The Warning Voice

by Cao Xueqin

  Slanders and slights crept from behind every curtain; thorns and thistles choked up the doors and windows of her chamber. Yet truly she had done no infamous thing. She entered a silent victim into the eternal, a wronged innocent into the everlasting: a more notable martyr (though but a mere girl) to the envy of excellence than he who was drowned at Long Sands; a more pitiable sufferer from the peril of plain dealing than he that was slain upon Feather Mountain.

  Yet since she stored up her bitterness in silence, none recognized the treasure that was lost in her, cut off so young. The fair cloud dispersed, leaving no means to trace the beauteous outline of its former shape. It were a hard thing to hunt out the Isle of the Blest from among the multitudinous islands of the ocean and bring back the immortal herb that should restore her: the raft is lost that went to look for it.

  It was but yesterday that I painted those delicate smoke-black eyebrows; and who is there today to warm the cold jade rings for her fingers? The medicine she drank stands yet upon the stove; the tears are still wet on the garment she once wore. The phoenix has flown and MUSK’s vanity-box has burst apart for sorrow; the dragon has departed, and RIPPLE’s comb has broken its teeth for grief. The magpie has forsaken my chamber: it is in vain for the maidens to hang up their needles on Seventh Night and pray for nimble fingers. My buckle with the love-ducks is broken: the seamstress is no more who could repair the silk-work of its girdle.

  And this being the season of autumn when the power of metal predominates and the White God is master of the earth, the signs themselves are melancholy. I wake from dreams of her on a lonely couch and in an empty room. As the moon veils herself behind the trees of the garden, the moonlight and the sweet form I dreamed of are in the same moment extinguished; as the perfume fades from the hangings of my bedchamber, the laboured breath and whispered words I strove to catch at the same time fall silent. Dew pearls the pavement’s moss; the launderer’s beat is borne in unceasingly through my casement. Rain wets the wall-fig; a flute’s complaint carries uncertainly from a near-by courtyard.

  Her sweet name is not extinguished, for the parrot in his cage under the eaves ceases not to repeat it; and the crabtree in my courtyard whose half-withering was a foretokening of her fate stands yet her memorial. But no more shall the sound of her lotus feet betray her at hide-and-seek behind the screen; no more will her fingers cull budding orchids for the game of match-my-flower in the garden. The embroidery silks are thrown aside in a tangle: never again will she cut them with her silver scissors. The sheeny silk lies creased and crumpled: never again shall her hot-iron smooth out its perfumed folds.

  In her last hour, when I might else have gone to her, I was called in haste from the Garden by a Father’s summons; when, grieving, I sought to take leave of her abandoned body, I could not see it because it had been removed by a Mother’s command; and when I was told that her corpse had been consumed, I repented of my jesting vow that we should share the same grave-hole together, for that were now impossible, and that our ashes should commingle, for ash she is already become.

  In the burning-ground by the old temple, green ghost-fires flicker when the west wind blows. On its derelict mounds, scattered bones gleam whitely in the setting sun. The wind sighs in the tall trees and rustles in the dried-up grasses below. Gibbons call sadly from tombs that are hidden in the mist, and ghosts flit weeping down the alley-ways between the tombs. At such times must the young man in his crimson-curtained bed seem most cruelly afflicted; at such times must the maiden beneath the yellow earth seem most cruelly ill-fated.

  The tears of Ru-nan fall in bloody drops upon the wind, and the complaint of Golden Valley is made to the moon in silence. Vengeance is for demons and baleful bogles; the gentle spirits of maidens are not wont to be jealous, though wronged. Natheless shall the backbiters not lightly escape her; their mouths shall be squeezed in vices; the hearts of those cruel harridans shall be ripped: for her anger is kindled against them.

  Though the bond between us was a slight one, yet can it not easily be broken; and because she was ever close to me in my thoughts, I could not forbear to make earnest inquiry concerning her. Thus it was revealed to me that the God had sent down the banner of his authority and summoned her to his Palace of Flowers, to the end that she who in life was like a flower should in death have dominion over the hibiscus. At first when I heard the words of the little maid touching this appointment, I thought them fantastical; but now that I have pondered them in my heart, I know them to be worthy of perfect credence. How so?

