Sources of Chinese Tradition, Volume 2

by Wm. Theodore de Bary

  What history records are events, and those events must avail themselves of writing to be transmitted [as historical knowledge]. Hence, all good historians work at their writing, but they fail to realize that it can suffer in thrall to events. For [historical] events must always involve success and failure, right and wrong. And when success, failure, right, and wrong are involved, then the ins and outs, the give-and-take [among them] interact vigorously [in the historian’s mind]. As this vigorous interaction goes on, [the mind’s] qi becomes concentrated. [Historical] events always involve flourishing and decline, ebb and flow. And when one contemplates such flourishing, decline, ebb, and flow, then the pathos becomes unforgettable. As this absorption goes on, feelings become profound. Most prose is not sufficiently moving; what moves people is qi. Most writing does not affect people much; what affects them is feeling. When qi accumulates, the prose is glorious; when feeling is profound, it draws the reader in. Vigorous qi and inviting emotion—[these are characteristics of] the best prose in the world.

  But the heavenly and human elements in [these characteristics] must be differentiated. Qi partakes of yang’s firmness, while feeling accords with the softness of yin. Human beings are subject to the [forces of] yin and yang and cannot be separated therefrom. When qi accords with principle, it is heavenly; in its ability to depart from principle for its own purposes, it is human. Feeling grounded in the inborn nature is heavenly; in its ability to confuse the inborn nature and indulge itself, it is human. The meaning of history issues from Heaven, but the writing of history cannot but depend on human effort for its accomplishment. When the human is afflicted with [the susceptibilities of] yin and yang, then history is written contrary to the universality of the Great Way, and its [capacity] to move or attract [people] is slight.

  Now, writing cannot stand without qi, but qi is estimable [only] when in equilibrium. People’s qi is always in equilibrium when they are at leisure. But when they respond emotively to events, their qi loses [its equilibrium] and becomes unsettled, aroused, or arrogant, thus adding to [the force of] yang. Writing cannot be profound without feeling, but feeling is estimable [only] if proper. People’s feelings are always proper when they are unoccupied. But when they respond emotively to events, then feelings lose [their propriety] and become deviant, self-indulgent, and biased, thus adding to [the force of] yin. When the potential for disharmony in yin and yang works through [people’s] physical constitutions into their minds, it insidiously subverts [their judgment such that] what seems impartial really partakes of selfish interest and what seems [as clear as] Heaven actually is beclouded by the human. When written out in prose, [the resulting viewpoints] can do violence to [history’s] meaning and contravene the Way without the author himself being aware of it. Therefore I say that [the historian’s] quality of mind must be regarded very seriously.

  That qi can overbear and that feeling can take sides is to say that the movement begins with Heaven but then enters the human. [Thus, we find that] men of artistic talent become immersed in literary style, thinking that style is a manifestation of aesthetic value and not realizing how wrong [such immersion] is. The dependence of history on [good] writing is like the necessity that clothing have appearance and food have flavor. Appearance cannot be without the more decorative and the more plain; flavor cannot be without the more robust and the more bland. [But when] decorative and plain conflict, the appearance always is jarring; when robust and bland conflict, the taste always is strange. Jarring appearances that offend the eye and strange flavors that numb the palate arise from conflicts between decorative and plain, robust and bland. Among literary styles there are the skillful and the awkward, and commonplace historians go on contending over matters such as this, neglecting what is basic while pursuing the superficial. Their approach to writing has never shown superb results. And with such a view of history, how can they receive any understanding of the general conditions of the ancients?

  [Zhang, “Neipian,” Wenshi tongyi 3: 1a–4b—LAS]

  VIRTUE IN THE WRITER

  In all philosophical discussions, earlier men have put forth ideas and later men have refined them, feeling compelled to explore them as far as possible. When the ancients discussed writing, they were concerned only with stylistic matters. Liu Xie used Lu Ji’s basic ideas to elaborately discourse on the “literary mind,” and Su Che used Han Yu’s basic ideas to elaborately discourse on the “literary spirit.” [But I] have not seen anyone discuss literary virtue—which should prompt reflection among scholars. . . .

