by Kim Man-jung
“Thirteen and I have been drinking too much lately. That must be the reason,” answered Shao-yu.
It was just then that Thirteen arrived. Shao-yu gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing.
“Brother,” said Thirteen, “you seem so unhappy lately. Are you so burdened with your official duties that it has affected your health? Or is it that you are so homesick you’ve become ill? Why do you look so worn and full of misery?”
Shao-yu could not refuse to answer. “How can a man so far from his home look otherwise?”
“I overheard the servants talking,” said the minister. “They said they saw you talking to a beautiful girl in the garden pavilion. Is this true?”
“The garden has walls. How could anyone get inside?” said Shao-yu. “What they say is ridiculous.”
“Brother,” said Thirteen, “with all your worldly experience, why are you blushing now like a girl? You dismissed Master Tu with such bold confidence, but I can see by the pallor of your face that there is something terribly wrong. I put Master Tu’s ghost talisman under your topknot while you were drunk and did not know what I was doing. That night I hid in the garden and, sure enough, I witnessed a female ghost come and cry plaintively outside your room. From this I knew that what Master Tu said was true, and that I had done you a great favor for which you should be thanking me. So why do you seem so angry?”
Shao-yu knew he could no longer conceal the matter. He addressed the minister: “The strangest things have happened to me, sir. I shall tell you all about it.” And so he told the whole story, and when he concluded, he said, “I know that Thirteen did what he did for my sake, but Chang Li-hua, even though she was a ghost, had a solid form. She was full of life and good-hearted—hardly deceitful. I may be less than upright as a man, but I could never be tricked by a ghost. With his ill-placed talisman, Thirteen has severed my tie with Chang Li-hua and I cannot forgive him for it.”
The minister clapped his hands and laughed. “Shao-yu, my boy,” he said, “your temperament and character are like that of Sung Yü.26 He could invoke ghosts—surely, you must know how to conjure her up? When I was a boy, I myself met a strange fellow who taught me how to summon ghosts. I do not jest! I will invoke Chang Li-hua’s ghost for you so that you can be comforted and forgive Thirteen. What do you say?”
“In the times of the Han, Shao invoked the ghost of Lady Li,”27 said Shao-yu, “but that knowledge has been lost for many generations. I cannot believe you, sir.”
Thirteen interrupted. “Brother, you called up Li-hua’s ghost with no effort at all, and I drove her away with a scrap of paper. It is not obvious to you that ghosts can be controlled? Why are you so skeptical?”
“If you do not believe, then watch this,” said Minister Cheng. He struck the folding screen behind him with a flywhisk and called, “Chang Li-hua, show yourself!” Immediately, a young girl came out from behind the screen, her face radiant with a smile. She went and stood demurely behind Lady Cheng.
Shao-yu could tell at a glance that she was none other than Chang Li-hua. He looked from Minister Cheng to Thirteen in astonishment. “Is this a girl or a ghost?” he said at last. “Is this a dream, or is it reality?”
The minister and Lady Cheng smiled, but Thirteen laughed so hard he could not stand up. All the servants were laughing, too. “Now I shall tell you the truth,” said the minister. “This girl is neither a ghost nor a fairy. Her name is Ch’un-yün,28 of the Chia29 family, whom we have brought up in our own household. Since you were bound to be lonely living by yourself in the garden pavilion, we sent her to comfort you and relieve your boredom. But then the youngsters took it upon themselves to play this practical joke on you.”
Thirteen, at last getting himself under control, said, “It was I who arranged both of your meetings with the fairy. You should be thanking me for doing you a favor, but you look at me as if I am loathsome. You ingrate!” He doubled up in laughter once again.
Shao-yu finally joined the laughter. “You ruined your father’s gift to me!” he exclaimed. “Why should I thank you for a favor like that?”
Thirteen replied, “I am happy to take the blame, but I deserve only part of it. It is not I who hatched the plot—that credit goes to someone else.”
Shao-yu looked at the minister. “If it was not you that planned the joke, then who was it?”