  Did not Ye Fa-shan compel Li Yong’s sleeping spirit to compose an epitaph? And was not the soul of Li He summoned in order that he might write a memorial in heaven? The circumstances may differ, but the principle is the same. God chooses his ministers according to their capabilities, else how could they discharge the duties that are required of them? And who more fit and meet than her to be given this charge that has been laid upon her? Truly, here at last she has a work that is worthy of her.

  And because I would have her descend here in this place, I have composed these verses to invoke her with, fearing that the common speech of mortals might be offensive to her immortal ear.

  The Invocation

  All’s clearest azure above where her team of white wyverns through the welkin wends,

  And the world in a haze below as her chryselephantine car to the earth descends.

  Her awning’s relucent splendour outshines Antares and his starry band,

  Her guidons and gonfalons go before and the stars of Aquarius guard her on either hand.

  Cloudcleaver follows as escort Moondriver gallops to clear the way ahead.

  I can hear the creak and trundle of chariot-wheels of her phoenix-figured car’s majestic tread.

  I can smell the enveloping perfume of her cincture from fragrant stalks of asarum twined,

  See the dazzle of her dress gleaming with moon-jade ouches, fretted and lined.

  I’ll strew the altar with lily-of-the-valley leaves and have waterlilies for lamps fed with orchid oil,

  And in chalices cunningly fashioned from calabash pour rarest metheglin flavoured with pennyroyal.

  As I fasten my gaze on the clouds methinks I see a faint glimmer of her face;

  As I strain my ear on the silence I seem to hear a faint echo of her voice.

  But she, on a tryst with eternity, brooking no coarctation has abandoned me, cruel, here in the dust to lie,

  Calling on Windlord in vain to drive me up after her to ride side by side with her across the sky.

  My heart is all wracked with teen yet it boots not to weep and wail:

  You are gone now to your long sleep against Nature’s order no power on earth can prevail.

  In the grave-vault secure you rest the bourne after which there is no more transformation.

  But to me still in bonds in this hateful wen below O Spirit, succouring come for my consolation!

  O Spirit, come and abide for my consolation!

  But what though she is present in this place? She is girt about with silence; she is veiled in a mist of invisibility; I cannot see her:

  Only the green wreathed creepers that make her side-screens,

  And the ranks of tall bullrushes, her guardsmen’s spears.

  The sleepy willow-buds waken as she approaches;

  And the bitter lotus-seeds sweeten as she nears.

  The White Virgin waits for her on cliffs of cassia;

  From Orchid Island the water-sprite comes to greet her.

  Jade-player plays for her on a little organ,

  And Cold-keys sweeps the iron spine with his metal beater.

  The God of the Mid Peak’s consort comes at her bidding;

  The crone of Li Mountain is summoned forth to meet her.

  The Luo River turtle brings her his magic offering;

  To the heavenly music wild beasts gambol and prance.

  In the deeps of Red River the dragons are humming the melody;

  And in pearl-tree groves
the Birds of Paradise dance.

  Seeing my reverence and my devoutness of heart (notwithstanding that I have neither vessels of gold nor vessels of bronze in which to make my offering) she drove forth her chariot from the City of Sunrise to meet me; but even now her banners are returning to the Garden of Night. For a little moment it seemed that the invisible would become visible; but murky vapours rose up suddenly between us and we were cut off.

  Clouds and mists drifted and drew together,

  Rain and fog veiled the heaven’s light;

  Then rolling back, revealed the high stars

  And earth all radiant in the noon of night.

  My mind is in a turmoil, uncertain whether I wake or dream. I gaze at the sky with sighs of disappointment; I wait in uncertainty with weeping eyes. My speech grows silent: only the music of the wind in the grove of bamboos is to be heard, and the wing-beats of birds as they fly off startled, and the plopping sounds of fish as they nibble at the surface of the water.

  Blest Spirit, may my lament go up to thee; may my rite be acceptable to thee.

  Wubu aizai! Receive this offering!

