry with accurate and literary translations.

Hu Yün-i. Chung Kuo Tz'u Shih. Taipei: The Ch'i Ming Book Company, 1956. A detailed history of tz'u.

Liu, James. The Art of Chinese Poetry. Taipei: The Chin Wen Book Company, 1963. A remarkable survey of the whole structure of Chinese poetry with accurate and literary translations.

Liu Ta-chieh. Chung Kuo Wen Hsüeh Fa Chan Shih. Taipei: The Chung Hua Book Company, 1952. The best and most complete history of Chinese literature.

Miao Yüeh. Shih Tz'u T'ung Luen. Taipei: The K'ai Ming Book Company, 1954. Very remarkable essays on several Chinese poets and tz'u writers with very original views of the nature of poetry and that of tz'u.

She Hsueh-man. Nü Tz'u Jen Li Ch'ing-chao. Kaoshiung: The Ta Chung Book Company, 1964. A very remarkable study of Li Ch'ing-chao with annotations of her tz'u.

Wang Yün-wu. Tz'u P'in. Taipei: The Commercial Press, 1954. Commentaries of tz'u assembled by the writer.