“I am already a gray-headed old man,” said Minister Cheng. “Why would I indulge in such childish games? You are mistaken if you think it was me.”
Thirteen added, “Mencius30 said, ‘What comes from you returns to you.’ Think about it, brother. If a man can become a woman, then what is so strange about a human becoming a fairy or a fairy becoming a ghost?”
Only then did Shao-yu finally understand. He laughed and said to the minister, “I can see it all now, sir. I once played a trick on your daughter, and she has never forgotten it.”
The minister and Lady Cheng both laughed, but said nothing. Shao-yu then turned to Ch’un-yün and said, “You are bright and clever, but to play a trick on the man you intend to marry is hardly proper, now, is it?”
Ch’un-yün knelt as she replied, “Your servant heard the general’s orders but did not receive the Emperor’s edict.”
Shao-yu sighed. “When Prince Hsiang of olden times lay with the fairy on Wu-shan, he could not tell that she was a cloud in the morning and rain in the evening.31 Now that I know that the girl Ch’un-yün can become both a fairy and a ghost, I have learned the principle of transmogrificaton. It is said there are no weak soldiers under a strong general. If the soldier is like you, then how great must be the wisdom of the general?”
At this, everyone laughed happily, and more refreshments were set out for a day of eating and drinking. Ch’un-yün was allowed to join them on the lowest seat.
When night had fallen Ch’un-yün carried a lantern and led her new master to the garden pavilion. Happily drunk, he took her hand and teased, “Are you truly a fairy or a ghost? I have had a fairy and I’ve had a ghost, and now I have a beautiful girl.32 If you can be transformed into a fairy and a ghost, shall I turn you into Heng-o,33 the beauty who lives in the moon? Or shall I change you into a fairy of Heng-shan?”34
Ch’un-yün fell to her knees and said, “Master, I have done you a terrible wrong and deceived you in so many ways. Will you ever forgive me?”
Shao-yu laughed and said, “Even when you were a ghost I did not love you any less. How could I be angry at you now?”
She rose to thank him formally.35
6
THE BOY AT THE ROADSIDE
When Shao-yu passed the government examination and was arranging to marry Minister Cheng’s daughter, he had planned to go home in the fall and return to the capital with his aged mother for the wedding celebration; but his duties as a state official had detained him from making the trip. Now he was finally about to go, but circumstances of national import intervened once again. The Tibetans1 were making incursions along the frontier and the governors of Ho-pei, now calling themselves the kings of Yen, Chao, and Wei, had allied with their stronger neighbor, raised armies, and fomented a rebellion.
The Emperor was deeply troubled, and he gathered his counselors to discuss the logistics of putting down the rebellion, but they could not agree on a plan until Yang Shao-yu came forward and said: “In ancient times the emperor Han Wu-ti summoned the Prince of Nan-yüeh and gently reprimanded him.2 Your Majesty should do the same. Make haste and dispatch a letter of warning to the rebels, and if they do not listen to reason, then send an army in force and destroy them.”
The Emperor commanded Shao-yu to compose such a letter at once. Shao-yu kowtowed, fetched brush, ink, and paper, and wrote the letter in the Emperor’s presence. “It is dignified and full of gravity,” the Emperor said, delighted. “It is gracious, but it maintains a sense of our power and authority. I am certain that the foolish rebels will come to the
ir senses.”
The letter was dispatched at once to the three rebel kingdoms. Chao and Wei immediately renounced their royal titles and obeyed the Emperor’s decree. They sent replies, begging the Emperor’s pardon, and sent tributes of ten thousand horses and a thousand rolls of fine silk. The King of Yen, whose territory was farthest from the capital, refused, confident that his army was strong enough.
