Translation
with Introduction:
Chiang
Yen (444--505), “THE SEPARATION RHAPSODY”
During his lifetime he was known as a master of
edicts, elegies, and other practical prose, which he crafted on behalf of
princes and emperors spanning three Southern dynasties--Sung, Ch’i and Liang. But
Chiang Yen has appealed to later readers largely through other works. These
more private pieces seem to center around two obsessions: one was the pain of
separation; the other was a desire to commune with writers from the past. His
haunting “Separation Rhapsody” (“Pieh fu”) overtly and tacitly encompasses both
themes.
Inspiration from earlier literature could have been
what drove Chiang Yen to write multiple times about separation. But a simpler
reason might be that real life often threw people apart during those years of
unstable, murderous regimes that had lost the heartland to conquerors from the
steppes. From the little that is known about him, one can identify several
upsetting separations that conceivably influenced his poetry: losing his father
at age twelve; the death at twenty-eight of a close friend (the vivacious
historian Yuan Ping); hearing news of his ancestors’ border homeland being
swallowed by the Northern Wei (K’ao-ch’eng, in what is now eastern Honan). But
there was another complex separation that he claims to have actually enjoyed,
when in his early thirties he roamed through lush mountains even farther south
as an exile in Fukien, while back along the Yangtze River
the Liu-Sung dynasty was collapsing in a bloodbath after a failed rebellion by a
prince whom he had originally tried to serve. Chiang came safely home to the
capital to join the new Ch’i dynasty. That period of separation through
banishment may have saved his career or even his life.
If we knew when the “Separation Rhapsody” was
written, and for whom--before, during, or long after that exile--we might find
autobiographical traces within its lines. As is, the piece holds its own as a
meditation on partings everywhere. In this and his other widely-read rhapsody,
on “Grievance” (“Hen fu”), the scenes range from the leave-taking of a soldier
or exile, to the uprooting of refugees, forced parting of married couples, and
extend to that “Eternal Farewell” which hides in the background of every
separation, and finally isolates us all.
As for Chiang’s other obsession, with writers of
earlier times: it could easily have sprung from his training in persuasive
rhetoric, by which he tried to emulate the ancients’ spirit as well as their
style. He became a polished imitator, who revealed his powers most notably in a
tour de force of thirty poems, each composed in a different poet’s
voice. Perhaps the need to write effectively yet safely encouraged him to
sheathe his ideas in the diction of others whose reputations were secure. And
the terrifying consequences of any miscalculated statement would have been
enough to make him brood about having the skill to convey the right message. The
more he worried, the more (it is said) he felt overwhelmed by such predecessors
as Kuo P’u (276--324), a writer of several generations back who, rather
like Chiang, had warned a warlord of defeat but was then killed in retaliation,
not merely exiled.
One story has
Kuo appearing in Chiang’s dream, asking Chiang to hand back a “rainbow
writing-brush” that Kuo had let him borrow. After giving up the brush, Chiang
awoke to find himself a talentless author with nothing left to say.
Although the dream and burn-out are probably fiction,
Chiang’s writings hint that he may indeed have been anxious to make his readers
truly feel the urgency of big issues. That anxiety peeks through the
final lines of this rhapsody, where after a litany of praise for writers before
him, Chiang abruptly states his own stark wish: that by enticing the reader to
empathize with those who are separated from each other in life, he can make
real the enormity of death.
In that conclusion the two obsessions merge: cut off
from earlier men of letters by time and space, Chiang sees a gulf between their
genius and his own weak voice; and shoulders, on their behalf, the frustration
of anyone who has ever tried to make an idea take shape on the page in the face
of unresponsive readers, temperamental written words, and not enough time.
Eventually
this artist of nostalgic emulation became a stylistic model in his turn. After
stability returned with the Tang dynasty, a very young Li Po (701–762) wrote
new versions of both the “Separation” and “Grievance” rhapsodies, apparently
drawn not by Chiang’s ability at imitation, but by his originality. The structure,
which Li would later adapt into his own work, had been unusual: packaging
aspects of the main theme into a series of vignettes. These two monumental fu
of Chiang’s barely imitate anything, and are sparing with the use of allusions,
which are sometimes considered uncreative. Considering how rich with allusions
the fu form can be, it is interesting that much of the “Separation” fu
presents wholly imagined, universal scenes, although the language does contain
literary echoes. A larger number of lines, about half the piece, are slightly
more specific in their references; reworking ancient phrases or names, they
suggest earlier works, or particular separations of historical figures. The
sweep of Chiang’s diction is swift and clean. Some examples of the references:
“Emerald
grass” is a love herb distilled from the essence of a princess who died young;
“pearls” are a mermaid’s tears, shed when her mortal suitor said farewell; “the
palindrome” of the young lady Su Huei was an astonishing square of embroidery
stitched with 841 words in five colors, packed with as many as 3700 reproachful
verses, that she mailed to her husband when his affections wandered during his distant
desert assignment. The “swordsmen” are the ancient Assassins, all of whom died attacking
powerful men, some out of indignation, some for pay, never for fame: Ching K’o,
who “did not look back,” tried to kill the future Ch’in Emperor; his young
helper gave the plot away when his face “turned ashen” with fear. The hit-man Nieh
Cheng killed his target, obliterated his own face and fell on his sword to keep
the deed anonymous; it was his elder sister who travelled to the town where his
body lay in the street, proclaimed his name, then died of grief. “Rush mats”
refers to a man who banqueted a banished countryman he met on the road, instead
of shunning him. The “banished consort” could have been Lady Ch’en, the
faithful concubine of a duke, who received a kind, respectful send-off from the
duchess--even though the duke was dead, Lady Ch’en’s son murdered, and the
murderess (another concubine) had gained ascendance. The poem’s final lines
suggest almost a dozen writers, including the rhapsodist Wang Pao, the polymath
Yang Hsiung; the statesman Kung-sun Hung, the historian Pan Ku, the philosophers
Tsou Yen and Tsou Shih.