  Now in saying that I have not seen any discussion of literary virtue, I meant that in the words of the ancients, comprehensive and thorough as they are, the subject is not distinguished from that of essays by moral men. They never go into the prose itself to consider whether—besides talent, learning, and insight—literary virtue also was present. All those ancients who [were accomplished in] ancient letters had to have composure in order to effect empathy. [Let me point out that] the need for composure in beginning to write is not the same as moral cultivation [in general]; and the need for empathy in discussing ancient times is not the same as magnanimity [in general]. [Rather, specifically in writing,] empathy is the ability to put oneself in the actual situations of the ancients. Alas! Few are those who know what [the writer’s] virtue is. If one understands that in commencing to write one must restrain one’s qi and enter the lives of others, then one does understand virtue in writing. . . .

  The various worthies “were such no matter where they lived” and would not necessarily recognize the trend-conscious, narrow scholarly perspectives of today. Thus, if one does not know the times of an ancient [writer], one cannot, with abandon, discourse on his literary style. Knowing his times but not knowing his personal situation, one cannot hastily [proceed] to discourse on [the substance of] his writing. Life’s circumstances do undergo the vicissitudes of honor and shame, obscurity and renown, humility and boldness, sorrow and joy, and things that are said for reasons. Even You [Ruo] did not understand what [his teacher] Confucius meant [in one instance when the latter’s dissatisfaction with certain recent developments crept into his reply to You’s innocent query]. How much less [can it be understood by those of us] born thousands of years later? The Sage’s explanation of shu [i.e., “empathy”] as “not putting upon others what one does not wish for oneself” is eminently to be followed. Nowadays those who would rank themselves among the literati and discuss the ancients must first establish self-[understanding], for no other reason than to exercise the empathy in the writer’s virtue. . . .

  Indeed, historians have three strengths in talent, learning, and insight. [To say that] the literature of ancient times did not emerge from historical writing [would be as absurd as to say that] food and drink do not ultimately derive from the cultivation of grain. Insight is born of the mind; talent comes from qi; and learning—that [is a matter of] concentrating the mind to nourish qi and forging insight to complete one’s talent. A dispersed mind is not reliable; floating qi easily is lax. In [practicing] inner composure one continually vigilates between mind and qi, strictly precluding any unguarded fault or deviation. Yet, brilliant, self-composed tranquillity was that with which the sages began and ended [all affairs, thus attaining] breadth of justness. In the present [context], it is none other than to approach writing with one’s mind and qi under supervision—the inner composure of virtue in the writer.

  [Zhang, “Neipian,” Wenshi tongyi 3: 19b-20a—LAS]

  WOMEN’S LEARNING

  The term women’s learning appears in the section on the ministry of state in the Rites of Zhou, where women’s posts are listed. There it refers to “virtue, speech, decorum, and work”—a broad range of attributes. This is unlike use of the term learning in later times, when it came to refer to literary arts alone. . . . Zheng Xuan (127–200 C.E.) says in his commentary on these terms that “speech” means rhetoric. It follows that a woman who was not well versed in classical ritual and accomplished in letters could not be co
nsidered learned. Thus we know that in poetry recitation and mastery of the rites, the learning of women in ancient times was just slightly inferior to that of men. Although the writings of women who came later have been more inclined toward beauty and ornament, women should know their original heritage.

  Pursuing the successive commentaries on the Spring and Autumn Annals, we find that the wives of the various feudal lords and the spouses of the chief officials were able to cite allusions and tell of the past—all in elegant prose. For example, Deng Man was able to interpret the auspicious omen in the full moon, deriving from it a detailed understanding of Heaven’s Way, and Mu Jiang concisely explicated key terms in the Classic of Changes. The good wife of Earl Mu of Lu used canonical phrases in handing down ethical instructions, and the spouse of Minister of Education Qi was granted a nobler title because of her ritual propriety. . . . Do these classical rituals and standards of conduct, these literary hues and styles, differ in any way from those of the highest-ranking lords and statesmen?

