Lin Yutang

　　The enjoyment of Nature is an art， depending so much on ones mood and personality， and like all art， it is difficult to explain its technique. Everything must be spontaneous and rise spontaneously from an artistic temperament. It is therefore difficult to lay down rules for the enjoyment of this or that tree， this or that rock and this or that landscape in a particular moment， for no landscapes are exactly alike. He who understands will know how to enjoy Nature without being told. Havelock Ellis and Van der Velde are wise when they say that what is allowable and what is not allowable， or what is good and what is bad taste in the art of love between husband and wife in the intimacy of their bedroom， is not something that can be prescribed by rules. The same thing is true of the art of enjoying Nature. The best approach is probably by studying the lives of such people who have the artistic temperament in them. The feeling for Nature， ones dreams of a beautiful landscape seen a year ago， and ones sudden desire to visit a certain placethese things come in at the most unexpected moments. One who has the artistic temperament shows it wherever he goes， and writers who truly enjoy nature will go off in descriptions of a beautiful snow scene or a spring evening， forgetting entirely about the story or the plot. Autobiographies of journalists and statesmen are usually full of reminiscences of past events， while the autobiographies of literary men should mainly concern themselves with reminiscences of a happy night， or a visit with some of their friends to some valley. In this sense I find the autobiographies of Rudyard Kipling and G. K. Chesterton disappointing. Why are the important anecdotes of their lives regarded as so unimportant， and why are the unimportant anecdotes regarded as so important？ Men， men， men， everywhere， and no mention of flowers and birds and hills and streams！

　　The reminiscences of Chinese literary men， and also their letters， differ in this respect. The important thing is to tell a friend in ones letter about a night on the lake， or to record in ones autobiography a perfectly happy day and how it was passed. In particular， Chinese writers， at least a number of them， have gone to the length of writing reminiscences about their married lives. Of these， Mao Pichiangs Reminiscences of My Concubine， Shen Sanpos Six Chapters of a Floating Life， and Chiang Tans Reminiscences Under the Lamp-Light are the best examples. The first two were written by the husbands after their wives death， while the last was written in the authors old age during his wifes lifetime. We will begin with certain select passages from the Reminiscences Under the Lamp-Light with the authors wife Chiufu as the heroine， and follow it with selections from Six Chapters of a Floating Life， with Yün as the heroine. Both these women had the right temperament， although they were not particularly educated or good poets. It doesnt matter. No one should aim at writing immortal poetry； one should learn the writing of poems merely as a way to record a meaningful moment， a personal mood， or to help the enjoyment of Nature.

　　

a. Chiufu

　　The banana trees that Chiufu planted had already grown big leaves which cast their green shade across the screen. To have heard raindrops beating upon the leaves in autumn when lying inclined on a pillow was enough to break ones heart. So one day I playfully wrote three lines on one of the leaves：

　　What busybody planted this sapling？

　　Morning tapping，

　　Evening rapping！

　　Next day， I saw another three lines following them， which read：

　　Its you whore lonesome， fretting！

　　Banana getting，

　　Banana regretting！

　　The characters were delicately formed， and they came from Chiufus playful pen. But I have learnt something from what she wrote.

　　One night we heard the noise of wind and rain， and the pillows and matting revealed the cooler spirit of autumn. Chiufu was just undressing for the night， and I was sitting by her side and had just gone through an album of hundred flowers with inscriptions that I was making. I heard the noise of several yellow leaves falling upon the floor from the window， and Chiufu sang the lines：

　　Yesterday was better than today；

　　And this year Im older than the last.

　　I consoled her， saying，"One never lives a full hundred years. How can we have time to wipe the tears for others （the falling leaves）." And with a sigh I laid aside the painting brush.

　　Chiufu loves to play chess but is not very good at it. Every night， she would force me to play " the conversation of fingers" with her， sometimes till daybreak. I playfully quoted the line of Chu Chuchia，"At tossing coins and matching grass-blades you have both lost. I ask you with what are you going to pay me tonight？""Are you so sure I cannot win？" she said， evading the question."I will bet you this jade tiger."We then played and when twenty or thirty stones had been laid， and she was getting into a worse situation， she let the cat upon the chessboard to upset the game."Are you regarding yourself as Yang Kueifei （who played the same trick upon Emperor Tang Minghuang）？" I asked. She kept quiet， but the light of silver candles shone upon her peach-colored cheeks. After that， we did not play any more.

b. Yün

　　In the Six Chapters of a Floating Life we have the reminiscences of an obscure Chinese painter about his married life with Yün. They were both simple artistic souls， trying to snatch every moment of happiness that came their way， and the story was told in a simple unaffected manner. Somehow Yün has seemed to me the most beautiful woman in Chinese literature. Theirs was a sad life， and yet it was one of the gayest， with a gaiety that came from the soul. It is interesting to see how the enjoyment of nature came in as a vital part of their spiritual experience. Below are two passages describing their enjoyment of the seventh of the seventh moon and the fifteenth of the seventh moon， both festivals.

　　While we were thus bandying words about， it was already midnight， and we saw the wind had blown away the clouds in the sky and there appeared the full moon， round like a chariot wheel， and we were greatly delighted. And so we began to drink by the side of the window， but before we had tasted three cups， we heard suddenly the noise of a splash under the bridge， as if some one had fallen into the water. We looked out through the window and saw there was not a thing， the water was as smooth as a mirror， except that we heard the noise of a duck scampering in the marshes. I knew that there was a ghost of some one drowned by the side of the Tsanglang Pavilion， but knowing that Yün was very timid， dared not mention it to her. And Yün sighed and said： "Alas！ whence cometh this noise？"and we shuddered all over. Quickly we shut the window and carried the wine pot back into the room. A lamp light was then burning as small as a pea， and the curtains moved in the dark， and we were shaking all over. We then put out the light and went inside the bed curtain， and Yün already had run up a high fever. Soon I had a high temperature myself， and our illness dragged on for about twenty days. True it is that when the cup of happiness overflows， disaster follows， as the saying goes， and this was also an omen that we should not be able to live together until old age.

　　The book is strewn literally with passages of such charm and beauty， showing an overflowing love of nature.