by Kim Man-jung
When they reached Lo-yang and were crossing the T’ien-chin Bridge in view of the pavilion, Shao-yu was reminded of the happy hours he had spent with Ch’an-yüeh. It made him melancholy. “If she knew that I had passed this way before, sad to have missed her, she would surely be waiting for me now,” he said to himself. “They say she became a nun, and she must be far away at some Taoist temple or Buddhist monastery. How can I reach her, for if we do not meet now I cannot imagine how we will ever meet again.”
As he looked far ahead at the pavilion, he suddenly noticed a beautiful girl standing there, with the beaded curtain rolled up, watching the approaching horses and chariots. It was Ch’an-yüeh! Shao-yu’s face lit up with recognition, and as his chariot sped by, they gazed upon each other with indescribable joy and affection.
By the time he reached his lodgings, she was already there waiting, having arrived by a shortcut. Overcome with a mixture of joy and sorrow, she wept and could not speak at first.
Finally, she bowed and said to him, “You have no doubt heard what happened to me, so there is no need to repeat it for you. Last spring, I heard that you were on a mission in service of the Emperor and would pass this way, but I was too far away and I could not come to meet you. I could only weep. But the magistrate came to visit me at the temple and showed me the poem you had written on the wall. He begged my forgiveness for the wrongs he had done me and asked me to come and await your return here. I was delighted.
“I returned to my former home, happy at the thought that someone cared about me, and every day I went up to the T’ien-chin Pavilion to watch for your arrival. Everyone envied me. But now that you have attained such a high position, tell me, have you not married?”
“I am engaged to the daughter of Minister Cheng,” Shao-yu replied. “But we have not married yet. She is just as you said she would be. You were a wonderful matchmaker, and I owe you a great debt of gratitude.”
And so they renewed their love and were inseparable for many days. Because Shao-yu was spending all of his time with Ch’an-yüeh, he did not send for the boy, Po-luan, whom he had just met. But one morning Shao-yu’s servant boy came to him and quietly said to him, “That young Ti Po-luan fellow is no good. I saw him flirting with Kuei Ch’an-yüeh in the women’s quarters.”
“He would never do such a thing,” said Shao-yu. “And Ch’an-yüeh is faithful to me. You are mistaken.”
The boy left in anger, and it wasn’t long before he returned. “If you don’t believe me, then come see for yourself,” he said, pointing to the west wing.
Now the boy led Shao-yu to the servants’ quarters, and there he saw the two of them leaning over the low wall holding hands, talking and laughing together. Shao-yu drew closer to hear them more clearly, but Po-luan heard his footsteps and ran away, while Ch’an-yüeh looked at him with a guilty blush.
“Have you known him very long?” Shao-yu asked.
“I do not know him, but his sister is a good friend of mine and I was asking after her,” said Ch’an-yüeh. “I am a lowborn dancing girl, as you know, and I am in the habit of flirting with young men, holding hands, and whispering in their ears. If you think what I have done is shameful, I am deeply sorry to have wronged you.”
“Do not worry yourself,” said Shao-yu. “I trust you completely.” But he realized Po-luan was only a boy and he was ashamed to be caught flirting. Shao-yu decided to call the boy to put his mind at rest, but Po-luan could not be found anywhere.
Shao-yu was filled with regret. “In ancient times Prince Chuang of Ch’u comforted his followers by having everyone cut off their hat strings,”8 he said to himself. “But through my carelessness I have lost my dear young friend. What shall I do now?” And he ordered his servants to search high and low for Po-luan.
Shao-yu spent the night drinking with Ch’an-yüeh, reminiscing about the past and rekindling their love, and when it grew late they put out the lights and slept together.
When the sun rose, Shao-yu awakened to see that Ch’an-yüeh was already getting dressed, but something was different about her. The delicate brows, the bright eyes, the cloudlike hair, the rosy cheeks, and the slender waist were all like Ch’an-yüeh, but it was not her. Confused and suspicious, he lay there for a time, unable to speak.
Finally, he asked, “Who are you?”
7
THE IMPERIAL SON-IN-LAW
“My name is Ti Ching-hung1 and I am from Po-chou,” she said. “I have been Ch’an-yüeh’s friend since childhood. We are like sisters. She was not feeling well last night, and so she asked me to sleep with you so you would not be disappointed in her. That is why I came in her place.”
But even before she was finished, Ch’an-yüeh came into the room. “Now that you have a new woman to serve you, I congratulate you. I recommended Ti Ching-hung of Ho-pei to you some time ago. What do you think of her now that you’ve been with her?”