The Emperor realized that the surrender of Chao and Wei was due to Shao-yu’s insight, and so he issued the following edict:
A century ago the rebels of Ho-pei, confident of their military strength, raised an insurrection. Emperor Te Tsung sent an army of 100,000 against them, but he failed to quell the rebellion. But now, with a single letter, Yang Shao-yu has brought two entire rebel armies to surrender without the mobilization or loss of a single soldier. Imperial authority has been strengthened far and wide throughout the empire. In recognition of his service and as an expression of our satisfaction and gratitude, we award him three hundred rolls of silk and five thousand horses.3
The Emperor also wanted to promote his rank, but Shao-yu went before him and said, with great humility, “Your Majesty, drafting an imperial decree is merely part of my duty. The surrender of the two armies was due entirely to your imperial authority. How could I possibly accept these rewards? There is still one rebel army, and I regret that I have not been able to fight to redeem the nation’s shame. How could you wish to promote me in these circumstances?
“I am not loyal to you for the sake of promotion. Since victory or defeat does not depend on the number of soldiers, I ask that you let me set out with a single regiment and, with your imperial authority, I will settle the matter with Yen by fighting them to the death. Thus would I return a ten-thousandth part of the favor you have bestowed upon me.”
The Emperor considered these words and asked the opinion of his counselors, who said, “Of the three armies that were in league against the empire, two have surrendered. Little Yen is like a piece of meat in a pot or an ant in a hole. Before the imperial army he will snap like a dry twig or crumble like a rotten one. Let the army try other means before attacking. Let Yang Shao-yu be put in charge to try his skill at negotiation, and if Yen does not surrender, then they will be destroyed.”
The Emperor approved and ordered Shao-yu to set off for Yen to try persuasion with the rebels before resorting to force.
So Shao-yu went to say good-bye to Minister Cheng, who said to him, “The men of the frontier are wild and uncivilized and rebellions are an everyday occurrence. You are a scholar going off into danger. If something should happen to you, it will not be just your father-in-law, but the whole nation who would suffer from the loss. I am old now and no longer participate in affairs of the state, but I can still present a petition to the Emperor to oppose your going.”
“Please,” said Shao-yu, “do not worry yourself on my account. When there is discord in the capital, the people of the border states take advantage and rise up, but the Emperor has the Mandate of Heaven—his authority is strong. Chao and Wei have already surrendered and Yen is the weakest of them, so there is no need for you to be concerned.”
“Then I will say no more to dissuade you. The Emperor has made his decree and the matter is settled. Just be careful. Watch out for yourself and see to it that you do not bring shame to the nation.”
But the minister’s wife was in tears. “When you became our son-in-law, we were much comforted in our old age. I cannot tell you how it upsets me now that you must go so far away. Please, come back quickly.”
When Shao-yu went to his garden pavilion to prepare for his journey, Ch’un-yün clung to him and wept. “When you went to work in the palace, I rose early to roll up the bedding and help you into your robes. You looked at me as if you could not bear to go. But now you are going far away without saying anything at all?”
Shao-yu laughed. “A man who carries out the Emperor’s orders in matters of state cannot care whether he lives or dies. He must care even less for small everyday matters. Do not mar your beauty with worry. Look after yourself and your mistress and I will return after my victory with a gold seal upon my belt.”
He went out through the gate and mounted his chariot.
* * *
When Shao-yu reached the city of Lo-yang, he saw that it hadn’t changed since he had been there last, a poorly equipped fifteen-year-old boy riding a donkey.
Only a year had passed since then, and now he was there on an imperial mission riding in a four-horse chariot. The magistrate of Lo-yang had cleared the streets for his arrival and the governor of Ho-nan4 obsequiously led the way. The road was lined with cheering throngs of people struggling to see the spectacle of his arrival.
The first thing Shao-yu did was to send his boy servant to find Ch’an-yüeh. But the gates of her house were locked and the pavilion doors were shut up—only the cherry trees were still in bloom along the wall. When the boy asked among the neighbors, they told him that, in the spring of the previous year, Ch’an-yüeh had spent the night with a passing scholar. Afterward, claiming she was ill, she refused to entertain any guests and stopped attending official banquets. Not long after that, she went insane, threw away all of her jewelry, put on a nun’s robes, and went off on a long journey. She never came back and no one knew where she was.