  When he had finished reading, he made a little flame with the burner and set fire to the silk. Then he poured the tea out on the ground as a libation, scattered the flowers, and emptied the water out of the vase. He continued to linger there after he had finished, as though unable to tear himself away, and the little maid had to remind him several times that they ought to be getting back. He had just started to go when a laughing voice called out ‘Stop a minute!’ and the maid, turning to look behind her, saw with terror that a female form was stepping out of the bushes.

  ‘Help!’ she cried. ‘It’s a ghost! Skybright’s spirit really has come back!’

  Bao-yu looked back too. But whether or not it was a ghost he saw will be revealed in the following chapter.

  CHAPTER 79

  Xue Pan finds to his sorrow that he is married to a termagant And Ying-ebun’s parents betroth her to a Zbong-shan wolf

  At the end of the last chapter our story had reached a point at which, just as Bao-yu and the little maid were beginning to walk away after completing the sacrifice to Skybright, they were startled by the sound of a human voice coming from the direction of the flowering hibiscus bushes. When Bao-yu looked, he saw that the person who had called out was Dai-yu. She advanced towards him smiling.

  ‘A highly original elegy! It deserves to have a permanent place in literature alongside the Elegy for the Shaman’s Daughter by Han-dan Chun!’

  Bao-yu blushed and laughed sheepishly.

  ‘Most elegies one sees are so stale and derivative, I thought I’d try my hand at writing something a bit different. It was only for my own amusement; I hadn’t intended that anyone else should hear it. Perhaps now that you have heard it, you will let me know of any glaring errors you may have noticed and help me to correct them.’

  ‘Where is the original text?’ said Dai-yu. ‘I should need to have a careful look at the text first before venturing on any criticism. It was such a long piece, I could barely make out what most of it was about. There were a couple of lines somewhere near the middle that caught my attention:

  The young, man in his crimson-curtained bed must seem most cruelly afflicted;

  And the maiden beneath the yellow earth must seem most cruelly ill-fated.

  The general sentiment is all right, but I thought “crimson-curtained bed" a trifle shop-worn. I don’t see why you used that image when there is a much better one to hand.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ said Bao-yu.

  ‘We’ve all got this rose-coloured haze diaphene in our windows,’ said Dai-yu. ‘Instead of “the young man in his crimson-curtained bed”, why not say “the young man at his rosy-misted casement”?’

  Bao-yu stamped his foot and laughed delightedly.

  ‘Excellent! How clever of you to have thought of it! It only goes to show that there is always something to hand if only one will take the trouble to look. Stupid people like me fail to think of the obvious. Actually though, I haven’t got that sort of gauze in my windows; so though “rosy-misted casement" is a great improvement, I don’t think I had better use it. It would be fine for you to use it, but I think if I did it would be a bit presumptuous.’

  ‘But why?’ said Dai-yu, smiling. ‘My window is your window. It is unfriendly to be so punctilious. Look at the ancients who used to “lend furs and horses and feel no resentment when they came back the worse for wear". And that was to mere acquaintances: we two are members of the same family.’

  ‘I agree with you that one ought to share with one’s friends,’ said Bao-yu, ‘and not only furs and horses, but even more precious things if one has them. But for a mere male to arrogate to himself what properly belongs to you girls would be quite a different matter. It would be better to alter “young man" and “maiden" and let it be Your elegy. After all, you were always very well-disposed towards Skybright. I’d rather give the elegy to someone else than throw away your “rosy-misted casement". Let’s make it:

  The mistress by her rosy-misted casement must seem most cruelly afflicted;

  And the maid beneath the yellow earth must seem most cruelly ill-fated.

  I should be very happy to alter it in that way, even though it would mean that the elegy would cease to have anything to do with me.’

  ‘She wasn’t my maid,’ said Dai-yu. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Besides, “mistress” and “maid” are such an unpoetical combination. I might want to use this version when Nightingale is dead, but that won’t be for a long while yet, I imagine.’

  ‘Come now, it’s not very nice to talk about Nightingale dying,’ said Bao-yu, laughing.

  ‘You started it,’ said Dai-yu.

  ‘I know what,’ said Bao-yu. ‘I’ve got a still better solution.

