Yu Xuanji

Among the most famous female poets of the Tang Dynasty was Yu Xuanji, supposedly a child prodigy who began writing verse around age 11, and died in her 20s. Various versions of her biography exist, but the earliest is a deeply salacious and sensationalized one presented as a chuanqi, a tale of the strange and exotic, by Huangfu Mei, who lived a generation or two after Yu. First, I’ll present two of her most famous poems, in the most common recensions (though important variants exist). Then, I invite you to compare the Yu who appears in these poems with the version presented by her most famous biographer.

TWO POEMS BY YU XUANJI

Poem on a Riverbank Willow¹

Emerald runs along the overgrown shore; mistlike it enters the faraway buildings.

Reflections spread on the autumn water’s face: flowers drop on the fisherman’s head.

The old roots hide fish-hollows; the guest’s boat is tied to a lowered branch.

The rustling of a windy, rainy night / startles me awake, only adding to my sorrows.

Gifted to a Neighbor-Girl²

Ashamed to face the sun, I hide behind my sleeve;/ I’m too languid with spring sorrows to get up and dress.

A priceless gem is easy to find; / what’s hard to get is a man with a heart.

On my pillow I silently shed tears; / among the flowers I hide my heartbreak.

Well, I can still catch a handsome lover’s eye, / so why bother hating the last one?

There is an alternate version of this poem with the title “Sent to Li Yi.” Li Yi was supposedly Yu’s husband who had divorced her; the two different titles thus contextualize this poem differently, as either a poem consoling and encouraging a friend or blaming and guilt-tripping a former lover. Of course, it could have been simply re-used in both contexts, as the depiction of abandonment at its core, and above all the lament about a good man being hard to find, can be turned to many uses.

That second couplet in this poem is by far the most enduring piece of Yu’s writing, probably the only line of hers that counts as generally familiar in China today. It appears to have circulated on its own from as early as Yu’s own lifetime or shortly after. We can tell it was probably already among the most famous lines associated with her name by the 10th century, because it’s given a prominent place, though deracinated from the rest of the “Neighbor Girl” poem, in the earliest surviving account of her life. That brings us to:

YU XUANJI WHIPS QIAO³ TO DEATH AND THEN GETS EXECUTED

(From the Minor Writings of Sanshui 三水小牘 [910], by Huangfu Mei 皇甫枚.)⁴

Yu Xuanji was a Daoist nun of Xianyi convent in the Western Capital. She was born to a courtesan in Chang’an. Her beauty could topple kingdoms, and her mind was as if divinely inspired. She enjoyed reading and writing, and paid particular attention to verse and song. At 16⁵ she became set on the pure and numinous. Thus early in the Xiantong reign [860-874] she put on her nun’s habit at Xianyi Convent; there she would versify on nature in lovely lines which often made their way to scholarly circles. Now this delicate orchid could not stand on her own power, and so was often supported on the arms of brave knights, whom she would accompany on pleasure-outings.⁶ For a time various dandies vied in preening themselves for the right to take their liberties with her; when someone brought wine to visit her, she would play zither and compose poetry interspersed with risqué wit, enough to make half-lettered scholars feel quite inadequate. She wrote lines like:

“looking afar down splendid spring avenues,/ the jade strings awaken thoughts of autumn,”

or

“too earnest, ardent to speak,/ red tears run in paired streaks,”

or

“burning incense I ascend the jade altar,/ raising a tablet to honor the Golden Palace,”

or also

“passions in excess suppress themselves, but fight forth in dreams;/ the fragrance of this immortal’s beauty outmatches the flowers.”

These were some of her best couplets.

She had a servant girl named Qiao, who was also especially clever and pretty. One day, Xuanji was invited to a neighboring convent, and on the way told Qiao: “Don’t go out. If someone I know comes by, just tell them I’m out somewhere.” Xuanji was kept there by the other nuns, and didn’t get home until dusk, at which time Qiao met her at the gate and said: “Just now a man came by, but once he knew the Master of Cultivation wasn’t home, he left without dismounting.” This guest was someone Xuanji was intimate with, and she suspected Qiao of impropriety with him. That night she lit a lamp and bolted the door, then ordered Qiao into the bedroom and interrogated her. Qiao said: “I have been in your service for years, and have always restrained myself, and would never allow myself to commit this sort of error which would shame Your Worthiness. The truth is that this guest arrived and knocked on the door, then I reported from behind the door that you weren’t in, and he spurred his horse to leave without a word. For years I have stopped myself from building up any love in my heart – please, don’t doubt me!” All this only made Xuanji angrier, so she stripped Qiao naked and whipped her a hundred times, but she still denied everything. When her body had all but given out, Qiao asked for a cup of water and then poured it on the ground, saying: “You, O Master of Cultivation, wish to achieve the Three Purities and the Way of Long Life, yet cannot even cast aside the pleasures of girdle and pillow. Rather, lost to mere suspicion, you accuse a chaste and upright girl, and now I, Qiao, must die at your hands! If there is no Heaven, I’ll have nowhere to make my complaint; but if there is, who will be able to suppress my avenging ghost? I swear I won’t stay some idiot specter in the Netherworld, and let you carry on indulging your depravity!” Once her harangue was over she died right there on the ground.

