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66. Song of the Peach Blossom Spring | Wang Wei

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English translation

The fishing boat follows the water, taken with the spring in the hills; peach blossom on both banks hems an old ford.

The opening supplies a motive first: this is not a straying, it is love of what he sees. That gives the wonder that follows a reason to happen.

Sitting and watching the red trees he loses track of the distance; the green stream runs out, and no one is in sight.

Losing track of the distance stands beside no one in sight: one forgets how far, the other has lost all reference. This is how a man walks into a place with no people.

He slips along the mouth of the gorge through a first bend and hollow; then the hills open, the view widens, and at once it is level ground.

Two lines describe a passage: narrow first, then open. No word like suddenly is needed; the single word at once carries it.

Far off he sees one place where trees gather like cloud; coming closer he enters a thousand households with flowers and bamboo scattered among them.

Far off and coming closer are two separate moments: outline first, detail second.

The woodcutter is the first to bring in Han names; the people living there have not changed their Qin clothing.

Han names against Qin clothing — one line says the outside has changed, the other says the inside has not. This is the key contrast of the whole piece.

These people live together at the Wuling spring, and have raised fields and gardens outside the world of things.

Outside the world of things is the keyword of the poem. Their world is not entered on the ledger of the world outside.

In the moonlight the rooms under the pines are still; when the sun comes up through cloud, cocks and dogs make a racket.

The two lines make a whole day: quiet belongs to the night, noise to the day.

Startled to hear a worldly visitor, they crowd and gather; they race to lead him home and ask about the towns outside.

Worldly visitor is what these people call him. What they are curious about is not the man but the world he came from.

At daybreak they sweep the fallen blossoms aside and go out through the lanes; at dusk the fishers and woodcutters come home along the water.

This couplet gives their daily life in two things only: sweeping blossoms and going out at dawn, coming home by boat at dusk.

They left the human world at first to escape disorder; by the time they had become immortals they simply did not return.

The line explains where they came from, and the word simply marks the shift from having no choice to having no wish.

Inside the gorge who knows of human affairs; from the world outside one looks across and sees only blank cloud and mountain.

The two lines look at each other: inside does not know the outside, and the outside cannot see in. This mutual unknowing is the skeleton of the poem.

Not that he doubts a spirit place is hard to find; his dusty heart is not yet spent, and he thinks of his home town.

The first line concedes a point; the second gives the truth. The fisherman leaves not from disbelief but because he cannot let go of his own world.

Once out of the cave, never mind the hills and streams between; leaving his household behind, he means at last to wander there a long while.

Never mind means he does not care about them. Wandering a long while is what he plans once out — and it plants the loss that comes later.

He told himself he had been through once and would not lose the way; how was he to know peaks and gullies had changed since.

He told himself and how was he to know link confidence to its collapse. The peach blossom spring does not acknowledge a returner.

At the time he remembered only that he went deep into the hills, and that the green stream turned a few bends to the clouded woods.

What he recalls is all vague quantity — how deep, how many bends. He had not meant to record the way, and now there is no way to look for it.

When spring comes, peach blossom water is everywhere, and there is no telling where the spirit spring might be sought.

The close gives no answer. The mark that once led him there was peach blossom; now peach blossom is everywhere, and the reference fails.

赏析 · Commentary

桃源不在山里，在两个世界互不相知 · The Spring Is Not in the Hills but in Two Worlds Not Knowing Each Other

王维没有把重点放在奇遇上，而是放在两个世界的关系上。「樵客初传汉姓名，居人未改秦衣服」，外面已经改朝换代，里面还穿着秦时的衣服；「峡里谁知有人事，世中遥望空云山」，里面不知道外面，外面也看不见里面。这两处是全诗的骨架，其余的月下房栊、云中鸡犬、平明扫花、薄暮乘水，都是在这副骨架上填进去的生活。到最后渔人再回来找不到，也不是山变了，是那个「互不相知」的关系一旦被打破，世界就收起来了。这个处理方法比陶渊明原文更冷静：陶潜留下的是可再寻的记号，王维把记号抹掉了。

Wang Wei does not put the weight on the wonder; he puts it on the relation between two worlds. The woodcutter is the first to bring in Han names; the people living there have not changed their Qin clothing — outside the dynasty has already turned over, inside they still wear Qin dress. Inside the gorge who knows of human affairs; from the world outside one sees only blank cloud and mountain — inside does not know the outside, and the outside cannot see in. These two places are the skeleton; the moonlit rooms, the cocks and dogs in the cloud, the sweeping at dawn, the boats coming home at dusk are life filled into that skeleton. And when the fisherman comes back and cannot find it, it is not that the hills changed: once the mutual unknowing is broken, the world folds itself away. The handling is cooler than Tao Yuanming's original — Tao left a mark that could be found again; Wang Wei rubs the mark out.

「渔舟逐水爱山春」：把误入改成有意 · How He Got In: Turning a Straying into an Intention

陶渊明原文里，渔人是「缘溪行，忘路之远近」，误打误撞进了桃花源。王维起句改成「渔舟逐水爱山春」，先给了「爱」这个动机。这一改看似小，却把整个故事的性质变了：这个人不是碰巧，是被风景一路引进去的。后面「坐看红树不知远」接着写这份入迷。等到他离开，理由换成「尘心未尽思乡县」，同样是主观的。前后一对，进与出都是他自己的选择，桃源的问题就不再是运气问题，而是这个人配不配留在那里。

In Tao Yuanming's original the fisherman goes along the stream and forgets how far he has come — he stumbles in. Wang Wei's opening changes it to the fishing boat follows the water, taken with the spring in the hills, supplying love as a motive first. The change looks small but alters the nature of the story: this man is not there by chance, he is drawn in by the scenery. Sitting and watching the red trees he loses track of the distance continues the absorption. When he leaves, the reason is likewise subjective — his dusty heart is not yet spent. Set against each other, both entrance and exit are his own choices, and the question of the peach blossom spring stops being a matter of luck and becomes a matter of whether this man deserves to stay.

结尾为什么不给答案 · Why the Ending Withholds an Answer

末联「春来遍是桃花水，不辨仙源何处寻」，王维不写他找没找到，只写他分不清。当初引他进山的线索是桃花，一年之后桃花开满了所有的水口，线索失效了。这个结尾比写「再也找不到」更狠：找不到还有找的动作，分不清是连方向都没有了。全诗到这里停住，前面所有具体的景物——房栊、鸡犬、闾巷、渔樵——都收进一句模糊的话里。乐府旧题写桃源，多数要有个交代，王维偏偏把交代去掉了。

In the last couplet, when spring comes, peach blossom water is everywhere, and there is no telling where the spirit spring might be sought, Wang Wei does not say whether he found it. He says the man cannot tell one place from another. The clue that led him in was peach blossom; a year later peach blossom is at every water mouth, and the clue fails. This ending is harsher than writing he never found it again: never found it again still has the act of searching; cannot tell means even the direction is gone. The poem stops there, and all the concrete scenery before — the rooms, the cocks and dogs, the lanes, the fishers and woodcutters — is gathered into one blurred sentence. Most poems on this old yuefu title feel obliged to settle the matter; Wang Wei takes the settling away.

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