By W. Somerset Maugham
THE PHILOSOPHER, by W. Somerset Maugham, from his On a Chinese Screen, pp. 147-158.
The Philosopher is undoubtedly Ku Hung-ming，辜鸿铭（汤生） （1847-1928）, who was then living in Peking. Maugham would have us believe that the interview took place in some such city as Chengtu, Szechwan. Ku had worked under Chang Chi-tung （张之洞）, one of the Empress Dowager's greatest viceroys （line 18, p. 152）. This essay has already been translated into Chinese. See 人间世，二十三年九月二十日，第二十期，三十二至三十七页，辜鸿铭访问记，黄嘉音译 （惟黄先生未翻译篇后的两首诗）． 在该期内亦有人证明 Somerset's Philosopher 是辜先生．
It was surprising to find so vast a city in a spot that seemed to me so remote. From its battlemented gate towards sunset you could see the snowy mountains of Tibet. It was so populous that you could walk at ease only on the walls and it took a rapid walker three hours to complete their circuit. There was no railway within a thousand miles and the river on which it stood was so shallow that only junks of light burden could safely navigate it. Five days in a sampan were needed to reach the Upper Yangtze. For an uneasy moment you asked yourself whether trains and steamships were as necessary to the conduct of life as we who use them every day consider;for here, a million persons throve, married, begat their kind, and died; here a million persons were busily occupied with commerce, art, and thought.
And here lived a philosopher of repute the desire to see whom had been to me one of the incentives of a somewhat arduous journey. He was the greatest authority in China on the Confucian learning. He was said to speak English and German with facility. He had been for many years secretary to one of the Empress Dowager's greatest viceroys, but he lived now in retirement. On certain days in the week, however, all through the year he opened his doors to such as sought after knowledge, and discoursed on the teaching of Confucius. He had a body of disciples, but it was small, since the students for the most part preferred to his modest dwelling and his severe exhortations the sumptuous buildings of the foreign university and the useful science of the barbarians; with him this was mentioned only to be scornfully dismissed. From all I heard of him I concluded that he was a man of character.
When I announced my wish to meet this distinguished person my host immediately offered to arrange it; but the days passed and nothing happened. I made inquiries and my host shrugged his shoulders.
“I sent him a chit and told him to come along,” he said. “I don't know why he hasn't turned up. He's cross-grained old fellow.”
I did not think it was proper to approach a philosopher in so cavalier a fashion and I was hardly surprised that he had ignored a summons such as this. I caused a letter to be sent asking in the politest terms I could devise whether he would allow me to call upon him and within two hours received an answer making an appointment for the following morning at ten o'clock.
I was carried in a chair. The way seemed interminable. I went through crowded streets and through streets deserted till I came at last to one, silent and empty, in which at a small door in a long white wall my bearers set down my chair. One of them knocked and after a considerable time a judas was opened; dark eyes looked through; there was a brief colloquy;and finally I was admitted. A youth, pallid of face, wizened, and poorly dressed motioned me to follow him. I did not know if he was a servant or a pupil of the great man. I passed through a shabby yard and was led into a long low room sparsely furnished with an American roll-top desk, a couple of blackwood chairs and two little Chinese tables. Against the walls were shelves on which were a great number of books:most of them, of course, were Chinese; but there were many philosophical and scientific works in English, French and German; and there were hundreds of unbound copies of learned reviews. Where books did not take up the wall space hung scrolls on which in various calligraphies were written, I suppose, Confucian quotations. There was no carpet on the floor. It was a cold, bare, and comfortless chamber. Its somberness was relieved only by a yellow chrysanthemum which stood by itself on the desk in a long vase.
I waited for some time and the youth who had shown me in brought a pot of tea, two cups, and a tin of Virginian cigarettes. As he went out the philosopher entered. I hastened to express my sense of the honor he did me in allowing me to visit him. He waved me to a chair and poured out the tea.
“I am flattered that you wished to see me,” he returned.“Your countrymen deal only with coolies and with compradores; they think every Chinese must be one or the other.”
I ventured to protest. But I had not caught his point. He leaned back in his chair and looked at me with an expression of mockery.
“They think they have but to beckon and we must come.”
I saw then that my friend's unfortunate communication still rankled. I did not quite know how to reply. I murmured something complimentary.