The boy returned and told this to Shao-yu, who was terribly saddened by the news. He went to her house to reminisce over their meeting, and that night he was sleepless with sorrow. The governor sent him a dozen dancing girls—the most skillful—to console him. They were all beautiful, splendidly dressed, and vied for his attention, but Shao-yu showed no interest in any of them.
The next morning, just before he left, he wrote a poem on the wall.
Rain over T’ien-chin Bridge, the willow buds green,
The scenery unchanged since that of last spring;
How sad my return—though I come with fame,
The table is empty—no one here to pour my wine.
When he had finished, he threw aside his writing brush and rode away in his chariot, leaving the dancing girls to hang their heads in shame.
They eagerly copied the lines and delivered the poem to the governor. “If you had gotten even a glance from him, your reputations would have grown a hundredfold,” he scolded them. “But not one of you was able to please him. You have brought disgrace upon Lo-yang.”
When the governor found out who Shao-yu was referring to in the poem, he posted notices far and wide to find Ch’an-yüeh before Shao-yu returned.
* * *
When Yang Shao-yu reached Yen, he saw that the inhabitants of that remote region had no inkling of the Emperor’s power or splendor. Throngs surrounded his chariot, blocking his way in order to get a look at him, as if he were a fabled ch’ilin5 of the Earth or a phoenix in the clouds.
When he met the King of Yen, Shao-yu’s authority was like thunder and his graciousness was like spring rain. The people, in their joy, danced and sang, saying, “The Emperor will spare us!”
Shao-yu explained the position of the Emperor, the consequences of resistance, and the wisdom of submission, his words as forceful as the ocean tide and chilling as the autumn frost.
The King of Yen was deeply impressed and, realizing his folly, he bowed down and begged forgiveness. “Yen is so far from the capital that we did not know the will of the Emperor and therefore dared to disobey and oppose him. But now, hearing your words, I am enlightened and admit my wrongdoing. From now on I will do my utmost to be a loyal subject. Please, when you return, deliver my message to the imperial court to grant us peace and turn this conflict into a blessing.”
A great banquet was held at the P’i-lou Palace, and Shao-yu was presented with a hundred talents6 of gold and ten of the finest horses. He politely declined the gifts and departed from Yen.
* * *
Ten days later, as he passed th
rough Han-tan,7 there was a boy on horseback in front of him. When the boy heard the call to clear the way, he dismounted and stood by the roadside, waiting.
“What a fine horse,” said Shao-yu.
As the cavalcade drew closer, Shao-yu saw that the boy was unusually handsome, his face like a blooming flower and bright as the moonrise. His posture was straight, and he was so radiant that one could hardly look directly at him without being dazzled. “I have seen many boys at court, but never one so handsome,” said Shao-yu. “Invite that boy to come see me,” he told an attendant.
When Shao-yu had settled in at his lodgings for the night, the young man arrived and a servant showed him in. Shao-yu was captivated. “I was taken by your beauty and your elegance when I saw you by the road,” he said. “When I sent someone after you, I feared you might refuse the invitation, so I am delighted to see you here. Tell me, what is your name?”
“I am from the north and my name is Ti Po-luan,” said the boy. “As I grew up in an insignificant village, I did not have the benefit of good teachers or refined companions and so my education is lacking. I cannot write poetry, nor can I handle a sword, but my heart is strong, and I am willing to give up my life for my friends.
“When you came through Ho-pei everyone was awed by your grandeur and your goodness. I, too, was taken with you and, forgetting my low birth, I dared to imagine that I could be your companion and serve you, even if it was to be like a watchdog or a chicken in your courtyard. Now you have been so kind as to send for me and it is like two tones in harmony, two minds thinking as one.”
Shao-yu was more than pleased. “How wonderful that our two minds think as one. Let us ride together and dine at the same table. When we pass through a beautiful landscape we shall talk of mountains and rivers and when the night is clear we shall recite poems to the wind and moon to forget the hardships of the long journey.”