Chapter 10
With a Stupid Plan the Dragon King Breaks the Laws of Heaven Minister Wei Sends a Letter to an Officer of Hell
We shall not discuss how Chen Guangrui performed his duties or Xuanzang cultivated his conduct; instead we shall talk about two wise men who lived beside the banks of the River Jing outside the city of Chang'an. One was an old fisherman called Zhang Shao and the other was a woodcutter called Li Ding. They were both advanced scholars who had never taken the official examination, lettered men of the mountains. One day, when Li Ding had sold his load of firewood and Zhang Shao had sold his basketful of carp in Chang'an city, they went into a tavern, drank till they were half tipsy, and strolled slowly home along the banks of the Jing, each holding a bottle in his hand.
"Brother Li," said Zhang Shao, "it seems to me that people who struggle for fame kill themselves for it; those who compete for profit die for it; those who accept honors sleep with a tiger in their arms; and those who receive imperial favours walk around with snakes in their sleeves. Taking all in all, we are much better off living free among our clear waters and blue hills: we delight in our poverty and follow our destinies."
"You are right, Brother Zhang," said Li Ding, "but your clear waters have nothing on my blue hills."
"Your blue hills are not a patch on my clear waters," retorted Zhang Shao, "and here is a lyric to the tune of
The Butterfly Loves the Flowers to prove it:
The skiff is tiny amid the misty expanse of waves; Calmly I lean against the single sail,
Listening to the voice of Xishi the beauty.
My thoughts and mind are cleared; I have no wealth or fame As I toy with the waterweed and the rushes.
"To count a few gulls makes the journey happy. In the reedy bend, under the willow bank,
My wife and children smile with me.
The moment I fall asleep, wind and waves are quiet; No glory, no disgrace, and not a single worry."
"Your clear waters are no match for my blue hills," said Li Ding, "and there is another lyric to the same tune to prove it. It goes:
The cloudy woods are covered with pine blossom. Hush! Hear the oriole sing,
As if it played a pipe with its cunning tongue.
With touches of red and ample green the spring is warm; Suddenly the summer's here as the seasons turn.
"When autumn comes the look of things is changed; The scented chrysanthemum
Is enough for my pleasure.
Soon the cruel winter plucks all off.
I am free through four seasons, at nobody's beck and call."
"You don't enjoy the good things in your blue hills that I do on my clear waters," replied the fisherman, "and I can prove it with another lyric to the tune of The Partridge Heaven:
In this magic land we live off the cloudy waters; With a sweep of the oar the boat becomes a home. We cut open the live fish and fry the green turtle
As steam coils from the purple crab and the red shrimps bubble. Green reed shoots,
Sprouts of water−lilies,
Better still, water chestnuts and the gorgon fruit, Delicate louts roots and seeds, tender celery, Arrowhead, reed−hearts and bird−glory blossom."
"Your clear waters cannot compare with my blue hills when it comes to the good things they provide," said the woodcutter, and I can cite another lyric to the tune The Partridge Heaven as evidence:
Mighty crags and towering peaks reach to the sky; A grass hut or a thatched cottage is my home.
Pickled chicken and duck are better than turtles or crabs, Roebuck, boar, venison, and hare beat fish and shrimps. The leaves of the tree of heaven,
Yellow chinaberry sprouts,
And, even better, bamboo shoots and wild tea,
Purple plums and red peaches, ripe gages, and apricots, Sweet pears, sharp jujubes, and osmanthus blossom."
"Your blue hills are really nothing on my clear waters," replied the fisherman, "and there is another lyric to the tune Heavenly Immortal:
In my little boat I can stay where I like, Having no fear of the many misty waves.
Drop the hook, cast wide the net, to catch fresh fish: Even without fat or sauce,
They taste delicious
As the whole family eats its meal together.
"When there are fish to spare I sell them in Chang'an market To buy good liquor and get a little drunk.
Covered with my grass cloak I sleep on the autumn river,
Snoring soundly Without a care,
Not giving a damn for honour and glory."
"Your clear waters still aren't as good as my blue mountains," came back the woodcutter, "and I too have a
Heavenly Immortal lyric to prove it:
Where I build a little thatched hut under the hill The bamboo, orchid, plum, and pine are wonderful.
As I cross forests and mountains to look for dry firewood Nobody asks awkward questions,
And I can sell
As much or as little as the world wants.
I spend the money on wine and I'm happy, Content with my earthenware bowl and china jug.
When I've drunk myself blotto I lie in the shade of the pine. No worries,
No books to balance;
What do I care about success or failure?"
"Brother Li," said the fisherman, "you don't make as easy a living in the hills as I do on the water, and I can prove it with a lyric to the tune The Moon on the West River:
The smartweed's flowers are picked out by the moon While the tangled leaves of rushes sway in the wind. Clear and distant the azure sky, empty the Chu river: Stir up the water, and the stars dance.
Big fish swim into the net in shoals; Little ones swallow the hooks in swarms; Boiled or fried they taste wonderful−−
I laugh at the roaring river and lake."
"Brother Zhang," replied the woodcutter, "the living I make in the hills is much easier than yours on the water, and I can prove it with another Moon on the West River lyric:
Withered and leafless rattan fills the paths,
Old bamboo with broken tips covers the hillside. Where vines and creepers tangle and climb
I pull some off to tie my bundles. Elms and willows hollow with decay,
Pines and cedars cracked by the wind−− I stack them up against the winter cold,
And whether they're sold for wine or money is up to me."
"Although you don't do too badly in your hills, your life is not as elegant as mine on the water," said the fisherman, "as I can show with some lines to the tune The Immortal by the River.
As the tide turns my solitary boat departs; I sing in the night, resting from the oars.
From under a straw cape the waning moon is peaceful. The sleeping gulls are not disturbed
As the clouds part at the end of the sky.
Tired, I lie on the isle of rushes with nothing to do, And when the sun is high I'm lying there still.
I arrange everything to suit myself:
How can the court official compare with my ease As he waits in the cold for an audience at dawn?"
"Your life on the water may be elegant, but it's nothing compared with mine," replied the woodcutter, "and I have some lines to the same tune to demonstrate the point:
To be continue......(130)