I have been reading translations of Chinese poetry: some by native speakers and some by western scholars. Some translators made great attempts to fit their words into a western format, meters and rhymes in tow. Others focused on remaining true to the original wording. Occasionally, some translations, while delivering vivid expressions, departed from the sources—words and forms, almost entirely.
Poetry, as a form of expression, reflects not only the personal sentiments of the poets, but also the social/historical background of their times. Their structures are the results of linguistic developments and literary trends. To me, only comprehensive knowledge of the works can lead to good interpretations and translations of poetic works.
The standard pronunciations of Mandarin Chinese bear little resemblance to those of Old Chinese and Middle Chinese. Despite the prescribed rules, it is a challenging task for most modern readers to fully grasp the rhyme schemes. Instead of fixating on pairing sounds, I prefer more flexible phrasings and cadences.
Words are route maps into the poets’ private domains: the images, the sounds and the scents in the air. What in their surroundings inspired them? Who were their audiences? Were their messages unspoken secrets? Were they shouting out to thousands? Each poem is a game of its own. Finding the right cues is the key to good readings and interpretations.
Reconstruct a poem in a different language is more than putting a puzzle together—as there are always missing pieces. The monosyllabic characters and tonal cadences of Chinese language beg for layers of considerations and reconsiderations. I don’t believe there are perfect solutions to these conundrums.
Translators of Li Qingzhao’s “shēng-shēng-màn” would be confronted by a delicate matter immediately: whether to pay homage to the word repetitions in the opening verses. In Chinese language, word repetition is a common practice which enhances the meaning of the words. Li’s handling of this device not only deepened the emotional impact but also solidified the prosodic effects. Her knowledge and sensibility to the tonality of words and its relationship to music led me to believe that the element of sound should not be overlooked by readers, interpreters, and translators alike.
While it is futile to match the sound of the original words, it is possible to catch Li’s intention. Four characters in her opening verses “清,” “淒,” “慘,” and “戚” share the same initial consonance /t͡sʰ/ in Middle Chinese.[1] One can hear in these words the sounds of rustling leaves—sounds of autumn. Even though I was not able to recreate such effects, I attempted in my translation to use words of similar sounds.
The first two words尋 and 覓 both can be translated as “search” in English. Ideogrammic elements of 尋 link the character with “hand” and “mouth”—hence, searching with hands and by calling. 覓 indicates searching by hand and by looking. I settled with “search” and “seek.”
The term冷清 means “desolation.” Separately, 冷 means “cold” and 清, “pure” or “quiet.” I chose the words “chill” and “still.” The following three words “淒,” “慘,” and “戚” all have the meaning of “misery” and “agony.” A friend reminded me to stay with monosyllabic words. Thus, “grim,” “bleak,” and “grief.” In comparison, matching “點點滴滴” in the second stanza with “drip, drip, drop, drop” was a much straightforward task.
Reading the words “乍暖,” my mind switched to “appena caldo” in Italian. 乍and appena both signal a sharp change immediately following the occurrences of a phenomenon or an event. Such perfect transition into English, unfortunately, was not to be found.[2] How interesting—yet, at the same time, frustrating—are the games of words! As I continue playing with words, I can only hope that my efforts contribute, though minutely, to further the exchange of ideas across cultures and times.
[1]Voiceless_alveolar_sibilant_affricate_Wiki Although the pronunciations of these words have changed over the centuries, the similarity is still audible in Mandarin Chinese. [2] I had a similar experience translating the lyrics of a folk song. The phrase “留戀地張望” can be explained as “lingering around to look [at her].” The Italian word “mirare”—gazing admiringly—would have provided a much satisfactory interpretation than “look.”
尋尋覓覓，冷冷清清，淒淒慘慘戚戚。
Seek, seek; search, search;
Chill, chill; still, still;
Grim, grim; bleak, bleak; grief, grief.
乍暖還寒時候，最難將息。
Scarcely warming, the air is yet cold—
‘Tis the hardest, acclimating to such a season.
三杯兩盞淡酒，怎敵他、晚來風急？
How could two, three cups of light wine fend off the rapid night wind?
雁過也，正傷心，卻是舊時相識。
Wide geese flew over, deepening my sorrow,
As they were my acquaintances from seasons past.
* * * * * * * * *
滿地黃花堆積，憔悴損，如今有誰堪摘？
Yellow chrysanthemums strewed all over the ground.
Now, withered and damaged, who would desire to pick them?
