Hsieh-ch’üan, deep in thought, said suddenly, “Oh, yes. Among Chinese philosophers, Wang Yang-ming43 was henpecked.” This was the first person he had not referred to that day as an “old family friend.”
Hsin-mei quickly cut in, “Weren’t there any others? Mr. Fang, you tell us. You’ve studied Chinese literature.”
Hung-chien said hurriedly, “That was a long time ago, and I was never very good at it in the first place.”
Hsin-mei gave Miss Su a happy wink; she suddenly looked very dumb, appearing to see nothing.
“Who were your Chinese professors in college?” Hsieh-ch’üan asked without interest.
Hung-chien searched his mind for the names of his Chinese teachers, but couldn’t think of a single worthy one, like Bertie or Ch’en San-yüan, names which could be rolled around on the tongue and shown off like a quality Havana cigar. “They were all nobodies,” he said, “yet much too good to teach such a lousy student as myself. Hsieh-ch’üan, I really don’t know the first thing about poetry. I read it now and then, but if you were to ask me to write a poem, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Miss Su hated the way Hung-chien had debased himself and wanted very much to make him look good.
Smiling scornfully, Hsieh-ch’üan asked, “Did you read the poetry of Su Man-shu44 and Huang Kung-tu?”45
“Why?”
“That’s what an ordinary returned student can appreciate, the poetry of the ehr-mao-tzu.46 Students returning from Japan worship Su Man-shu; Western returned students admire Huang Kung-tu. Am I wrong? Of the two, Huang Kung-tu is slightly better than Su Man-shu, whose Japanese flavor is as thick as the hair oil in Japanese women’s heads.”
Miss Su said, “I’m an ordinary returned student, too, and I don’t know who writes the best old-style poetry today. Tell us something about it, Mr. Tung.”
“Ch’en San-yüan is of course number one. In the last five or six hundred years, he stands way above the rest. I always say the great poets since the T’ang can be grouped under geographical terms; the hills (Ling), the valleys (Ku), the mountains (Shan), and the plains (Yüan). There are three Lings: Tu Shao-ling, Wang Kuang-ling, and—do you know him?—Mei Yüan-ling; two Kus: Li Ch’ang-ku,47 and Huang Shan-ku;48 four Shans: Li I-shan, Wang Pan-shan, Ch’en Hou-shan, and Yüan I-shan;49 but only one Yuan, Ch’en San-yüan.” He raised his left thumb as he spoke.
Hung-chien asked sheepishly, “Couldn’t you add a bank (P’o)?”
“Su Tung-p’o. He’s a bit lacking.”
Hung-chien clicked his tongue in surprise. If Su Tung-p’o’s poetry doesn’t meet with his esteem, he thought, heaven only knows how superb this man’s poetry must be. He asked to see the poems Hsieh-ch’üan had just written, and so did Miss Su, for only someone who writes old-style poetry would ever say he doesn’t read new-style poetry, and a new-style poet never willingly admits that he doesn’t understand old-style poetry.
Hsieh-ch’üan distributed four or five sheets of paper among those at the table and leaned back haughtily in his chair, feeling nonetheless that none of these people understood poetry and could not possibly appreciate the subtle nuances in his lines. Even if they praised him, their praise wouldn’t be sincere or to the point. Yet he was waiting for their praise, despite the knowledge that he wouldn’t be satisfied with it; it was like finding a pack of cigarettes when one craves opium.
On the sheets were seven or eight modern poems written in a familiar tone. The poem on returning home after his resignation as military attaché went as follows: “Happily I write a poem on returning home to see my wife’s dimples,/ Remorseful that the sound of my name stops my son’s tears.” His poem of indignation over the Sino-Japanese War read: “Keep suspecting that heaven is still drunk,/ And wants to perish with the sun [Japan].” In addition, there were the following:
The fresh breezes need not be bought,
The gay rain is just enough to close up ten thousand homes.
Cold currents rinse over jagged rocks.
Evening breezes flow through billowing pines.
Not permitted to escape men, I think of escaping the world,
Alone I maintain a lingering intoxication and delight in the withering flowers.
But then there were a few lines like,
Washed out eyes, bright and empty, provide the sleeping duck.
The squirming bosom, strange and mysterious, lures the hidden snake.