  Why don’t we just say:

  I by my rosy-misted casement seem most cruelly afflicted;

  And you beneath the yellow earth seem most cruelly ill-fated?’

  Dai-yu momentarily changed colour; yet though the words filled her with an almost unbearable feeling of premonitory dread, she masked it with a smile and nodded approvingly at his suggestion.

  ‘Yes, that’s a great improvement. Better not tamper with the words any more or you will spoil them. You ought in any case to be getting back now. I’m sure you must have more important things to attend to. When I saw your mother just now, she was briefing someone to tell you that you are to go to your Aunt Xing’s place first thing tomorrow morning. It seems that your Cousin Ying’s betrothal has been decided on. I expect they want you there for the ceremony.’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ said Bao-yu, a trifle pettishly. ‘I’ve not been feeling particularly well lately. I may not be well enough to go there tomorrow.’

  ‘How typical!’ said Dai-yu. ‘I should try to grow out of these childish ways if I were you. You are getting too old –’

  She broke off in a fit of coughing. Bao-yu at once became concerned about her.

  ‘There’s a nasty wind here. I don’t know why we are standing around in the cold like this. We’d better be getting back now. There’s no sense in making ourselves ill.’

  ‘I ought to be going back now in any case,’ said Dai-yu. ‘It’s time I went to bed. We’ll see each other again tomorrow.’

  She began to walk away. Bao-yu began gloomily walking off in the opposite direction. Suddenly it occurred to him that Dai-yu was unaccompanied and he told the little maid to run after her and see her back to her apartment.

  Back at Green Delights he found some old women with a message from his mother. It was as Dai-yu had said. He was to go over first thing next morning to his Uncle She’s house.

  *

  The family that Jia She was proposing to marry his daughter into was called Sun. They were a Da-tong family whose menfolk had all, for several generations, been Army officers. A former head of the family had placed himself under the patronage of the Ning and Rong brothers, so their clai
m to a special relationship with the Jia family was a strong one. Only one member of the family was at present living in the capital, a young man called Sun Shao-zu who had been given the post of Military Provost in the metropolitan garrison as an hereditary entitlement. He was a tall, powerfully-built, impressive-looking young man; he drew a good bow, had a good seat on a horse, and knew how to bear himself well in company and please those whom it was important to please. Still under thirty and with his family’s not inconsiderable wealth behind him, he had excellent prospects. Already the War Department had marked him out for promotion. And he was unmarried. From every point of view – the special relationship between their two houses, the Sun family’s wealth, and the personality of the young man himself – Jia She regarded this as being the almost perfect match and informed Grandmother Jia of his choice. Grandmother Jia by no means shared his enthusiasm; however, after reflecting that the couplings of young people are to a large extent fated and that, as Jia She was after all the girl’s father, it was not really for her to interfere, she made some neutral response such as ‘I see’ or ‘Oh, are you?’ and left it at that.

  Jia Zheng felt a much more positive antipathy to the match. He detested the Suns. Though the connection between the two families was a long-standing one, it had come about because Sun Shao-zu’s grandfather, who had been the worst possible sort of social climber, had wormed his way into the patronage of Jia Zheng’s grandfather and great-uncle for the sole purpose of concluding some dubious business that he could not have brought off on his own. In Jia Zheng’s view they lacked both education and breeding. He spoke to Jia She on two separate occasions advising him very strongly against the match; but as Jia She refused to take the slightest bit of notice, there was nothing much he could do.

  Bao-yu had never met Sun Shao-zu before. Obliged to do so at his uncle’s place next day and to make such small-talk as he was capable of, he was appalled, in the course of conversation, to discover just how soon the marriage was to be: it seemed that Ying-chun would be going to her husband’s house before the end of that year. When-some time later Lady Ying came over to tell Grandmother Jia that she now wanted to move Ying-chun out of the Garden for good, he became even more depressed. That strange apathy they had observed in him on previous occasions again came over him. The news that Ying-chun would be taking four maids with her to the Sun household provoked some stamping and groans and the remark that ‘five more decent people were now lost to the world’; but it was only a momentary outburst.