守著窗兒，獨自怎生得黑！
Leaning against the windows, alone, how could I tolerate the darkness?
梧桐更兼細雨，到黃昏點點滴滴。
Light rain falling on the leaves of parasol trees,
Drip, drip; drop, drop. . .’til dusk.
這次第，怎一個愁字了得！
All these, one after another, . . .
How could a single word— “sorrow”—suffice?
* * * * * * * * *
__Lǐ Qīngzhào李清照 (1084-1155)
In The Burden of Female Talent: The Poet Li Qingzhao and Her History in China, Ronald Egan wrote:
“When we think of Li Qingzhao today, we think of her as the greatest woman poet in Chinese history, and iconic figure in the Chinese literary tradition, celebrated both for her poetic talent and for the combination of that talent with her identity as a woman. There is no woman before her in literary history (and few if any) after as prominent and widely discussed.”[2]
Li Qingzhao[3] was born into a family of literary traditions. Her father was a well-respected writer and the vice-director of the Ministry of Rite. Her mother was a descendant of a prominent family of scholars and high officials. Since young age, she was not only offered good education but also permitted to express herself freely. A setting of “rú mèng lìng” 如夢令 (“dream-like tune”), written when she was sixteen years old, brought her instantaneous recognition among the elites.[4]
In 1101, she married Zhao Mingcheng 趙明誠, a student at the Imperial Academy. Coming from similar family backgrounds, and sharing many common interests, their marital life, lasted for almost three decades, was harmonious and productive. Both of them were passionate about epigraphy. Their efforts in collecting and studying inscriptions resulted in the publication of Jīn Shí Lù金石錄 (Records of Metals and Stones Inscriptions). The book was divided into thirty chapters. The first ten were chronological catalogues of thousands of rubbings, some dated back to the ancient time. The following chapters were critical commentaries on historical and written records of the inscriptions[5]
Li’s seemingly idyllic life turned tragic after the Jingkang Incident (1125-1127) when Jurchen-Jin tribe invaded the Song capital Bianjing 汴京. In early 1127, Zhao’s mother passed away in Jiankang 建康, today’s Nanjing. The couple rushed south for the funeral, leaving behind a large portion of their belonging in Qingzhou 青州. The Jin force took over the town in the twelfth month of the same year and destroyed their home.
In 1129, they travel westward on the Yangzi River, hoping to relocate in the Gan River 贛江 region. In the fifth month of the year, two months after they arrived in Chiyang 池陽, Zhao was appointed a new post in Huzhou 湖州 and was summoned to appear at the imperial court in Jiankang. He departed alone so Li could settle down in Chiyang. At the end of the seventh month, Li received news that her husband was gravely ill. Despite her hurrying to his bedside, he died within weeks.
As a widow, Li continued to travel unaccompanied from place to place seeking protection among relatives. Despite her best efforts and intentions, she was not able to protect most of her collections of books, and rubbings from predators and wartime chaos. In 1132, she remarried to a minor official named Zhang Ruzhou 張汝舟. This marriage last very briefly and ended in divorce. Ultimately, she settled in the new capital of the Southern Song Lin’an 臨安, today’s Hangzhou.
In the summer of 1133, Emperor Gaozong appointed the Commissioner of the Military Affairs Han Xiaozhou 韓肖冑 and the Minister of the Public Work Hu Songnian 胡松年 envoys to the Jin court. Upon hearing the news, Li presented two poems to the emissaries. In both poems, while seemingly praised the greatness of the emperor and the lords, by referencing historical figures, she skillfully expressed her oppositions to negotiation with the Jin.[6] She ended the first poem with: “This widow’s ancestors were born in Qi and Lu. Though low in their official status, they had excellent reputation among their peers. . . In recent years, their descendants crossed the river to the south, drifting among the refugees. Over the mountains and the river, I wish to spread my blood-stained tears on the soil of East Mountain of Lu.”
In the following year, Li wrote an “Afterword” to Jīn Shí Lù 金石錄後序, in which she recalled her life with Zhao Mingcheng: How they would forgo worldly pleasure in exchange for rare inscriptions, calligraphies, and paintings by great artists; how they, for ten years, lived frugally in her hometown Qingzhou. They found pleasure in investigating their collections and challenging each other’s knowledge. Those were the days that she wished could have lasted forever.