Xuanji was afraid, and buried the body under a mound in the yard, telling herself no one knew what had happened. It was the first month of spring in the Wuzi year of Xiantong (868). If anyone asked about Qiao, Xuanji said: “she ran off after the spring rains cleared.” One day a guest was dining at Xuanji’s quarters, and stepped into the backyard to piss. When he stood on the mound, he saw dozens of green flies gathering on the ground, which returned each time he shooed them. When he looked more closely, he saw traces of blood, and it smelled like spoiled meat. After he left, he secretly told his servant about it. The servant went home and told his older brother. This older brother was a local patrolman, who had once asked for money from Xuanji, but she ignored him, and he still harbored a deep grudge about it. After he heard this story, he went to spy on the convent gates, and dropping in on conversations, he understood no one had seen Qiao coming in or out [for some time]. The patrolman called several of his colleagues, and they burst into Xuanji’s courtyard, shovels in hand, and dug up the grave. Qiao’s face looked as if she were still alive. The patrolmen then imprisoned Xuanji at Jingzhao Prefecture, and she confessed under interrogation, though many of the court officials spoke in her defense. The prefecture petitioned directly to the Throne, and that autumn she was put to death.

In prison she wrote a poem saying:

“A priceless gem is easy to find; / what’s hard to get is a man with a heart.

The bright moon shines on a dark crevice, / a light breeze lifts a short skirt.”⁷

That was probably her finest work.

—

Note that the poem which ends this biography reappropriates Yu’s famous line about the difficulty of finding an honest lover in the service of a final dirty joke. The line makes far more sense in the full context of the “Gift to a Neighbor Girl” poem, which is one piece of evidence not to take Huangfu’s version of her life too seriously; even as he praises her talent, it’s evident that that talent is mostly interesting as an accoutrement to what’s largely a piece of humorous and lightly supernatural 10th century eroguro.

1. 賦得江邊柳

翠色連荒岸，煙姿入遠樓。影鋪秋水面，花落釣人頭。
根老藏魚窟，枝低繫客舟。蕭蕭風雨夜，驚夢復添愁。

2. 贈鄰女

羞日遮罗袖，愁春懒起妆。 　

易求无价宝，难得有心郎。 　　

枕上潜垂泪，花间暗断肠。 　　

自能窥宋玉，何必恨王昌。

3. The original title gives the murdered maid’s full name, Lüqiao, in the title, then switches between that and a shortened form (Qiao); to avoid confusion I use her shortened name exclusively. Similarly, Yu Xuanji’s name is sometimes shortened to Ji, but I’ve kept her full name everywhere.

4. Original text: 西京咸宜觀女道士魚玄機，字幼微，長安倡家女也。色既傾國，思乃入神。喜讀書屬文，尤致意於一吟一詠。破瓜之歲，志慕清虛。咸通初，遂從冠帔於咸宜，而風月賞玩之佳句，往往播於士林。然蕙蘭弱質，不能自持，復為豪俠所調，乃從遊處焉。於是風流之士爭修飾以求狎，或載酒詣之者，必鳴琴賦詩，間以謔浪，懵學輩自視缺然。其詩有「綺陌春望遠，瑤徽秋興多」，又「殷勤不得語，紅淚一雙流」，又「焚香登玉壇，端簡禮金闕」，又云：「多情自鬱爭因夢，仙貌長芳又勝花。」此數聯為絕矣。一女僮曰綠翹，亦特明慧有色。忽一日，機為鄰院所邀，將行，誡翹曰：「無出。若有熟客，但云在某處。」機為女伴所留，迨暮方歸院，綠翹迎門曰：「適某客來，知鍊師不在，不舍轡而去矣。」客乃機素相暱者，意翹與之狎。及夜，張燈扃戶，乃命翹入臥內。訊之，翹曰：「自執巾盥數年，實自檢御，不令有似是之過，致忤尊意。且某客至，款扉，翹隔闔報云：『鍊師不在。』客無言，策馬而去，若云情愛，不蓄於胸襟有年矣，幸鍊師無疑。」機愈怒，裸而笞百數，但言無之。既委頓，請盃水酹地曰：「鍊師欲求三清長生之道，而未能忘解佩薦枕之歡。反以沈猜，厚誣貞正，翹今必死於毒手矣。無天則無所訴；若有，誰能抑我彊魂？誓不蠢蠢於冥莫之中，縱爾淫佚！」言訖，絕於地。機恐，乃坎後庭瘞之，自謂人無知者。時咸通戊子春正月也。有問翹者，則曰：「春雨霽，逃矣。」客有宴於機室者，因溲於後庭，當瘞上，見青蠅數十集於地，驅去復來。詳視之，如有血痕，且腥。客既出，竊語其僕。僕歸，復語其兄。其兄為府街卒，嘗求金於機，機不顧，卒深銜之。聞此，遽至觀門覘伺，見偶語者，乃訝不睹綠翹之出入。街卒復呼數卒，攜鍤共突入玄機院發之，而綠翹貌如生。卒遂錄玄機京兆府，吏詰之，辭伏，而朝士多為言者。府乃表列上，至秋，竟戮之。在獄中亦有詩曰：「易求無價寶，難得有心郎。明月照幽隙，清風開短襟。」此其美者也。

5. [lit. “melon-breaking year,” age of losing one’s virginity]

6. This whole line sags some under the rather grating satirical tone, and I’m departing a bit from the literal reading to smooth it out. “Brave knights” could be something like “playboys,” and Huangfu is obviously discussing rich young scholar-gentlemen, but he uses the language of gallantry (豪侠) in the half-ironic way typical of the time. Hopefully it’s clear that these are decadent sops, not actual heroes in shining armor.

7. More literally, “parts a short lapel” (襟 being the front of her robe), but you know what he’s going for.