by Kim Man-jung
She unclasped a roll of silk, wrote a couple of verses, and then gave it to her nurse. “Take this letter to the inn at the guesthall and give it to the gentleman who rode past here on the little donkey and sang the willow song. Tell him that my purpose is to find the one who is destined for me, and on whom I may depend. His complexion is fair and his brows are dark and distinct as in a picture. Even if he is in a crowd, you will have no trouble spotting him because he is like a phoenix among chickens. Go see him now and personally give him this letter.”
“I shall be careful to do just as you have commanded,” said the nurse, “but what shall I say if your father should inquire later?”
“I shall see to that myself,” said Ts’ai-feng. “Do not worry.”
The nurse left, but in a few moments she returned and asked, “What shall I do if the gentleman is already married or engaged?”
Ts’ai-feng thought for a moment and replied, “If that is unfortunately the case, I would not object to becoming his secondary wife.7 He is young, but who can tell whether or not he is married?” The old nurse went to the guesthall and asked for the gentleman who had sung the willow song, and just at that moment Shao-yu stepped out of the entrance into the court and saw her. He replied at once, “Your humble servant, madam, is responsible for the willow song. Why do you ask?”
When the nurse saw his handsome face, she knew without a doubt that he was the man in question. Softly, she said, “We cannot speak here.”
Shao-yu was curious. He led her into the guesthall, and when they were seated he quietly asked why she had come.
“Please, Your Excellency,” she said, “will you tell me where you sang the willow song?”
“I am from a remote part of the country and have come near the capital for the first time. The beauty of it delights my soul. Today at noon, as I was passing along the main road, I saw to the north a small, exquisitely beautiful pavilion in a grove of green willows. I could not restrain my joy, and so I wrote a verse or two, which I sang. But why do you ask me of this?”
“Sir, did meet you anyone at that time?” asked the nurse. “Perhaps you came face-to-face with a stranger?”
“I came face-to-face with a beautiful fairy,” said Shao-yu. “She gazed down upon me from the pavilion by the road. I can still see her lovely features, and the world is full of her fragrance.”
“To tell you the truth, that pavilion is the home of my master, Inspector Ch’in,” said the nurse. “And the fairy you speak of is his daughter. From the time she was a child, she has been intelligent and pure of heart, and she has a gift for reading character. Though she saw you only once, she has decided to promise herself to you, but her father is away in the capital at Lo-yang and someone must go and return with him before anything can be done.
“It seems you will be leaving soon, and since life is like a duckweed adrift in the sea, my mistress fears that she will not be able to find you once you are gone. So despite the embarrassment and the risk of dishonor, she has sent me to tell you that this is a matter of karma, and to ask of you your name, your place of residence, and whether you are married.”
Shao-yu could not hide his joy. He thanked her and said, “My name is Yang Shao-yu, and my home is in the land of Ch’u. I am still too young to marry. Only my aged mother is alive, and though the consent to marry must come from parents of both sides, I give my word here and now. I swear it by the long green hills of Hua-shan and the endless stretches of the river Wei.”
The nurse was delighted by her success. She took a letter from her sleeve and gave it to Shao-yu, who tore it open and found that it was a poem.
I planted the willow by the pavilion
so you would tie your mount and rest awhile—
But you made horsewhips of the willow wands
to hasten your glorious ride.
When Shao-yu read it aloud, he appreciated its brilliance and freshness, and he praised it. “The great Wang Wei and Li Po8 were no better than she,” he said. Then, on the same sheet of silk paper, he wrote a reply.
The nurse took it and placed it in her bosom. She left through the main gateway of the guesthall, but Shao-yu called out to her again. “The young lady is a native of Ch’in, while I belong to Ch’u. Once we are parted it will be impossible to communicate across the mountains. We will have no proof of the promises we made today, and things will be left uncertain. Do you think she would agree to meet by moonlight? In her letter there is some such suggestion, is there not? Please ask her for me.”
The nurse returned to her lady and delivered the message. “Master Yang has sworn by Hua-shan and the river Wei that he will be your husband. He praised your composition most highly, and wrote a reply, which I have brought you.” She then handed it to the lady, whose face lit up with joy as she read:
A hundred willow strands woven into melody,
heart to heart beneath the moon—
Let us loose those tangled bindings now,
and celebrate the joyous spring.
The nurse said, “Master Yang asks you if you would agree to let him come quietly by moonlight and write another verse for the two of you to enjoy together.”
“It is not proper for a man and woman to meet before marriage. And yet, since I have promised myself to him, how can I refuse? But if we meet in the night there will be rumors, and when my father hears them he will be very angry. It would be better to wait until morning. We can meet in the hall of the house and say our vows there. Go now and tell him.”
So the nurse returned once again to the guesthall and told Shao-yu what her mistress had said. Shao-yu was disappointed, but he answered, “The lady’s pure heart and proper words put me to shame.” Before the nurse left, he pleaded with her not to let anything go wrong with their plans.