Several companions are carried seeking historical landmarks.
The wailing reeds and bitter bamboo shine on mournful sorrow.
In the autumn air, light of body, a goose is passing.
Temple hair, flickering shadows, ten thousand crows are peeking.
The meaning was quite obscure. Hung-chien had never read San-yüan Ching-she shih,50 and he racked his brains for the etymological sources of these lines. The reeds and bamboo certainly hadn’t caught fire, he thought, so it wasn’t very likely they could shine on anything, and besides “mournful sorrow” was something not even a searchlight could illuminate. “Several companions” clearly indicated the friends weren’t children, so how could they be “carried?” If ten thousand crows took a liking to the poet’s few strands of grey hair, surely it wasn’t so “tousled like a crow’s nest” that they would want to roost on his head. He was quite puzzled but did not dare ask questions for fear Hsieh-ch’üan would laugh at his ignorance.
Everyone duly praised the poems. Hsieh-ch’üan responded with bored politeness, like a ruler being welcomed by the people.
Hsin-mei said to Hung-chien, “Why don’t you write a few poems to show us what poetry is?”
Hung-chien replied emphatically that he could not write poetry. Hsieh-ch’üan said if Hung-chien really couldn’t, they needn’t force him. Hsin-mei said, “Then everyone drink a toast to Hsieh-ch’üan’s fine poetry.”
Hoping to give the wine an unobstructed passage over his tongue and down his throat, Hung-chien gulped it straight down as though letting it pass toll-free. It felt as if everything in his stomach had been churned up by that swallow of wine and was about to come rushing up, like an already plugged toilet given an extra flush. He hastily set down his glass and tightly clenched his teeth together, trying to use his will power to suppress the flow.
Miss Su said, “I’ve never seen Mrs. Tung before, but I can imagine she must be very beautiful. Mr. Tung’s poem, ‘I returned home and saw my wife’s dimples,’ vividly pictures Mrs. Tung’s charming smile and her two deep dimples.”
Chao Hsin-mei said, “It isn’t enough for Hsieh-ch’üan just to have a lovely wife. He has to flaunt his good fortune in his poetry so we bachelors go red-eyed with envy when we read it.” With that he looked shamelessly at Miss Su, emboldened by the wine.
Ch’u Shen-ming said, “He’s the only one who can see the dimples on his wife’s face. Now that he’s written about them in his poem, we can all look at them as much as we want.”
Hsieh-ch’üan could not very well show his irritation. Stiffening his expression, he said, “There’s no point discussing poetry with such ignorant people like you in the first place. I used two allusions in that couplet, one from Mei Sheng-yü51 in the first line and another from Yang Ta-yen52 in the second. If you don’t know the original source, don’t try to force an interpretation on it.”
Hsin-mei poured the wine as he said, “Sorry, sorry! We’ll fine ourselves a glass. Mr. Fang, you should have recognized the allusion. You’re not like us! How come you didn’t have the faintest idea about it either? You’re fined two glasses. Come on.”
“That’s nonsense,” snapped Hung-chien. “Why should I know it any more than you?”
Since Hsieh-ch’üan’s rebuke about their ignorance had included her, Miss Su was quite peeved and said, “I don’t have the vaguest idea about it either, but I’m not going to drink that glass of wine.”
Affected by the wine, Hsin-mei would brook no restraint from Miss Su, insisting, “You can ignore the fine, but he must drink a glass.
I’ll drink with him.” As he spoke he poured Hung-chien a full glass, picked up his own, drank it down in one gulp, then held up the empty glass for Hung-chien to see.
Hung-chien said resolutely, “I’ll finish this one, but beyond that I won’t touch another drop even if you kill me.”
He lifted the glass and poured it straight down his throat. When it was all gone, he held the glass up to Hsin-mei, saying, “It’s—” Before the word “empty” had left his mouth, he clenched his teeth together and rushed and stumbled to the spittoon. With an “Augh” the food and wine gushed from his mouth. He never thought there could be so much in his stomach, and the vomiting continued till he was out of breath. Out came mucus, tears, and stomach juices, and he was occupied with the thought, What a disgrace! Thank God Miss T’ang isn’t here. Though he had cleared his stomach, the feeling of disgust did not stop. He sat down at the tea table unable to raise his head. His clothes were splattered with drops of dirty spittle. Miss Su was about to approach him when he wearily made a gesture to stop her. While he was in the worst throes of vomiting, Hsin-mei had patted his back for him. Hsieh-ch’üan called the waiter to clean the floor and bring a towel, while he went ahead and poured a glass of tea for Hung-chien to rinse his mouth. Holding his nose, Ch’u Shen-ming opened all the windows. An expression of scorn showed all over his face, but inwardly he was rejoicing at the thought that Hung-chien’s vomit had washed the incident of his spilt milk from everyone’s memory.
