In the first chapter of Dream of the Red Chamber, the novelist Cao Xueqin complains in a short poem, the last two lines of which read: ‘People take the author as crazy; / who can tell the book’s real flavor.’ In the increasingly difficult days in the contemporary China, perhaps the same can be said of The Shadow of the Empire.
Inspector Chen awakes wondering
if it is he who dreamed
of being a butterfly, or if it is
a butterfly that dreams
of being Robert van Gulik,
the manuscript still smelling
of the fresh and fragrant ink
from a fox-tail brush pen
on the desk.
APPENDIX
A group of poems written by Xuanji, and by some other poets related to Xuanji, such as Wen Tingyun, Han Shan, and Wu Zetian. Needless to say, Judge Dee was also a poet, though inferior in their company. So his work is not included.
Xuanji’s Poems
Willow Trees by the River
Letter to Wen Tingyun on a Winter Night
To Zi’an, Looking out across Han River in Sorrow
To Wen Tingyun
Letter to Zi’an across Han River
To a Girl in the Neighborhood
Letter to a Friend: Thoughts in the Late Spring
The Flute Sobbing
The Fading Peony
Reply to Li Ying’s Letter about Angling
To Guoxiang
Farewell
Grateful Response to Court Secretary Li for His Sending over the Precious Mattress
To Li Ying on His Return from the Fishing Trip in the Summer
A Visit to the South-Overlooking Tower in Chongzhen, and to the Post of the Newly Successful Candidates in the Civil Service Examination
Boudoir Sorrow
Wen Tingyun’s Poems
The Islet Enclosed in White Duckweed
Lament of the Inlaid Lute
A Green-Shaded Window
Water-Hourglass
Thousands of Woes
Fragrance from the Jade Burner
Wu Zetian’s Poems
Red Promenade Skirt
The Robe to Dee Renjie with the Inscription
Han Shan’s Poem
The Stars Spreading Out
Willow Trees by the River
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
The verdant trees stretching long
along the desolate bank, a tower distantly
dissolving into the faint mist,
petals falling, falling over an angler,
with the reflection rippling
on the autumn water,
the old tree’s root turning
into a secluded fish-hiding spot,
and the twigs low-hanging,
tying a sampan –
I’m startled out of a dream:
the night of roaring wind and rain
is infused with my new worries.
This is the poem Xuanji wrote at her first meeting with Wen Tingyun, a poem that instantly made her famous in the circle. In classic Chinese poetry, willow is a constantly used image suggesting love, melancholy, languidness. More often than not, those poems present lovers parting with weeping willows in the background.
Letter to Wen Tingyun on a Winter Night
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
Thinking hard, I search for the lines
to recite under the lamplight,
too nervous to spend the sleepless,
long night under the chilly quilt,
with the leaves trembling, falling
in the courtyard, fearful
of the wind coming,
and the curtain flapping
forlornly under the moon sinking …
Busy or not, I am always aware
of the unquenchable yearning
deep inside me. My heart remains
unchanged through the ups and downs.
The parasol tree being no place
for perching, a lone bird circles
the woods at dusk, chirping,
and chirping in vain.
Xuanji’s love poems are often in the form of letters to her lovers, among whom Wen Tingyun and Zi’an (Li Yi) were also well-known poets, so they wrote poems in response to each other, as was a popular practice among Chinese literati at the time. Wen was one of the most prominent Tang Dynasty poets, and a number of his poems could have been read as his letters to her. Zi’an, the man who ‘kept’ Xuanji for a short period as his concubine, was a successful official but a lesser poet, and none of his love poem letters to her were passed down to later generations.
To Zi’an, Looking out across Han River in Sorrow
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
Myriads of maple leaves
upon myriads of maple leaves
silhouetted against the bridge,
a few white sails return late in the dusk.
How do I miss you?
My thoughts of you run
like the water in the West River,
flowing eastward, never-ending,
day and night.
To Wen Tingyun
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
The crickets chirruping in confusion
by the stone steps, the crystal-clear
dewdrops glistening on the tree leaves
in the mist-enveloped courtyard,
the music floating from the neighbors
under the moonlight, I look out, alone,
from the high tower to the far-away view
of the lambent mountains. The wind chilly
on the bamboo mattress, I can only express
my sadness through the decorated zither.
Alas, you are too lazy to write a letter
to me. What else can possibly come
to console me in the autumn?