  As we see, women’s behavior originally did not receive particular documentation; women simply appeared in historical records wherever they figured in specific events. If those women had appeared in later times, when histories required special treatises and a separate category for women’s biographies, there would be ten times as many as in Liu Xiang’s and Fan Ye’s [Han period] collections who were as brilliant and distinguished as Ban Zhao (45–114? C.E.) and Cai Yuan (late Han). Thus we know that [not only the records of women’s lives] but also women’s learning have not been transmitted to later ages. . . .

  From the Spring and Autumn period onward, when the roles of official and teacher were no longer one, learning ceased to be the domain of governmental officers, and writings came to be authorial compositions. Men of exceptional talent wrote about what affected them personally to found schools of thought. Then writing devolved into belles lettres, talent in beautiful expression counted the most, and richness of color made for renown. The fact that women of extraordinary brilliance and unusual ability, who concentrated in themselves the vital force between Heaven and Earth, were able to achieve special distinction in fine writing that was recognized in the past and is recognized today, was simply due to the circumstances of the time.

  When Confucian learning flourished at the Han court, Ban Gu [32–92 C.E.] said that it was brought about via “the route to profit and fortune.” That is, what official policy honored was what worthy and talented men vied for; scholars who pursued learning did so on exactly the same principle [of gain] as farmers who tilled the fields. But a woman’s writing was not her vocation. Therefore when a woman excelled, it emerged from her Heaven-bestowed nature, not from vying to be fashionable or longing for fame. . . .

  As for various [Han dynasty] verses and miscellanies from the inner apartments, some of which have come down to us, regardless of whether the women who wrote them were pure or dissolute, their words and phrases always are properly restrained. [Zhou] Wenjun eloped [and thus married without the proper ceremonies], yet her “Song of White Hair” only admonished [her husband, Sima] Xiangru (d. 18 C.E.), [not others]. Cai Yan lost her virtue [by remarrying as a widow], yet in writing out the works [of her father’s library from memory] she steadfastly declined the services of ten official assistants [because she did not wish to seem improper in receiving things from their hands]. As for others, who were content to remain in their homes and follow accepted norms, and who became known for their purity and chastity—in every case their writings are serene like still water, wondrous like clear wind. Even though their literary eloquence arose from natural ability, the sphere of their thought did not transgress the bounds of their quarters. Thus, although women’s learning was different from what it had been in ancient times, it did not conflict with civilizing instruction. . . .

  When long ago the historian Ban Gu died before finishing the History of the Former Han, the emperor issued an edict summoning Gu’s younger sister, Ban Zhao, to come in person to the imperial Dongguan Library and carry the work to completion. Thereafter, the noble lords and great ministers all brought her gifts and asked her to be their teacher. This truly can be called an extraordinary event without precedent. But it is generally the case that specialized schools of outstanding scholarship are preserved within certain families and never completely articulated in books. Without qualified persons [in the family line], there simply is no way to transmit that learning. To take another example, when the rulers of the former Jin (351–394 C.E.) first established schools and assembled a broad array of erudites and teachers of the classics, they discovered that all five classics were roughly in hand except the Rites of Zhou, which had been transmitted orally. The emperor declared Lady Song’s home a lecture hall and appointed 120 stipended scholars to sit on the other side of a curtain and receive instruction from her, on whom was bestowed the honorary title “Scholar of Illustrious Culture.” This too was an extraordinary event with no precedent. . . .

  These two mothers carried out men’s tasks with women’s bodies. Truly, transmitting the classics and narrating history are crucial to Heaven and humankind, the Way and the laws. Fearing that [such transmission] might be lost, the rulers of those times had no choice but to break with [bureaucratic] convention and emphasize ritual propriety [in taking women as instructors]. We cannot accuse these women of showing off their splendid talents or of suddenly deviating into vulgarity. . . .

