Note:** Wang Yuanqi passed away in Beijing on July 23, 1938. This eulogy was published in the supplement of New Beijing newspaper on August 16, 1938, with an introduction from the newspaper’s editor. Following the custom of the time, Li Xuying signed her name as “Wang Li Xuying,” adopting her husband’s surname before her own. In addition to expressing her deep love and grief for her late husband, the piece also offers glimpses into the couple’s life together — how they met and remained devoted to one another. The original text was reproduced from microfilm of New Beijing held at the National Library of China. In a few places, the characters are unclear and have been inferred from context. The eulogy is written in the modern classical style typical of the Republican era; in translating it, every effort was made to interpret ambiguities appropriately, though omissions and errors may remain.
注：王元奇1938年7月23日于北京病逝。这篇祭文及编者按发表于1938年8月16日的《新北京》报副刊。李旭英遵循当时的传统，以冠夫姓的方式署名”王李旭英”。除了李旭英对亡夫情深意重的追思，文章也为李王二人的相识相守的经历提供了一些线索。原文复制于国家图书馆藏《新北京》微缩胶片，个别地方字迹不清，只能根据上下文推测。文章体例可算是民国时期的新文言，翻译时对歧义处尽量合理取舍，疏漏错误难免。
祭亡夫王元奇君文
王李旭英
故前本报艺术记者青年艺术家王元奇君，于上月二十三日在京病逝，得年仅二十六岁，闻者无不惋惜。其夫人李旭英女士，学德兼备，夫妻感情弥笃，王君故后，丧事皆夫人一手治之，并以抚孤重责自任，贤德可风。中元之期，夫人自撰祭文，躬赴法源寺灵前致奠，一字一泪，如诉如泣，悲伤哀悼，见于字里行间，爰志其文，亦以纪念王君之精神不朽也。下刊铜图，为王君遗作实用图案之编织物花边设计两种，王君生前固专习实用美术者。（编者）
维民国二十七年中元节，旭英谨以清茗贱羞尺素河鲜，四者虽微，泉则自炊，羹则亲调，文字通诚，莲藕贡意，致祭于元奇吾爱之灵曰:
呜呼吾爱，长相别矣，人天异路，仙凡遥隔，苍蒲莲萎，久呈预兆，玫瑰花残，近示忏因，俗债待清，暂时苦我，尘缘已尽，无计留君，虽此别在君在我，均期以少则数月，多则数年，君灵惆怅，暂无以安，我心凄怆，殊难自解。忆自十八年秋，艺术院内，怜才别具青眼，念一年春，实美楼头，偕老同证素心，只期十龄相差，愁君送我，不图六载伉俪，留我悼君，文昌阁在，人事已非，实美楼易，沧桑久改，陌上花飞，万寿山游不再，园中水暖，春明馆展犹昨。
熟料鸾镜双分，牙梳寸断，孤枕无寐，单衾难温，晨曦窗前，不堪重怀故梦，晚报声里，何忍重听新音，宝砚宿墨，尤存手泽，金炉遗香，又作清供，残脂剩粉，丹青染成碧血，断简零篇，珠玑留作遗恨，当君生时，孤标自许，修洁异人，秉日月之精华，得天地之奇气，耳之聪，目之明，手之巧，心之灵，非同凡响，若有宿慧，亲朋交誉，师长咸惊，虽得年只念六，而遗作有万千，谁云君亡，君之暂亡者躯克耳，群仰君存，君之久存者灵气也，抑得天独厚，造物遭姤，怀才不举，壮志谁诉。
岂上帝怜才，召赴玉楼，或神灵遭贬，历劫尘埃，致不获回生之药，中西神医束手，难觅返魂之香，长幼骨肉痛心，感念畴昔，长女将生，载矜载怜，君代劬劳，调饥调寒，我安营养，外折米斗之腰，内负千金之担，同甘艰苦，共挽危局，暨夫美术社兴，奔走经营，穷日继夜，挥毫不停，画刊两出，金尽力绝，即至东游，惜别依依，鸿雁朝发，鲤鱼夕至，两地相思，为我呕血，一舟冒险，为我犯浪，客岁西去，更增惆怅，棋枰召友，断我离情，车船迟仆，添君别恨。
至于双桨乍举，二竖为灾，次婴甫降，全力载道，郎已憔悴，尤谋未来金屋之贮，我尚筹策，不悟已成沉疴之疾，尤痛弥留筵前，殷殷劝我加餐，晚凉风里，谆谆嘱我添衣，君智于我，择时能挥慧剑，我痴于君，终年怎断情丝，即至三日来扫，怨气英灵，天地震怒，痛我孤孩，泪洒条幅，五日入庙，扶童起行，迷离倩影，绰约细腰，仿佛生前，托诸梦兆，六日回煞，旧情眷恋，烛光缭绕，庭院盘旋，乍离乍合，别魂飞扬，疑真疑假，离恨忧伤，九日整棺，双莲入云，示我奇迹，慰我心灵，子夜梦回，依稀在抱，位彼莲台，敛戚微笑。
丰颐广额，宿疾与积恨并消，甜吻蜜言，仙缘共俗恋重发，生为奇人，殁为灵异，定有宿因，得此奇气，惜乎仙云易散，芳趾难寻，上瞻遗像，下抚弱婴，凄风西起，皓月东升，素蜡淡浥，细雨黄昏，感世情之多艰，触景物而销魂，悲夫，宣南古寺，一棺凭悼，府北故庐，双梁并折，月有圆缺，人有离合，月缺能圆，人离难合，望月唏嘘，抚影滂沱，转念尘缘虽浅，十年之约已近，宿念犹深，三生之盟可期，届时轻车快马，速来接我，神仙眷属，更胜人间，庶几三五清光，不为我嫉，朝夕愁云，聊为我开，魂兮有零，有以待我，魂兮有零，有以慰我。
又歌以慰之曰：
玉山已倾兮，何以为家，流水长逝兮，随天之涯，空晦瞑兮无色，内忧结兮回肠，琴瑟断兮君弦绝，血泪尽兮哀乐张，嗟人生之修短，悟荣枯之有数，已烟断而火绝，暂含酸而忍悲，捐躯取义兮，秉正义而长存，杀身成仁兮，终舍生而自引，归遗骨兮同穴，誓柏舟兮明心，呜呼哀哉，伏惟尚飨。
Eulogy for My Husband Yuanqi