Letter to Zi’an across Han River
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
The south of the river looking,
looking across to the north
of the river, sorrowfully,
in vain. We keep on missing
and thinking of those moments
of reading our lines to each
other. Inseparable mandarin ducks
nestling on the warm sandbar,
and teals flying in pairs
through the tangerine groves,
a mist-enveloped song
barely audible in the dusk,
the moon shines gloomily
on the ferry. Alas, I am so far
from you, as if stranded
at the other end of the world,
feeling all the more unbearable
with the sound of the families beating,
washing their clothes in the river.
A number of Xuanji’s love poems to Zi’an present her standing by the river. While working at an official position somewhere else, Zi’an was also watched by his wife who was madly jealous of Xuanji, and he could not come down the river for her.
To a Girl in the Neighborhood
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
You cover your face with the silk sleeves,
bashful in the sunlight, too languid
to apply make-up in the worries
of the springtime. Alas, it is easier
to find an extremely valuable treasure
than a true-hearted lover.
Weeping against the tear-soaked pillow
at night, you suffer a heartbreak
walking in the midst of the flowers.
With a handsome talent like Song Yu
beside you, why should you feel bitter
about a cold-hearted Wang Chang?
In some Tang Dynasty poetry collections, the poem has another title: To Zi’an. Possibly an alternative title, which in itself speaks of her attachment to him, even in the days after he broke up with her. In the poem, Song Yu was a famous poet also known for his handsome appearance during the spring and autumn time period, and Wang Chang was another legendary good-looking but cold-hearted man in the Tang D
ynasty. In classic Chinese poetry, allusion or intertextuality is frequently employed.
Letter to a Friend: Thoughts in the Late Spring
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
Startled out of the lingering dream
by the oriole’s chirping, I touch
my tearful face with a light
make-up. A thin moon silhouetted
against the shady bamboo groves,
along the tranquil riverside,
the evening mist rising thick,
the swallows pecking wet soil
to build their nest, and bees flitting
among flowers for honey – alone,
I’m weighed down with all the worries,
with my self-murmuring
weighing down the pine branches.
The Flute Sobbing
(To the Tune of Yiqin’e)
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
The flute sobbing,
waking from her dream,
she sees the moon shining,
above the high tower. The moon
shining above the high tower,
the willows turn green again, year
after year, along Baling Bridge,
where lovers sadly part.
On the Cold Autumn Day
in Yueyou plateau,
no dust of a messenger rides
along the ancient path.
No dust of a messenger,
in the west wind, the sun set
against the Han royal mausoleum.
The authorship of the poem remains controversial. Some critics attribute it to Li Bai, but in terms of its style, others credit it to Xuanji.
The Fading Peony
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
So many blossoms falling,
falling in the wind, I am sighing,
with the fragrance fading,
failing in the disappearance
of yet another spring.
The peony proves to be too expensive
for the close-fisted customers,
and its sweet scent, too strong
to the flirting butterflies.
The royal palace alone deserves
such a blaze of red petals.
How can the green foliage
endure the dust and dirt
by the roadside?
Only with its transplantation
into the grand imperial garden
will those young dandies
come to regret.
Regarding the absurd political symbolism of the peony in the Tang Empire, particularly under the reign of Empress Wu, see the discussion in the section when Judge Dee first reads the poem.
Reply to Li Ying’s Letter about Angling
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
The boundless fragrance of the lotus flower
is sweet-scenting my summer dress –
but where are you, my lord?
When are you coming back,
paddling the sampan?
What a shame we are not
even comparable to a pair
of mandarin ducks swimming, splashing,
caring, cherishing, caressing
each other around the jutting rock
on which you sit angling.
Xuanji had a number of admirers, for whom she wrote romantic poems. Li Ying was one of those admirers, who succeeded with flying colors in the capital civil service examination in 855, and was appointed as an official. Li Ying and Xuanji were quite close. And those poems she wrote for him were suggestively salacious. In classical Chinese poetry, the image of mandarin ducks is symbolic of inseparable lovers.
To Guoxiang
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
Drunk at dusk, at dawn, I am missing
you, and the spring comes again
in the midst of my missing.
A messenger journeying through the rain,
and the solitary one standing
by the window is suffering
the heart-breaking pain.