* * *
That night at the inn at the guesthall, Shao-yu was unable to sleep. He tossed and turned all night, waiting for the cock to crow, impatient with the long spring night. Finally, the dawn star appeared and the drums beat to announce morning. He called his boy and ordered him to feed the donkey.
Suddenly there was a great noise outside—cavalry riding in from the west, thundering by like a great river. Shao-yu anxiously put on his clothes and went outside. Everywhere, the streets were in chaos—armed soldiers shouting and refugees fleeing, crying out as they were trampled underfoot.
When he asked a bystander what was happening, he was told that the general Ch’ou Shih-liang9 had raised an army and started a revolt, proclaiming himself emperor. The Emperor was away in Yang-chou on an inspection tour, and so the whole capital was in a state of hopeless confusion. The rebels were everywhere, robbing the homes of the people, and there were reports that many of the gates had been locked so no one could escape the city. People everywhere—rich and poor alike—were being forcibly conscripted into the army.
Shao-yu anxiously ordered his boy to saddle the donkey, and they hastened toward Mount Lan-t’ien, where he planned to hide among the rocks.
* * *
—
At the top of the mountain he saw a small thatched hut in the clouds and heard the echoing cries of a crane. Thinking it must be someone’s home, he told the boy to wait and he made his way among the rocks.
He was startled to come upon a Taoist hermit resting against a small reading table. The old man sat up and greeted him, saying, “You must be fleeing from the city. And you must be the son of the hermit Yang from Huai-nan.”
Shao-yu was amazed; he bowed low and, bursting into tears, he said, “Yes, I am the son of the hermit Yang. Since my father departed, I have been living alone with my old mother. Though I am unlearned, I wanted to improve our circumstances and was on my way to sit for the civil examination,10 but I had come only as far as Hua-yin when my way was blocked by the rebellion. In fleeing here to these mountains, I have had the fortune of meeting you. I know that Heaven has helped
me in sending me to an immortal. I have not heard news of my father in a long time, and as time passes I yearn ever more for news from him. It sounds as if you know of him. Please, sir, tell me all that you know and give a son what comfort can come to him. Where does my father abide? How is his health?”
The sage laughed and said, “Your father and I were just playing a game of go11 together on top of Mount Chu-ko. We parted only a short time ago, but I could not tell you where he has gone. His face has not changed and his hair has not gone gray, so do not worry about him.”
Shao-yu, still in tears, said, “Please, with your power, help me just once to see my father again.”
But the old Taoist only laughed again. “The love between son and father is deep, but the difference between men and immortals12 is such that though I should like to help you, I cannot. The mountains where the fairies live are far away, and their ten provinces are vast, so it is impossible to know where your father might be. But since you are here, why not stay for a while and go when the way is open once again? It will not be long.”
Realizing the old sage had no intention of helping him, Shao-yu soaked his clothes with hopeless tears. The sage comforted him, saying, “Meetings and farewells, farewells and meetings—that is the way of the world. Crying does not help.”
Shao-yu wiped away his tears and thanked the old man, and he stayed, entirely forgetting about the boy and the donkey at the bottom of the path.
The old man pointed to a ch’in13 hanging on the wall and asked, “Can you play?”
“I have always enjoyed music, but not having a good teacher, I have never been properly trained.”
The old man had the ch’in brought to him. He gave it to Shao-yu and told him to give it a try.
Shao-yu put the instrument across his knees and played “The Wind in the Pines.”
The old sage laughed with delight. “You have talent,” he said. “So I shall give you proper instruction.” He took the ch’in himself and played four tunes of unearthly clarity and beauty, like nothing heard before by mortal ears. Shao-yu was naturally skilled, and his mind was sharp. He mastered each tune after hearing it only once. This pleased the sage, and he brought out a white jade flute to play a piece on it for Shao-yu to learn. “Even in ancient times it was rare that two masters of music should meet. I present you with this ch’in and this flute—you will find them useful someday. Keep them safe and remember what I have taught you.”
Shao-yu took the instruments and bowed in thanks. “Master,” he said, “you were a friend to my father and I want to serve you as I served him. Please accept me as your disciple.”
The old man smiled. “You cannot escape worldly riches and glory, wealth and fame. How is it that you would while away your time on this mountain with me? Your path and my path are different—you were not meant to be my disciple. But I shall not forget your request. Here is a book of P’eng-tsu’s yoga.14 Study it. His techniques will not gain you immortality, but you will avoid illness and live to a great old age as he did.”
Shao-yu rose, then bowed again to receive the book. “Master, you say that I am to enjoy wealth and glory, but I would like to ask you about another matter. I was discussing marriage with the daughter of the Ch’in family in Hua-yin, but I was caught up in the rebellion and had to flee here. I do not know the future. Can you tell me if we will marry?”
The old man laughed loudly. “Marriage is as dark and mysterious as night,” he said. “One does not speak lightly about the way of Heaven. But your karma has many beautiful things in it, so do not set your heart only on Ch’in’s daughter.”
Shao-yu knelt to receive his instructions, then went with the old man into the guest room, where they spent the night.