Former arts reporter of this newspaper and young artist Mr. Wang Yuanqi sadly passed away in Beijing on the 23rd of last month, at the tender age of twenty-six. All who heard the news were filled with sorrow and regret. His wife, Ms. Li Xuying, a woman of both learning and virtue, shared a deep, loving bond with him. After his passing, she single-handedly arranged all funeral affairs, and took upon herself the heavy responsibility of raising their children alone — her exemplary conduct is truly admirable. On the occasion of the Ghost Festival, she composed this eulogy and personally went to Fayuan Temple to offer it before his spirit. Each word carries a tear, each phrase a cry; grief and mourning fill every line. We hereby record this piece, in remembrance of Mr. Wang’s enduring spirit. Below are copperplate images of two applied pattern designs for woven lace, which are among Mr. Wang’s posthumous works, befitting his specialization in applied arts.
(Editor)
On the Ghost Festival of the 27th year of the Republic (1938), I, Xuying, humbly offer clear tea, simple food, a handwritten letter, and a dish of fresh river delicacy. Though these are four modest tributes, the tea is brewed by myself, the soup seasoned by my own hand, the words written with true feeling, and the lotus roots a token of my devotion. These I present in mourning before the spirit of my beloved Yuanqi, and say:
Alas, my love! We are parted forever — you and I now walk different paths, one in the human world, the other among the immortals, the realms forever divided. The withering of blue rush and lotus long gave warning; the fading of roses signaled the cause of your suffering. Earthly debts remain for me to settle—this burden is mine alone. Earthly ties have been severed — I had no means to keep you here. Though we once believed this parting would last but months, or at worst a few years. Your spirit lingers in sorrow, unrested; my heart remains steeped in grief, unable to find peace. I recall the autumn of the 18th year (1929), within the art academy, our discerning eyes recognized each other’s talent. In the spring of the 21st year (1932), atop the Applied Arts Building, we pledged our sincere hearts to grow old together. The ten-years age difference only made me fear you would one day send me off — never imagining that after six years of marriage, I would be left to mourn you. Wenchang Pavilion still stands, but all else has changed. The Applied Arts Building has been altered; the tides of time have transformed all. Blossoms still flutter on the path; our strolls at Longevity Hill are no more. The garden’s water remains warm, and the Spring Light Hall exhibition still seems like yesterday.