Stanza
divisions accord with Chiang’s rhyme changes.
THE SEPARATION RHAPSODY 別賦
By Chiang Yen (444--505) 江淹作
I
to gnaw darkly at the soul, drain the spirit 黯然銷魂者
only separation has that power. 唯別而已矣
cut off like the land
of Ch’in from Wu, like
Yen from Sung 況秦吳兮絕國
a thousand miles or more 復燕宋兮千里
worse yet at the sprouting of spring moss 或春苔兮始生
or against the autumn wind’s first sudden roar 乍秋風兮蹔起
II
it rips the traveller’s heart 是 以 行 子 腸 斷
a hundred desolations press him down 百 感 悽 惻
wind whistles with a foreign sound 風 蕭 蕭 而 異 響
heavy clouds spread eerie light 雲 漫 漫 而 奇 色
a boat stranded by the river shore 舟 凝 滯 於 水 濱
cart struggles up the mountainside 車 逶 遲 於 山 側
such listless oars, how will that boat progress? 櫂 容 與 而 詎 前
horses cry in the cold and take no rest 馬 寒 鳴 而 不 息
cover the goblet--who is here to drink with? 掩 金 觴 而 誰 御
a jade-pegged zither, a wagon rail splashed with
tears 橫 玉 柱 而 霑 軾
III
the one left behind lies down 居 人 愁 臥
in sorrow, mad as if bereaved 怳 若 有 亡
sun colors sink past the wall 日 下 壁 而 沈 彩
while rising moon shoots rays beneath the eaves 月 上 軒 而 飛 光
now that she has seen red cup-flowers receive the dew 見 紅 蘭 之 受 露
watches for frosty grey to take the Ch’iu tree’s
leaves 望 青 楸 之 離 霜
she circles tall pillars, hollow partitions 巡 曾 楹 而 空 揜
fingers the bed-tapestry, empty, cool 撫 錦 幕 而 虛 涼
she knows how footsteps falter in dreams of leaving, 知 離 夢 之 躑 躅
souls pulled asunder, whirling into flight 意 別 魂 之 飛 揚
IV
though parting snaps but a single thread 故別雖一緒
it frays into ten thousand forms-- 事 乃 萬 族
a dragon-horse with silver saddle 至 若 龍 馬 銀 鞍
ruby carriage, its carved hubs rolling 朱 軒 繡 軸
Loyang’s Valley of Gold, a banquet awning 帳 飲 東 都
filled to honor a departing lord 送 客 金 谷
V
flutes and drums join with the high-strung lute 琴 羽 張 兮 簫 鼓 陳
to make fine beauties weep, O songs of Chao and
Yen! 燕 趙 歌 兮 傷 美 人
pearls and jade brighten fall’s final days 珠 與 玉 兮 豔 暮 秋
gowns give to tender spring a silken sheen 羅 與 琦 兮 嬌 上 春
horses look up from their feed--wondrous music 驚 駟 馬 之 仰 秣
orange fish fins break through the pond 聳淵魚之赤鱗
hold back your tears, slowly release your hands 造 分 手 而 銜 涕
feel it, far down, quiet ache upon your being 感 寂 漠 而 傷 神
VI
so it was for errant swordsmen, ashamed for kindnesses
received 乃有劍客慚恩
young avengers 少 年 報 士
heroes in Han, in the sheds at Chao 韓 國 趙 廁
palace of Wu, Yen’s market square 吳 宮 燕 市
cut away nurture, turned from love 割 慈 忍 愛
gave up Country, abandoned Home 離 邦 去 里
parted wet-eyed with all they ever knew 瀝 泣 共 決
gazing, wiping sobs that bled like wounds 抆 血 相 視
they spurred their chargers and did not look back, 驅 征 馬 而 不 顧
saw only, from time to time, a road-dust plume 見 行 塵 之 時 起
--it was gratitude that moved them to the sword, 方 銜 感 於 一 劍
not bargaining for glory beyond the tomb. 非 買 價 於 泉 裏
a boy turned ashen at the royal chimes 金 石 震 而 色 變
a sister’s heart ceased, she hugged a brother’s bones 骨 肉 悲 而 心