* * *
—
The old man woke Shao-yu before dawn. “The way is now clear,” he said. “The civil examination will be held in the coming spring, and your mother awaits you. Hasten back to her so that she will not worry.” He gave Shao-yu some money for traveling.
Bowing his thanks a hundred times, Shao-yu set out with the ch’in, the flute, and the book of yoga. As he left, his heart was already full of sadness, but when he turned to look back, the house and the old Taoist had already vanished. All that remained were the sunlit clouds above the mountain.
He had gone into the mountains with the willows still in bloom, and now, with only a day gone by, he was shocked to see that it was already autumn, with chrysanthemums in full bloom. When he returned to the inn where he had stayed, he learned that troops had been called from all the provinces to put down the rebellion. It had taken five months to restore the peace, and now that the Emperor had returned to the capital, the civil examination had been postponed until spring.
* * *
Shao-yu returned to the house of Inspector Ch’in. The cool willows in the garden had faded in the cold and the colorful pavilion had been burned to the ground, leaving only scorched stones and broken roof tiles among the ashes in the empty courtyard. In the ruins of the village, there was no sound—not the crow of a cock nor the barking of a dog. Shao-yu mourned the transitory nature of human affairs, how a hundred-year pledge of marriage had ended so quickly in desolation.
He clutched the willow branches in his hands and, turning away from the setting sun, he sang the willow song that Lady Ch’in had written. He could not restrain his tears.
When he returned to the inn, he asked the innkeeper, “What has become of Inspector Ch’in and his family?”
The innkeeper frowned and answered, “Haven’t you heard? The inspector went up to the capital on official business and left behind his daughter and servants to look after his home. When the rebellion was put down they found out he was in league with the traitors and he was executed. The girl was caught and taken to the capital. Some say she was executed, too. Some say she became a public slave. Just this morning the officials were marching a bunch of criminals’ relatives right past the door. When I asked, I was told they were being sent off to be slaves in Ying-nan. Someone said one of them was Ch’in’s daughter.”
Shao-yu wept upon hearing this news. “The master of Lan-t’ien said that marriage to Lady Ch’in was as mysterious and dark as night. He must have meant she is dead.” Lamenting, he packed his things and started his journey back home.
* * *
Meanwhile, Shao-yu’s mother had heard of the war and of the attack on the capital, and fearing that her son was in danger, she called upon Heaven with all her heart and prayed until her face grew thin and her body was run-down and emaciated. It did not seem that she could physically endure for long. But now, seeing her son return safe and sound, she was so overcome with joy that she clasped him to her bosom and wept as if he had returned from the dead.
They talked together as the old year passed. When the winter had ended and spring came again, Shao-yu once more made ready to depart and sit for the civil examination.
His mother said: “Last year you went through many dangers on your way, and I still tremble when I think of it. You are still young, and there is plenty of time for great achievements, but I will not try to stop you if you wish to go now. Hsiu-chou is a remote place. No one here is your equal and there are no girls suitable to be your bride. You are fifteen now, and it is time for you to marry, before it is too late.
“At Chu-ch’ing Temple in the capital, there is a cousin of mine, Tu-ryun. She has been a Taoist priestess for countless years, but I believe she is still alive. I’m told she is a woman of great authority and wisdom. She knows all the best families in the city. Remember to go and see her, because she will treat you like a son and will help you find a good woman. Do not forget.” She wrote a letter for him to take.
Shao-yu listened to his mother, then told her about his meeting with Ch’in’s daughter in Hua-yin. Thinking of her filled him with sorrow.
His mother sighed. “Lady Ch’in must be beautiful,” she said. “But i
t must not be the will of Heaven for you to be with her. She may not be dead, but it would be very hard to find her after the destruction and disaster that befell her family. Please, banish your vain thoughts of her and find another wife. Be a comfort to me and do what I ask.”
Shao-yu said good-bye and started on his way, but just as he reached Nakyang he was caught in a sudden rainstorm and he took shelter in a wine shop outside the south gate. “This is decent wine,” he said to the innkeeper after he’d had a drink. “But have you nothing better?”
“I have nothing better than this,” the innkeeper replied. “If you want the best, you will find it at an inn called Nakyang Springtime at the entrance to T’ien-chin Bridge. That wine has an exquisite taste, but a high price. One measure will cost you a thousand cash.”15
Shao-yu thought for a moment. “Nakyang has been the home of the Emperor since ancient times,” he said. “It is a very busy and marvelous city, regarded as the greatest in the world. Last year I went by another road and so I did not get to see its sights. This time I shall stop and have a look.”
3
MEETING CH’AN-YÜEH AT LO-YANG
Shao-yu had his boy pay for the wine and then led his donkey toward T’ien-chin Bridge. When they passed through the gates into the city he saw that it was bustling with commerce and as beautiful as he had heard. The river Lo1 flowed through the city like a band of gleaming silk, and the T’ien-chin Bridge—the Bridge of the Milky Way—arched over the water like a double rainbow. The brilliant red pillars and the blue tiles of the pavilion on each side rose high, reflecting the sun, and everything was reflected again below, the shadows extending onto the fragrant path. It was magnificent.