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:
On an autumn day I carry my axe along the greeny path
Bringing the load back in the cool of evening,
Putting wild flowers in my hair, just to be different,
I push aside the clouds to find my way home,
And the moon is up when I tell them to open the door.
Rustic wife and innocent son greet me with smiles,
And I recline on my bed of grass and wooden pillow.
Steamed millet and pear are spread before me,
While the new wine is warm in the pot: This is really civilized.”
“All this is about our living and the ways we provide for ourselves,” said the fisherman. “I can prove to you that your leisure is nowhere near as good as mine with a poem that goes:
Idly I watch the white cranes as they cross the sky;
As I Moor the boat at the river's bank, a blue door gives me shade.
Leaning on the sail I teach my son to twist a fishing line,
When rowing's done I dry the nets out with my wife.
A settled nature can really know the calm of the waves;
A still body feels the lightness of the breeze.
Always to wear a green straw cape and a blue straw hat
Is better than the purple robes of the court.”
“Your leisure doesn't come up to mine,” replied the woodcutter, “as this poem I shall now recite demonstrates:
With a lazy eye on the white clouds in the distance,
I sit alone in a thatched but, then close the bamboo door.
When there's nothing to do I teach my son to read;
Sometimes a visitor comes and we play a game of chess.
When I'm happy I take my stick and walk singing along the paths,
Or carry my lute up the emerald hills.
Grass shoes with hempen thongs, a cloak of coarsest cloth,
A mind relaxed: better than wearing silk.”
“Li Ding,” said the other, “how truly it can be said of us that 'by reciting some verses we become close friends: What need for golden winecups and a sandalwood table?' But there is nothing remarkable in just reciting verses; what would you say if we made couplets in which we each contributed a line about our lives as fisherman and woodcutter?”
“Brother Zhang,” said Li Ding, “that is an excellent suggestion. Please be the one to start.” Here are their couplets:
My boat is moored in the green waters amid the misty waves;
My home is in the wilds, deep in the mountains.
How well I like the swollen stream under the bridge in spring;
My delight is a mountain peak swathed in clouds at dawn.
Dragon-sized fresh carp cooked at any time;
Dry, rotten, firewood always keeps one warm.
A full array of hooks and nets to support my old age;
Carrying wood and making twine will keep me till I die.
Lying back in a tiny boat watching the flying geese;
Reclining beside the grassy path and hearing the wild swans call.
I have no stall in the marketplace of tongues;
I've left no trace in the sea of disputation.
The nets hung to dry beside the brook are like brocade;
An axe well honed on rock is sharper than a spear.
Under the shining autumn moon I often fish alone;
I meet nobody on the solitary mountain in spring.
I trade my surplus fish for wine and drink it with my wife;
When I've wood to spare I buy a bottle and share it with my sons.
Singing and musing to myself I'm as wild as I care to be;
Long songs, long sighs, I can let myself be crazy.
I invite my brothers and cousins and fellow boatmen;
Leading my friends by the hand I meet the old man of the wilds.
As we play guess-fingers the cups fly fast;
When we make riddles the goblets slowly circulate.
Saute or boiled crab is a delight every morning;
Plenty of fried duck and chicken cooked in ashes every day.
As my simple wife brews tea, my spirits are untrammelled;
While my mountain spouse cooks supper, my mind is at ease.
At the coming of dawn I wash my stick in the ripples;
When the sun rises I carry firewood across the road.
After the rain I put on my cloak to catch live carp;
I wield my axe before the wind to fell a withered pine.
I cover my tracks and hide from the world, acting the imbecile;
I change my name and pretend to be deaf and dumb.
“Brother Li,” said Zhang Shao. “I unfairly took the first lines just now, so now it's your turn to compose the first lines while I follow you.” Thus they continued:
The man of the mountains acting mad under wind and moon;
The haughty and unwanted dotard of the river.
With his share of idleness, and able to be quite free;
No sound from his voice as he revels in his peace.
On moonlit nights he sleeps secure in a cottage of thatch;
He lightly covers himself at dusk with clothes of reed.
His passion spent, he befriends the pine and the plum;
He is happy to be the companion of cormorant and gull.
Fame and profit count for nothing in his mind;
His ears have never heard the clash of arms.
One is always pouring out fresh rice-wine,
The other has wild vegetable soup with every meal.
One makes a living with two bundles of firewood;
The other supports himself with rod and line.
One idly tells his innocent son to sharpen the axe of steel;
The other quietly bids his slow-witted child to mend the nets.
In spring one likes to see the willows turning green;
When the seasons change the other enjoys the rushes' blue.
Avoiding the summer heat, one trims the new bamboo;