He was an old man, tall, with a thin gray queue, and bright large eyes under which were heavy bags. His teeth were broken and discolored. He was exceedingly thin, and his hands, fine and small, were withered and clawlike. I had been told that he was an opium smoker. He was very shabbily dressed in a black gown, a little black cap, both much the worse for wear, and dark gray trousers gartered at the ankle. He was watching. He did not quite know what attitude to take up, and he had the manner of a man who was on his guard. Of course the philosopher occupies a royal place among those who concern themselves with the things of the spirit and we have the authority of Benjamin Disraeli that royalty must be treated with abundant flattery. I seized my trowel. Presently I was conscious of a certain relaxation in his demeanor. He was like a man who was all set and rigid to have his photograph taken, but hearing the shutter click lets himself go and eases into his natural self. He showed me his books.
“I took the Ph.D. in Berlin, you know,” he said. “And afterwards I studied for some time in Oxford. But the English, if you will allow me to say so, have no great aptitude for philosophy.”
Though he put the remark apologetically it was evident that he was not displeased to say a slightly disagreeable thing.
“We have had philosophers who have not been without influence in the world of thought,” I suggested.
“Hume and Berkeley? The philosophers who taught at Oxford when I was there were anxious not to offend their theological colleagues. They would not follow their thought to its logical consequences in case they should jeopardize their position in university society.”
“Have you studied the modern developments of philosophy in America?” I asked.
“Are you speaking of Pragmatism? It is the last refuge of those who want to believe the incredible. I have more use for American petroleum than for American philosophy.”
His judgments were tart. We sat down once more and drank another cup of tea. He began to talk with fluency. He spoke a somewhat formal but an idiomatic English. Now and then he helped himself out with a German phrase. So far as it was possible for a man of that stubborn character to be influenced he had been influenced by Germany. The method and the industry of the Germans had deeply impressed him and their philosophical acumen was patent to him when a laborious professor published in a learned magazine an essay on one of his own writings.
“I have written twenty books,” he said, “and that is the only notice that has ever been taken of me in a European publication.”
But his study of Western philosophy had only served in the end to satisfy him that wisdom after all was to be found within the limits of the Confucian canon. He accepted its philosophy with conviction. It answered the needs of his spirit with a completeness which made all foreign learning seem vain. I was interested in this because it bore out an opinion of mine that philosophy is an affair of character rather than of logic; the philosopher believes not according to evidence, but according to his own temperament; and his thinking merely serves to make reasonable what his instinct regards true. If Confucianism gained so firm a hold on the Chinese it is because it explained and expressed them as no other system of thought could do.
My host lit a cigarette. His voice at first had been thin and tired, but as he grew interested in what he said it gained volume. He talked vehemently. There was in him none of the repose of the sage. He was a polemist and a fighter. He loathed the modern cry for inpidualism. For him society was the unit, and the family the foundation of society. He upheld the old China and the old school, monarchy, and the rigid canon of Confucius. He grew violent and bitter as he spoke of the students, fresh from foreign universities, who with sacrilegious hands tore down the oldest civilization in the world.
“But you, do you know what you are doing?” he exclaimed,“what is the reason for which you deem yourselves our betters? Have you excelled us in arts or letters? Has our civilization been less elaborate, less complicated, less refined than yours? Why, when you lived in caves and clothed yourselves with skins we were a cultured people. Do you know that we tried an experiment which is unique in the history of the world? We sought to rule this great country not by force but by wisdom. And for centuries we succeeded. Then why does the white men despise the yellow? Shall I tell you? Because he has invented the machine gun. That is your superiority. We are a defenseless horde and you can blow us into eternity. You have shattered the dream of our philosophers that the world could be governed by the power of law and order. And now you are teaching our young men your secret. You have thrust your hideous inventions upon us. Do you not know that we have a genius for mechanics? Do you not know that there are in this country four hundred millions of the most practical and industrious people in the world? Do you think it will take us long to learn? And what will become of your superiority when the yellow man can make as good guns as the white and fire them as straight? You have appealed to the machine gun and by the machine gun shall you be judged.”
But at that moment we were interrupted. A little girl come softly in and nestled close up to the old gentleman. She stared at me with curious eyes. He told me that she was his youngest child. He put his arms round her and with a murmur of caressing words kissed her fondly. She wore a black coat and trousers that barely reached her ankles, and she had a long pigtail hanging down her back. She was born on the day the revolution was brought to a successful issue by the abdication of the emperor.