When Hsieh-ch’üan saw Fang Hung-chien was a little better, he said with a smile, “Spitting by the railing no one knows its fragrance.53 Here you haven’t even finished eating and you’re already in a hurry to give a return dinner! Never mind! You’ll throw up for all you’re worth a few more times; then you’ll learn to hold your wine.”
Hsin-mei said, “He’s proved he really can’t drink. Let’s just hope it’s not true that he can’t write poetry or that he doesn’t understand philosophy.”
Miss Su declared heatedly, “You just make light of everything. It’s all your fault; you made him drunk. If he gets sick tomorrow, then we’ll see what a disgraceful host you are. Hung-chien, how do you feel now?”
She felt his forehead with her fingers. While watching them, Hsin-mei regretted he never took up Chinese boxing; otherwise, he could have given Hung-chien a fatal injury when he slapped Hung-chien on the back.
Turning his head away Hung-chien said, “It’s nothing. I have a slight headache. Hsin-mei, I’m sorry about today. I’ve spoiled it for everyone. Please go on eating. I’ll go home now. In a few days I’ll go to your place and apologize.”
Miss Su said, “Stay a while. Wait until your headache stops before you go.”
Hsin-mei wished he could have thrown Hung-chien out then and there. He then asked, “Who has some Tiger Balm?54 Shen-ming, you carry medicine around with you. Do you have any Tiger Balm?”
Shen-ming pulled out a bunch of bottles and boxes from the pockets of his trousers and overcoat. Among them were pills, tablets, and plasters for soothing the throat, improving the brain, strengthening the lungs, aiding digestion, easing constipation, inducing perspiration, and killing pain; Miss Su picked out the Tiger Balm, dabbed a little on her finger and applied it to Hung-chien’s temples.
The wine in Hsin-mei’s stomach turned to sour vinegar in his jealousy. Momentarily restraining himself he asked Hung-chien, “Feel any better? I better not keep you today. Some other day I’ll ask you out again to make up for it. I’ll have someone call a cab to take you home.”
“No need to call a cab,” said Miss Su. “He can go in my car. I’ll take him home.”
Hsin-mei’s eyes widened in surprise and he stammered, “You’re, you’re not eating? There’s still more food.”
Hung-chien limply implored Miss Su not to see him home.
Miss Su said, “I’ve had enough. There are so many dishes today. Mr. Ch’u, Mr. Tung, please take your time. I’ll go on. Thank you, Hsin-mei.”
With a sad face Hsin-mei watched Miss Su and Hung-chien get in the car and drive off. His plan to make a fool of Hung-chien in front of Miss Su had almost been a complete success, but that success only confirmed his defeat.
Hung-chien leaned back against the car cushions. Miss Su asked him if he wanted his tie loosened, but he shook his head. She told him to close his eyes and rest a bit. From his self-imposed dark world, he felt Miss Su’s cool fingers touch his forehead and heard her mutter in French, “Pauvre petit!” He hadn’t the strength to jump up in protest. When the car reached the Chous, Miss Su ordered the Chous’ doorman to help her chauffeur take Hung-chien inside.
By the time Mr. and Mrs. Chou had come dashing out all agog to meet Miss Su and to invite her in for a moment, her car had already sped off. They had no way to satisfy their curiosity and could not very well question Hung-chien, who lay in bed with his head covered. Instead, they gave the doorman a thorough interrogation; annoyed that he lacked any power of observation, they reproached him for not being able to use his eyes. Why hadn’t he given Miss Su a careful scrutiny?
