Classical Prose

后赤壁赋

Hòu Chìbì fù

苏轼

Sū Shì

Shì suì shí yuè zhī wàng, bù zì Xuětáng, jiāng guī yú Língāo.

是岁十月之望,步自雪堂,将归于临皋。

Èr kè cóng yǔ guò Huángní zhī bǎn.

二客从予过黄泥之坂。

Shuāng lù jì jiàng, mù yè jǐn tuō.

霜露既降,木叶尽脱。

Rén yǐng zài dì, yǎng jiàn míng yuè.

人影在地,仰见明月。

Gù ér lè zhī, xíng gē xiāng dá.

顾而乐之,行歌相答。

Yǐ ér tàn yuē: “Yǒu kè wú jiǔ, yǒu jiǔ wú yáo.

已而叹曰:“有客无酒,有酒无肴。

Yuè bái fēng qīng, rú cǐ liáng yè hé?”

月白风清,如此良夜何?”

Kè yuē: “Jīn zhě bó mù, jǔ wǎng dé yú, jù kǒu xì lín, zhuàng rú Sōngjiāng zhī lú.

客曰:“今者薄暮,举网得鱼,巨口细鳞,状如松江之鲈。

Gù ān suǒ dé jiǔ hū?”

顾安所得酒乎?”

Guī ér móu zhū fù.

归而谋诸妇。

Fù yuē: “Wǒ yǒu dǒu jiǔ, cáng zhī jiǔ yǐ, yǐ dài zǐ bù shí zhī xū.”

妇曰:“我有斗酒,藏之久矣,以待子不时之需。”

Yú shì xié jiǔ yǔ yú, fù yóu yú Chìbì zhī xià.

于是携酒与鱼,复游于赤壁之下。

Jiāng liú yǒu shēng, duàn àn qiān chǐ.

江流有声,断岸千尺。

Shān gāo yuè xiǎo, shuǐ luò shí chū.

山高月小,水落石出。

Zēng rì yuè zhī jǐ hé, ér jiāng shān bù kě fù shí yǐ.

曾日月之几何,而江山不可复识矣。

Yú nǎi shè yī ér shàng, lǚ chán yán, pī méng róng, jù hǔ bào, dēng qiú lóng.

予乃摄衣而上,履巉岩,披蒙茸,踞虎豹,登虬龙。

Pān qī gǔ zhī wēi cháo, fǔ Féng Yí zhī yōu gōng.

攀栖鹘之危巢,俯冯夷之幽宫。

Gài èr kè bù néng cóng yān.

盖二客不能从焉。

Huá rán cháng xiào, cǎo mù zhèn dòng, shān míng gǔ yìng, fēng qǐ shuǐ yǒng.

划然长啸,草木震动,山鸣谷应,风起水涌。

Yú yì qiǎo rán ér bēi, sù rán ér kǒng, lǐn hū qí bù kě liú yě.

予亦悄然而悲,肃然而恐,凛乎其不可留也。

Fǎn ér dēng zhōu, fàng hū zhōng liú, tīng qí suǒ zhǐ ér xiū yān.

反而登舟,放乎中流,听其所止而休焉。

Shí yè jiāng bàn, sì gù jì liáo.

时夜将半,四顾寂寥。

Shì yǒu gū hè, héng jiāng dōng lái.

适有孤鹤,横江东来。

Chì rú chē lún, xuán shang gǎo yī, jiá rán cháng míng, lüè yǔ zhōu ér xī yě.

翅如车轮,玄裳缟衣,戛然长鸣,掠予舟而西也。

Xū yú kè qù, yǔ yì jiù shuì.

须臾客去,予亦就睡。

Mèng yī dào shì, yǔ yī pián xiān, guò Língāo zhī xià, yī yǔ ér yán yuē: “Chìbì zhī yóu lè hū?”

梦一道士,羽衣蹁跹,过临皋之下,揖予而言曰:“赤壁之游乐乎?”

Wèn qí xìng míng, fǔ ér bù dá.

问其姓名,俯而不答。

“Wū hū! Yī xī! Wǒ zhī zhī yǐ.

“呜呼!噫嘻!我知之矣。

Chóu xī zhī yè, fēi míng ér guò wǒ zhě, fēi zǐ yě yé?”

畴昔之夜,飞鸣而过我者,非子也耶?”