“I thought she heralded the Spring of the new era,” he said. “She was but the last flower of this great nation's Fall.”
From a drawer in his roll-top desk he took a few cash, and handing them to her, sent her away.
“You see that I wear a queue,” he said, taking it in his hands. “It is a symbol. I am the last representative of the Old China.”
He talked to me, more gently now, of how philosophers in long past days wandered from state to state with their disciples, teaching all who were worthy to learn. Kings called them to their councils and made them rulers of cities. His erudition was great and his eloquent phrases gave a multicolored vitality to the incidents he related to me of the history of his country. I could not help thinking him a somewhat pathetic figure. He felt in himself the capacity to administer the state, but there was no king to intrust him with office; he had vast stores of learning which he was eager to impart to the great band of students that his soul hankered after, and there came to listen but a few wretched, half-starved, and obtuse provincials.
Once or twice discretion had made me suggest that I should take my leave, but he had been unwilling to let me go. Now at last I was obliged to. I rose. He held my hand.
“I should like to give you something as a recollection of your visit to the last philosopher in China, but I am a poor man and I do not know what I can give you that would be worthy of your acceptance.”
I protested that the recollection of my visit was in itself a priceless gift. He smiled.
“Men have short memories in these degenerate days, and I should like to give you something more substantial. I would give you one of my books but you cannot read Chinese.”
He looked at me with an amicable perplexity. I had an inspiration.
“Give me a sample of your calligraphy,” I said.
“Would you like that?” He smiled. “In my youth I was considered to wield the brush in a manner that was not entirely despicable.”
He sat down at his desk, took a fair sheet of paper, and placed it before him. He poured a few drops of water on a stone, rubbed the ink stick in it, and took his brush. With a free movement of his arm he began to write. And as I watched him, I remembered with not a little amusement something else which had been told me of him. It appeared that the old gentleman, whenever he could scrape a little money together, spent it wantonly in the streets inhabited by ladies to describe whom a euphemism is generally used. His eldest son, a person of standing in the city, was vexed and humiliated by the scandal of this behavior; and only his strong sense of filial duty prevented him from reproaching the libertine with severity. I dare say that to a son such looseness would be disconcerting, but the student of human nature could look upon it with equanimity. Philosophers are apt to elaborate their theories in the study, forming conclusions upon life which they know only at second hand, and it has seemed to me often that their works would have a more definite significance if they had exposed themselves to the vicissitudes which befall the common run of men. I was prepared to regard the old gentleman's dalliance in hidden places with leniency. Perhaps he sought but to elucidate the most inscrutable of human illusions.
He finished. To dry the ink he scattered a little ash on the paper and rising handed it to me.
“What have you written?” I asked.
I thought there was a slightly malicious gleam in his eyes. “I have ventured to offer you two little poems of my own.”
“I did not know you were a poet.”
“When China was still an uncivilized country,” he retorted with sarcasm, “all educated men could write verse at least with elegance.”
I took the paper and looked at the Chinese characters. They made an agreeable pattern upon it.
“Won't you also give me a translation?”
“Traductore—tradittore,” he answered. “You cannot expect me to betray myself. Ask one of your English friends. Those who know most about China know nothing, but you will at least find one who is competent to give you a rendering of a few rough and simple lines.”
I bade him farewell, and with great politeness he showed me to my chair. When I had the opportunity I gave the poems to a sinologue of my acquaintance, and here is the version he made. I confess that, doubtless unreasonably, I was somewhat taken aback when I read it.
“You loved me not: your voice was sweet;
Your eyes were full of laughter; your hands were tender.
And then you loved me: your voice was bitter;
Your eyes were full of tears; your hands were cruel.
Sad, sad that love should make you
Unlovable.”
* * *
“I craved the years would quickly pass
That you might lose
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-bloom of your skin,
And all the cruel splendour of your youth.
Then I alone would love you
And you at last would care.”
“The envious years have passed full soon
And you have lost
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-bloom of your skin,
And all the charming splendour of your youth.
Alas, I do not love you
And I care not if you care.”
Notes
Tibet， 西藏．
begat, gave birth to children.
of repute, of good reputation.
incentives, motives; stimuli.
arduous, laborious; difficult.
exhortations, inciting people to that which is good.
sumptuous, luxurious; splendid.
chit, a short note.
cross-grained, perverse; contrary; stubborn.
cavalier, easy; free; informal.
interminable, endless; without termination.
judas, a peephole, as in a door or wall.
colloquy, conversation; talk.
wizened, shriveled; withered.
calligraphies, brush-writing; penmanship.
somberness, dulness; gloominess; graveness.