Who could have foreseen the parting of the phoenix mirror, the snapping of the ivory comb? Now I lie awake on a solitary pillow, unable to warm a thin quilt. Morning light through the window only revives painful memories; the evening paperboy’s cry stings with fresh pain. Your treasured inkstone holds old ink still moist with your touch. The golden censer still releases familiar scent, serving as my offering. Leftover rouge and powder — pigments once painted with now seem stained with blood. Scattered pages, broken drafts — pearls of thought turned into relics of regret. In life, you set yourself apart with lofty ideals. Clean and unsullied, you were unlike others. Bestowed with the essence of sun and moon, blessed with the rare spirit of heaven and earth. Your ears keen, your eyes sharp, your hands skillful, your mind luminous. You were not of the ordinary world, as if blessed with past wisdom. Relatives and friends praised you, while teachers and mentors marveled at your gifts. Though you lived only twenty-six years, you left behind countless works. Who dares say you are gone? What has departed is only your mortal body. What remains, long enduring, is your spirit. Perhaps Heaven favored you uniquely, yet fate was cruel. Your talents went unrecognized, and your ambitions left unsaid.
Could it be that the gods cherished your gifts and summoned you to the Jade Tower? Or were you a spirit fallen from grace, suffering trials in the mortal world, thus unable to receive the medicine of rebirth? Even the best physicians, both Eastern and Western, could do nothing. The elixir to call back your soul could not be found. Young and old alike grieve bitterly, recalling your past kindness. Remembering how you tended me at our firstborn’s arrival—soothing hunger, warding off cold—while I rested, oblivious to your bending beneath the weight of hardship. We shared hardships, facing crises together. When the Art Society rose, you worked tirelessly. From dawn to dusk your brush moved without rest. Twice the art magazine was published — we spent all we had, and then some. Even as you left for Japan, you clung to our farewell with reluctance. Our letters flew each morning and replies came each night. Separated by distance, you bled your heart for me. You braved a perilous voyage for my sake, and last year, your journey westward deepened my sorrow. I played chess to dull the ache of separation; and delayed trains and ships compounded your sorrow.
When your oars finally took to the water, demons of disease struck. Just as our second daughter was born, you poured your strength into righteousness. Already weakened, you still planned for our future home. While I scrambled for solutions, I did not realize illness had taken root. Even on your deathbed, you urged me earnestly to eat more. In the evening breeze, you reminded me to dress warmly. You were wiser than I. You knew when to wield the sword of clarity, but I was more foolish with love – I remain entangled all this time. Three days after your burial, a storm raged. Your soul’s grievance stirred heaven and earth. Our children wept, soaking the memorial scroll. On the fifth day, I entered the temple with our babies. Your faint silhouette, slender waist, appeared as if alive, lingering in dreams. On the sixth day, the spirit returned once more. Old affections remained, candlelight flickering. Your soul hovered about the courtyard, now near, now far. My grief soared with your departing soul, uncertain of truth or illusion, tormented by sorrow. On the ninth day, your coffin was sealed. Two lotus blossoms ascending through the clouds. You showed me a miracle, and my soul was comforted. At midnight I dreamed you were in my arms again. Seated on a lotus throne, your face serene with a smile.
Your cheeks full, brow wide, your old illness and grievances vanished. Sweet kisses, tender words — our celestial bond rekindled. In life, you were an extraordinary man; in death, a mysterious spirit. There must have been a reason for your divine aura. Alas, the clouds of immortality disperse too easily,
Your fragrant steps are now impossible to trace. Looking up, I see your portrait; looking down, our frail children. A chill wind rises from the west; the bright moon climbs in the east. Pale candle wax glows faintly, and a fine rain falls at dusk. The hardships of the world grieve me. All around, I am overwhelmed with sorrow. Alas, in the ancient temple south of Xuanwu, a lone coffin awaits mourning.
In our old home north of the city, both supporting beams have fallen. The moon waxes and wanes; people part and reunite. But a moon may grow full again; parted people rarely reunite. I sigh under the moonlight, and tears fall as I caress your image. Yet though our earthly bond was brief, our ten-year vow draws near. My longing endures — our bond across lifetimes still holds. When the time comes, come swiftly in light chariot with fast steed to meet me. As immortals reunited, our love shall surpass the mortal realm. Let the mid-month moonlight spare me its envy. Let the clouds of sorrow dissipate, even if only briefly. O wondering soul, wait for me. O wondering soul, comfort me.
A final lament to soothe the spirit:
The jade mountain has collapsed — how can I call this a home?
The flowing river runs endlessly, reaching the ends of the sky.
Darkness falls, devoid of color; inner grief coils within.
The strings of our instruments are broken, your melody silenced.
My tears and blood are spent, yet mourning and music arise.
Alas, the length of life varies; the glory and decay of fate are numbered.
Now that smoke is gone and fire extinguished,
I must swallow bitterness and endure sorrow.
You sacrificed your life for righteousness — your virtue shall endure.
You gave your life for truth — embracing death with clarity of heart.
Our bones shall share one grave,
My heart, like the cypress boat, stays true.
Ah, how I mourn!
I pray your spirit accepts this offering.