She also documented the tumultuous years after the Jin invasions in great details. They knew early on that they would not be able to keep their voluminous collection. Nonetheless, they could not have anticipated all the misfortunes ensued. She described Zhoa’s final departure to Jiankang: “On the thirteenth day of the sixth month, having unloaded his belongings and debarked [our] boat, he sat on the bank. Wearing hemp clothing, with his headscarf rolled up, he was vigorous like a tiger. Gazing with his brilliant eyes, he bid farewell toward the boat. . ..” Two months later, this high-spirited man died without leaving any post-life instructions.
Li’s works of her later years—reflections of her tumultuous experiences—were full of melancholy. An advocate of beauty and truth, Li led an unconventional life. She died childless. Her wish to return to her homeland was never fulfilled.
According to historical records, collections of Li Qingzhao’s works were printed and circulated during the Song Dynasty but lost in the following centuries.[7] Individual works by her, on the other hand, continued to appear in various anthologies. Siku Quanshu of the Qing Dynasty included a selection Shùyù ci《漱玉詞》by Li, based on a compilation by Mao Jin 毛晉 (1599-1659).[8] By tracing various sources, Egan listed 75 credible ci by her.[9] In addition, a few of her shi poems and prose essays are also in existence.
__The Tune
Structurally, “shēng-shēng-màn” 聲聲慢 belongs to the category of chángdiào 長調 (long tunes, verses over 90 words). In the standard form, there are 97 words, divided into two stanzas 雙調, each with four rhymed verses 四韻. Based on the rhyming-tones—level tone 平韻and oblique tone 仄韻, there are two sub-categories of versifications, each with multiple variations. Li Qingzhao’s setting was a modification of the oblique-tone style.
To understand the history and character of “shēng-shēng-màn,” one needs to appreciate the word “màn” 慢. Literally, it means “slow.” In classification of ci, it refers to the slow-moving chángdiào.[10] Extended sounds and infrequent rhymes—fewer interruptions, mànci 慢詞 were the best vehicles for delivery of meandering thoughts.
Zhao Buzhi 晁補之 (1053-1110) of the Northern Song Dynasty created a poem reflecting on the departure of a songstress Rúngnú 榮奴 from his household and named the tune “shēng-shēng-màn” 勝勝慢. “勝” could be interpret as “surpass.” By saying that his tune lingered further than other mànci, Zhao professed the incessantness of his feelings.[11]
In his setting of “shēng-shēng-màn —Autumn Sounds” 勝勝慢—秋聲, Jiǎng Jié 蔣捷 (1245-1301) repeated the end-rhyme “shēng 聲” (sounds): “秋聲” autumn sounds, “風聲” wind sounds, “更聲” sounds of night watch, “鈴聲” bell sounds, “笳聲” sounds of reed whistles, “砧聲” sounds of striking stone-block, “蛩聲” sounds of crickets, and “雁聲” sounds of geese.[12] Henceforth, 勝勝慢 became known as 聲聲慢. Although this change happened long after Li Qingzhao’s death, her setting had become synonymous with 聲聲慢, more widely known by readers of later periods.
__Autumn Sentiments
As a young poet, Li Qingzhao wrote an essay tracing the development of musical verses from the Tang Dynasty onward, in which she criticized several well-known scholars/poets, including Su Shi, her father’s mentor, on their ci writing:
“. . . with their all-encompassing knowledge, writing little lyrics, should be as easy as using a gourd dipper to ladle water out of an ocean. However, [their ci] were all merely unpolished shi, and often incompatible with the tunes.
Why so? Because words in shi are divided into level or oblique tones, while in ci, they are defined by five pitches, then five tones, then six modes; further, there are voiceless and voiced, light and heavy sounds. Also, in recent era, tunes such as “shēng-shēng-màn,” “yǔ-zhōng-huā,” and “xǐ-qiān-yīng” not only can rhyme on level tone but also on entering tone; “yù-lóu-chūn,” originally rhymes on level tone, then added rising-tone and departing-tone rhymes, as well as entering-tone. Tunes using oblique rhymes might sound harmonious in rising-tone rhymes. However, it would be unsingable in using entering-tone rhymes.”[13]
Decades later, no longer a proud and strong-willed young woman, Li composed “Autumn Sentiments,” expressing her profound loneliness. Even though the original musical sound of shēng-shēng-màn is no longer in existence, there should be little doubt that Li practiced what she preached.[14]
The opening reiterations are probably the most memorable and memorized fourteen words in Chinese literature. Word-doubling 疊字 is a common practice in Chinese language, used to intensify the meaning of the words. Li’s words led the readers into a surrounding, empty, cold, and silent. Yet, there were the sounds of rapid night wind, of geese, and of the unceasing rain—crescendo and decrescendo.