  Beginning in Tang-Song times, the only discernible talent conveys its lofty refinement through mere short poems about spring in the women’s apartments, unrequited autumn love, and blooms and grasses in profusion and decay. There are notable exceptions—for instance, the Women’s Analects by (the Tang period) Song Ruoshen and the Women’s Classic of Filial Piety by (the Song period) Lady Zheng. Although these women’s intelligence did not save them from hackneyed writing, still the general direction of their work approached refinement and correctness. When those of us in the literary world cite their writings, it is principally an acknowledgment of their praiseworthy aspirations.

  As for the celebrated, “wall-toppling” courtesans, they frequently interacted with famous men of their time by exchanging poems and essays imbued with meanings appropriate to both spouses and friends. One could say that they were good at double entendre. They were like the ancient poets who, when they thought of their lords or pined for a friend, affected the sad emotions between men and women. . . . So it is that the poems of nameless lovers may approximate the perdurance of the principles of the Supreme Ultimate and yin and yang between Heaven and Earth. [In them] “the wise find wisdom, and the humane see humanity.” The famous courtesans were skilled poets who also comprehended ancient meanings. They transferred these meanings and lodged them in the warm, weighty language of the poet using the realities of joy and longing between men and women. Thus, their syntax is refined and yet informed by a standard, true and yet free of lewdness. [Such works] have been transmitted for a thousand years, shining forth from the pages of books, and cannot be dismissed on account of the [fallen status of] the persons who wrote them.

  But to claim a voice is to find one’s proper form, and in this women are different from men. Thus a skillfully composed dirge is only appropriate for a funeral attendant to chant, and a rowing song, freewheeling and ingenious, is suitable only for a boatwoman to sing. The courtesan who presents a poem to a Mr. Li or composes verse along with a Mr. Zhang does so simply because her situation requires it. But in respectable families, the words spoken in the women’s rooms are not even to be heard [in the rest of the household], so how could such words ever get into poetry exchanges on the outside? . . .

  [But nowadays] one often sees printed editions of a famous scholar’s poetry in which, without having read the collations through, already in the tables of contents one can scan references to rouge powders and passionate love, or mentions of poetry exchanges in the pleasure quarters. This writer adopts a chic suaveness, claiming that he is just like the ancients. He seems una
ware that if a man born in this age [of strict regulations], a man of the present, can be so inept at observing official prohibitions, then he hardly can discuss any skill with words and ink. In the rituals of the Duke of Zhou, men and women from the same descent group cannot marry. Is it all right, then, to take advantage of being born after the Zhou to claim that in ancient times there was no separation between men and women, thus throwing human relationships into confusion and behaving like birds and beasts—and to further claim that the ancients were the same way?

  Now talent requires learning, and in learning the premium is on insight. Talent without learning is mere cleverness; a merely clever person who has no insight has no true talent, and such a person will know no bounds. He may call a poem elegant and refined when in fact it is frivolous and shallow. He may try to make a reputation out of boastful posturing. He may show himself off to the younger generation and make outrageous displays before ladies, corrupting human hearts and mores beyond description. In ancient times frivolity was not unknown among the literati, but it never ran so far as braggadocio in front of women. To be substandard but still strive relentlessly for fame, or to be undistinguished in one’s own right but trade on the reputations of others—men of high purpose should be ashamed to act in these ways. . . .

  The women’s learning of ancient times always emphasized mastering poetry through prior mastery of the rites. But women’s learning today has turned to confounding the rites because of poetry. If the rites are shunned, we will no longer be able to discuss the human heart or social customs. Without question it is certain scholars of dubious character who, propagating heretical ideas, have subverted women’s learning. Others who truly understand it look on such men as akin to excrement. How could they ever be fooled!