Dào shì gù xiào, yǔ yì jīng wù.

道士顾笑,予亦惊寤。

Kāi hù shì zhī, bù jiàn qí chù.

开户视之,不见其处。


Translation

In the tenth month of the same year, on the night of the full moon, I walked from Snow Hall back toward Lingao. Two guests accompanied me past the Huangni Slope. Frost and dew had already fallen; the trees had shed every leaf. Our shadows lay upon the ground. Looking up, we saw the bright moon. Delighted by the scene, we walked along singing to each other. Then I sighed: 'I have guests but no wine. Even if I had wine, there is no dish. The moon is white and the wind is clear — what shall we do with such a fine night?' One guest said: 'Just at dusk I cast a net and caught a fish — large mouth, fine scales, like the perch of Songjiang. But where can we get wine?' I returned and consulted my wife. She said: 'I have a full measure of wine, stored away for a long time, for just such an unexpected need.' So we took the wine and fish and set out again beneath Red Cliff. The river flowed with a rushing sound. The sheer banks rose a thousand feet. The mountain was high and the moon seemed small; the water had fallen and rocks emerged. How many days had passed, and the river and hills had become unrecognizable! I hitched up my robe and climbed ashore, treading on steep crags, pushing through thick undergrowth, crouching on tiger-like rocks, clambering over twisted dragon-like trees. I scaled the perilous nest of a falcon and looked down on the dark palace of the water god Feng Yi. Neither of my guests could follow. I gave a long, piercing whistle. Grasses and trees shook. The mountain called back and the valley echoed. Wind rose and water surged. I grew suddenly sad and afraid, chilled by the inhuman stillness. I turned back to the boat and set it adrift on the current, letting it go wherever it pleased. It was nearly midnight. Everywhere was silent and empty. Just then a solitary crane came flying from the east across the river. Its wings were like cartwheels; its tail was black, its body white. It gave a sharp, long cry, swept past our boat, and flew west. Soon the guests left, and I went to sleep. I dreamed of a Taoist priest in feathered robes, who passed beneath Lingao Pavilion, bowed to me and said: 'Was the excursion to Red Cliff pleasant?' I asked his name, but he only bowed his head without answering. 'Ah!' I said. 'Now I understand. Last night, the one that flew and cried as it passed my boat — was that not you?' The priest looked back and smiled. I woke with a start. Opening the door to look, I could not see him anywhere.

Analysis

The Later Red Cliff Rhapsody is Su Shi's companion piece to the Former Red Cliff Rhapsody, written three months later in the same year. While the former is set in the luminous autumn, this one takes place in the cold winter landscape. The mood is stark, mysterious, and deeply personal. The opening is crisp and spare: frost and dew have fallen, leaves are gone, human shadows lie on the ground under the bright moon. The tone is lonelier than the first rhapsody. The middle section has a domestic quality — finding fish, consulting the wife, discovering hidden wine. These small human details ground the extraordinary night in ordinary life. When they reach Red Cliff, the landscape has transformed: 'The river flowed with a rushing sound. The sheer banks rose a thousand feet. The mountain was high and the moon seemed small; the water had fallen and rocks emerged.' The famous phrase 'water has fallen, rocks have emerged' captures the starkness of winter. Su Shi's solo climb into the harsh terrain is physically vigorous and psychologically revealing. His long whistle startles the entire landscape. But the mood shifts from exhilaration to fear: 'I grew suddenly sad and afraid, chilled by the inhuman stillness.' This is the emotional turning point. The solitary crane is the most mysterious element — appearing suddenly, flying across the river with a sharp cry, heading west. In Chinese tradition, the crane is associated with transcendence, immortality, and the Taoist quest. The dream of the Taoist priest who may or may not be the crane blurs the boundary between reality and symbol. The ending — opening the door and finding nothing — is deliberately inconclusive. The two Red Cliff rhapsodies complement each other perfectly: the former resolves anxiety through philosophy, the latter through mystery. Together they represent Su Shi's two ways of meeting suffering — rational understanding and spiritual openness to the unknown.

About the Author

Su Shi, courtesy name Zizhan and literary name Dongpo Jushi, was a Northern Song writer, poet, calligrapher, painter, and statesman from Meishan in Meizhou. He is one of the 'Eight Great Masters of the Tang and Song' and one of the most accomplished literary figures in Chinese history.