There were movements: The briskness of the wind brought only misery and coldness that a few cups of wine could not fend off. Wild geese flew over. Did they bring any news from the north? The rain, drip, drop. When would it stop?
Withered chrysanthemums lost their brightness. Leaves of parasol trees seemed greener under the rain. Nightfall, alas, would soon drape darkness over everything.
Sheng -sheng-man, Li Qingzhoa, narrated by Dashan
[1]文津閣四庫全書本《漱玉詞》, 題作「秋情」. [2]Ronald C. Egan, The Burden of Female Talent: The Poet Li Qingzhao and Her History in China, 44. Harvard-Yengching Institute Monograph Series 90, Harvard University Press, 2014. [3] In her writings, she used the self-chosen title: Yi’an 易安. [4] 昨夜雨疏風驟，濃睡不消殘酒。試問卷簾人，卻道海棠依舊。知否，知否？應是綠肥紅瘦。 [5]https://www.fieldmuseum.org/node/4986 [6] 趙彥衛《雲麓漫鈔》, 卷十四. In the introduction, she mentioned the connections between her family and Han’s distinguished ancestors. Citing the declination of her family and her lowly status, she would not presume to send off the emissaries. Instead, she wrote the poems to deliver her humble thoughts. The first poem was in the style of gushi (ancient style), divided into two major sections: 46 verses of 5-character lines, focusing on Han Xiaozhou’s devotion to the court and the significance of his mission, followed by 34 verses of 7-character lines, praising Hu’s virtue and valor. The second poem was a 7-character lüshi. [7] Two collections of Li Qingzhao’s works, Yi’an Jushi wenji 易安居士文集and Yi’an ci 易安詞were listed in the literary catalogues of History of Song, chapter 208 宋史藝文志, 卷208, 藝文志7 (1346). [8]Siku Quanshu, Chapter 198. 毛晉, 汲古閤, 詩詞雜俎. The original version of Shùyù ci were lost. The term 漱玉 refers to the tinkling sound of stream water washing over rocks, as if striking jade. (謂 “泉流漱石，聲若擊玉.”) It is believed that Shùyù ci was named after a spring in Li’s hometown. 漱玉泉_Wiki_zh-tw; Baotu_Spring#Other_springs_in_the_Baotu_Group_Wiki. [9] Egan, The Burden of Female Talent, 91-105. [10] The term chángdiào only indicates the length of the verses but not the tempo. [11] 晁補之《家妓榮奴既出有感》. 勝 can be pronounced as [shēng] in level tone or [shèng] in departing tone. [12] 黃花深巷，紅葉低窗，淒涼一片秋聲。豆雨聲來，中間夾帶風聲。疏疏二十五點，麗譙門、不鎖更聲。故人遠，問誰搖玉佩，檐底鈴聲。
彩角聲吹月墮，漸連營馬動，四起笳聲。閃爍鄰燈，燈前尚有砧聲。知他訴愁到曉，碎噥噥、多少蛩聲。訴未了，把一半、分與雁聲。 [13]李清照_詞論_Wikisource
李清照 《詞論》: “. . . 至晏元獻、歐陽永叔、蘇子瞻，學際天人，作為小歌詞，直如酌蠡水於大海，然皆句讀不葺之詩爾，又往往不協音律者。何耶？蓋詩文分平仄，而歌詞分五音，又分五聲，又分六律，又分清濁輕重。且如近世所謂『聲聲慢』、『雨中花』、『喜遷鶯』，既押平聲韻，又押入聲韻；『玉樓春』本押平聲韻，又押上去聲韻，又押入聲。本押仄聲韻，如押上聲則協，如押入聲則不可歌矣。”
The five pitches in a pentatonic scale are: gōng shāng jué zhǐ yǔ 宫商角徵羽. The five tones in Middle Chinese are dark-level, bright-level, rising, departing, and entering 陰平、 陽平、上、 去、入. There are twelve modes in Chinese music. “Lù” 律, strictly speaking refers to the six odd-number modes. [14] In theory, shēng-shēng-màn should be sung in xiānlǔ diào 仙吕调, a mode of refreshing sound and lingering expression. 周德清《中原音韻》: “仙呂宮清新綿邈.”