Lifting the pearl curtain brings
the view of the distant mountains;
sadness overwhelms me again
with the green, sweet-smelling grass.
Alas, ever since our parting
at the exquisite banquet,
how many times the quiet dust
has fallen from the roof beams?
Farewell
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
During those soft, tender nights unfolding
out to my heart’s content
in the towering boudoir, little did I think
my ethereal love would one day leave me.
Waking or dreaming, I care not
about where the drifting cloud
is really heading –
a fading light,
a fluttering moth.
Grateful Response to Court Secretary Li for His Sending over the Precious Mattress
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
Spreading out the new precious bamboo mattress
under me in the emerald tower,
at once I feel the jade-green water rippling,
in the depth of my heart …
Alas, like the dumped silk fan
the mattress and the fan come to bemoan
with each other the common fate
in the autumn’s early arrival.
Court Secretary Li was none other than Li Ying. A central allusion of the poem is about Ban Jieshu (around 48 BC), an imperial concubine in the Western Han Dynasty, who wrote about the fate of a round fan in the autumn – in subtle comparison to her fate after she was deserted by the emperor. Ezra Pound wrote a short piece in imitation of it. And the mattress in Xuanji’s poem is an image in parallel: in the autumn’s early arrival, it too is cast aside. Xuanji sees the resemblance between the fan and the mattress once they are no longer important to the people who have used them.
To Li Ying on His Return from the Fishing Trip in the Summer
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
Staying in the same lane, we have hardly met
once through the year. Now
you’re sending an old acquaintance these cool lines,
the osmanthus buds newly gathered
from the sweet-scented tree.
The Way of the nature conquering
snow and ice, the heart of Zen
laughing at the splendor
of silk and satin. Treading high
into the Milky Way, we find
no trail connecting with
the mist-strewn waves
down beneath us.
A Visit to the South-Overlooking Tower in Chongzhen, and to the Post of the Newly Successful Candidates in the Civil Service Examination
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
Amidst the cloud-mantled peaks
the azure spring sky emerges,
greeting the eyes around;
all the bold, vigorous strokes
of the characters written
on the post appear as clear-cut
as silver hooks. The satin dress I wear,
alas, eclipses the shining poems
I write. Gazing up
at the long, long list
of the successful candidates, I envy,
envy them, in vain.
In ancient China, for the men of letters aspiring to success, an official career, and higher social status, the path was through the civil service examination, of which poetry-writing was an integrated part. The successful candidates were awarded government positions in accordance with their scores in the examination. The poem titles in classic Chinese poetry could be long, and this poem helps to explain why Xuanji felt so bitter about gender prejudice in the Tang Dynasty. A woman like Xuanji – in fact, all women – was barred from partaking in the civil service examination, however talented she might have been as a poetess. So she wrote the poem on the occasion of looking up at the list of new successful candidates, and she could not help feeling frustrated as an ambitious
female intellectual in the Tang Dynasty.
Boudoir Sorrow
Yu Xuanji (844–871)
A full grasp of weeds, I’m weeping
against the declining light,
only to hear a neighbor’s husband
returning home. Alas, the day you left,
wild geese were flying north
in the spring, and today, they are
flying south in the autumn.
Through the spring, through
the autumn, I keep missing you;
through the autumn, through
the spring, there is no message
coming to me. The windows
and doors shut, you are not here.
The noise of a wife beating,
washing her man’s clothes
in the stream –
Oh, why should the sound
come through to me,
piercing the silk curtain?
The Islet Enclosed in White Duckweed
Wen Tingyun (812–870)
After applying her make-up,
she stands leaning against the balcony,
looking out to the river, alone,
to thousands of sails passing along –
none is the one she waits for.
The sun setting slant,
the water running silent, long,
her heart is breaking
at the sight of the islet enclosed
in white duckweed.
Wen Tingyun was a celebrated Tang Dynasty poet. His most successful poems are a group of love poems speaking from a female perspective. It is believed that some of his poems originated from his romantic relationship with Xuanji, imagining what she could be thinking at the moment.
Lament of the Inlaid Lute
Wen Tingyun (812–870)
Still, no dream comes to her,
the split-bamboo-made mat cool
on the silver-inlaid bed.
The deep blue skies appear like water,
the night clouds insubstantial.
The cries of the wild geese journey
as far as the Xiaoxiang River.
The moon continues shining
into her room.