The next morning, Fang Hung-chien woke up early, with a sawing pain in his head, and his tongue feeling like the coir doormat for wiping one’s shoes before entering the house. He lay in bed until the afternoon when he finally got out of bed and his mind cleared enough to write Miss T’ang a letter. Skipping the events of the day before, he merely wrote he was ill; and thinking back on the events of yesterday, he began to feel very awkward with regard to Miss Su. She had called in the morning and again in the afternoon to ask about him. After dinner, he decided that since he had been inactive all day, he would take a moonlight stroll. Then Miss Su called once more to ask if he felt better and if he would care to go to her house in the evening for a chat.
It was the fifteenth day of the fourth month by the lunar calendar. The late-spring, early-summer moon was for lovers, while the autumn-winter moon was for poets. A full moon in the sky, Hung-chien wished he could have gone to see Miss T’ang. Instead he went to the Sus. Miss Su’s mother and sister-in-law had gone to the movies, and the servants for a walk, leaving Miss Su and the doorman at home. When she saw Hung-chien, she said that she had intended to go to the movies too and told him to have a seat while she went upstairs to put on an extra piece of clothing, so they could go into the garden to admire the moon.
When she came down, he caught a fresh whiff of a fragrance he had not smelled a moment ago and noted that she not only had changed her clothes but had also put on some makeup. She led him into a small sextagonal pavilion; they sat down against the railing. Suddenly he realized how compromising the situation was. He mustn’t let himself get caught in the trap that day and end up regretting it ever after. He thanked Miss Su again. She inquired once more about his sleep and appetite. After the bright, white moon overhead had been praised three or four times, there was little else to say. They continued to gaze at the moon. He stole a glance at Miss Su’s face, which was so bright and pure that it seemed the moonlight splashed over it would slide right off. The moonlight was flashing in her eyes too. Her red lips, undimmed by the aura of the moon, appeared moist and dark in the shade. She knew he had his eyes on her and turned to smile at him. His determination to resist this seductive force was like a fish out of water, which flaps its head and tail about on the ground but can’t get anywhere. He stood up and said, “Wen-wan, I must go.”
“It’s early yet. What’s the hurry? Stay a while,” she said, pointing to the spot next to her where he had just been sitting.
“I’m going to sit a little further away. You’re too beautiful! The moon might trick me into doing something foolish.”
Her light, smooth laughter gave his heart a painful twinge.
“Are you so afraid of doing something foolish? Sit down. I don’t want you sitting so stiff and proper. We’re not in church listening to a sermon. Tell me, what would it take for an intelligent person like you to do something foolish?” she turned toward him and asked mischievously.
He lowered his head, not daring to look at her. But his ears and nose were irresistibly full of her, and the image of her smile floated in his mind like a leaf spinning in a whirlpool. “I haven’t the courage to do anything foolish.” She smiled triumphantly and said in a low voice, “Embrasse-moi!” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she was at once abashed and surprised at her own courage to be foolish, but then she only dared order him to kiss her while hiding behind a foreign language. Having no way to escape, he turned his head and kissed her. The kiss was so light and covered such a small area, it was like the way a Mandarin host brushed his lips against the brim of the teacup as a subtle hint to a guest who had overstayed his welcome in the Ch’ing Dynasty, or else it was like the way a witness taking the oath in court in the West touched the Bible to his lips. At most it was similar to the way female disciples kissed the Living Buddha of Tibet or the Pope’s big toe—a kind of respectful intimacy. When the kiss was over, Miss Su pillowed her head on Hung-chien’s shoulder and breathed a gentle sigh like a child sleeping sweetly. He didn’t dare move an inch. After a long while, she sat up straight as if waking from a dream and said with a smile, “That queer old moon. It’s really turned us all into fools.”
“And it tempted me into committing an unforgivable sin! I can’t stay any longer.”
His one and only fear at that moment was that she might bring up the subject of engagement and marriage and start discussing future plans with him. What he didn’t know was that in the joy and triumph of love, women never think of such things. There must be doubts before they will demand the man to hurry along with the engagement and marriage so their love will have a safeguard.
“I won’t let you go—well, all right, go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When Miss Su saw the expression on Hung-chien’s face, she thought his emotions were so stirred up that he might lose his self-control and so did not dare keep him. He sprinted out the gate, still believing that his kiss on her lips a moment ago had been so light, it could not possibly be construed as evidence that he loved her, as though kissing were something to be measured by weight.
Fortress Besieged Page 15