Virginian cigarettes, mild cigarettes, as contrasted to the strong Turkish cigarettes.
compradores, Chinese agents or advisers employed by foreign business concerns to deal with their Chinese clients.
queue, hanging plaited tail, of hair or wig.
heavy bags, heavy pounches under the eyes, a sign of a dissipated life.
trowel, weapon. The trowel is a bricklayer's tool, used also as a gardening tool.
shutter click, the shutter of the kodak clicks when a picture is being taken.
Ph.D., Doctor of Philosophy, an academic degree.
Hume, David （1711-1776）, Scotch historian and philosopher.
Berkeley, George （1685-1753）, Irish philosopher.
jeopardize, imperil; risk; expose to loss or injury.
Pragmatism, in philosophy, a method of thinking concerned with thought as a process evolved with a useful purpose, and considering truth as tested by agreement with reality and by the practical results accomplished. William James and John Dewey are the first to propagate this attitude. Pragmatism is a protest against idle speculation regarding problems that have little to do with the practical questions that arise in daily life.
tart, sharp; caustic.
acumen, keenness of perception or discernment.
patent, evident; manifest.
canon, teachings or truths; principles; law, especially religious law.
vehemently, forcefully; eagerly.
polemist, controversialist; disputant; one who is ready to dispute a contrary opinion.
sacrilegious, violating sacred things; impious.
abdication of the emperor, on February 12, 1912, when the Abdication Edict was proclaimed, when the young emperor relinquished his throne.
heralded, ushered in; proclaimed; announced.
He is punning on the word Fall, playing on the same word but on different applications.
wandered from state to state. He had in mind Confucius, of course.
hankered after, longed for; yearned after.
obtuse provincials, not very acute or bright country boys; slow, mentally inactive students from the country.
Men have short memories, men do not remember for long.
scrape, gather; collect.
ladies to describe whom a euphemism is generally used, sing-song girls who have become prostitutes.Euphemism, a way of describing an offensive thing by an inoffensive expression—calling coal “black gold”（乌金）, or “inky jade” （墨玉）, for instance.
libertine, licentious man; a man who lives a very loose life.
equanimity, calmness.
disconcerting, embarrassing; confusing.
vicissitudes, irregular changes.
dalliance in hidden places, wanton or amorous play in houses of prostitution.
elucidate, throw light upon; explain.
the most inscrutable of human illusions, love （? ）.
sarcasm, bitter sting.
Traductore-tradittore, the Italian for “translation-traitor,” i.e., translation betrays, translation of what he has written would tell too much of Ku Hung-ming.
sinologue, one well versed in Chinese language and literature, in things Chinese.
taken aback, surprised; shocked.
Questions
1. Describe the city in which the philosopher lived.
2. Why did the author wish to meet the philosopher?
3. Why did the philosopher ignore the chit which told him to come along?
4. What details make you feel that the philosopher's chamber is “cold, bare, and comfortless”?
5. Describe the philosopher's appearance.
6. What was the philosopher's mood? Why? How did the author put him at ease?
7. What was his opinion of English and American philosophy? Why did he have a higher opinion of German philosophy?
8. What did he think of inpidualism? of returned students?
9. What did he consider that the “superiority” of the West consist in?
10. What effect did the coming in of his little daughter have on the philosopher's mood?
11. Why did the author feel him to be a somewhat pathetic figure?
12. What weakness did gossip accuse the philosopher of?
13. Why was the author somewhat taken aback by the content of the philosopher's poem?
参考译文
【作品简介】
《哲学家》一文选自威廉·萨默塞特·毛姆所著《在中国的屏风上》, 147—158页。
文中的哲学家无疑是指辜鸿铭（汤生）（1847—1928），他当时住在北平。毛姆让我们相信这场会面的地点是在某个类似四川成都的城市。辜鸿铭曾在慈禧太后最倚重的总督之一张之洞的幕下效力（152页，第18行）。本文已译成中文，见《人间世》,1923年9月20日，第20期，第32—37页，《辜鸿铭访问记》，黄嘉音译（惟黄先生未翻译篇后的两首诗）。在该期内亦有人证明毛姆笔下的哲学家是辜先生。