“She is far lovelier than you described,” said Shao-yu. He studied her face again and saw that she looked exactly like the boy Ti Po-luan. “Is Po-luan your brother?” he asked. “I’m afraid I was rather harsh with him yesterday. Do you know where he is now?”
“I have no brother,” said Ching-hung.
Shao-yu suddenly realized the truth. “You’re the boy who followed me from the roadside near Han-tan,” he said. “And it was you who was flirting with Ch’an-yüeh over the wall yesterday. But why did you dress as a boy and fool me?”
“How else could I have attracted your attention?” said Ching-hung. “Though I am lowborn and uneducated, I have always longed to serve a great man. When the King of Yen heard about me he bought me for a bag of jewels and kept me in his palace. I ate the best food and wore the finest clothes, but that is not what I wanted. I felt only sorrow like a bird in a cage. Then, when the King of Yen held a banquet in your honor, I peeked through the screen and saw you, and I knew you were the man I had been longing to serve. But how was I to escape through the nine gates of the palace unnoticed and travel so far to get to you? I thought about it for a long time until I finally had a plan, but I could not leave the same day as you, or the king would have sent his men to recapture me.
“So when you had been gone for several days, I stole one of the king’s fastest horses and reached Han-tan in two days. That is where you called for me.
“I should have told you right away who I was, but there were too many people about, and I stayed in disguise to avoid being captured. What I did last night was at Ch’an-yüeh’s request. If you will forgive me, I will serve you forever. Overlook my humble birth and when you are married to a noble lady, let me live with you together with Ch’an-yüeh and we will bring you happiness.”
Shao-yu replied, “Even the famous Yang Chih-fu, who played the same kind of trick on Duke Li Wei when she came to him in the night, pales in comparison to you.2 I only regret that I did not compare to the duke. We have gotten along so well together, what need is there of other arrangements?”
Ching-hung thanked him, and Ch’an-yüeh said, “Since Ching-hung has slept with you in my place, I should also thank you on her behalf.” The two women bowed to him.
That night Shao-yu slept with the both of them, and in the morning he said to them, “You cannot accompany me now because there are too many people who will gossip about us. I will send for you as soon as I am married.”
And he left for Ch’ang-an.
* * *
When Shao-yu arrived back at the capital to report to the palace, King Yen’s letter of surrender, along with gifts of gold, silk, and other tribute also arrived.
The Emperor was very pleased. He wanted to reward Shao-yu for his efforts by recognizing him with the title of marquis,3 but Shao-yu was shocked by the suggestion of so high an honor, and he bowed down before the throne and asked to decline.
The Emperor, moved by his modesty, took his hand and made him minister of culture, also appointing him an
imperial scholar. Such a bestowal of honors, even to an emperor’s favorite, was unprecedented.
When Shao-yu returned, Minister Cheng and his wife gave him a warm welcome, congratulating him on his appointment as a minister after his dangerous mission. The household was filled with happiness and rejoicing. Shao-yu went into the garden, and there he found Ch’an-yüeh. They talked of intimate things and the joy in their lovemaking was beyond description.
The Emperor was much impressed by Shao-yu’s command of literature and he invited him often to his private quarters to discuss classics like the Shu-ching,4 and so most days found Shao-yu in the inner palace.
One night, when he had stayed late with the Emperor, the bright moonlight made it impossible for him to sleep, and so he stepped out onto the balcony of the pavilion and, leaning over the rail, he composed a poem. Suddenly he heard the soft notes of a flute borne on the breeze. It was so ethereally beautiful it sounded like it came from another world beyond the clouds.
Shao-yu called one of the servants and asked, “Is that sound coming from outside the palace, or is that someone inside playing?”
“I cannot tell,” said the servant.
So Shao-yu took his own jade flute and played several tunes, and the notes rose into the heavens and stopped the very clouds in their course. Suddenly, a pair of blue cranes came flying from the inner garden and began dancing to the melody, and all the secretaries were amazed. “It is Prince Chin of Chou!”5 they exclaimed. “He has returned to play for us!”
Now, the Empress Dowager had two sons and a daughter. Her first son, naturally, was the Emperor, and the other, Prince Yüeh. Her daughter was Princess Lan-yang.6
Before the princess was born, the Empress Dowager dreamed that a fairy had placed a pearl in her bosom.
When the princess grew up, she possessed all the lovely qualities of her name, which meant “Orchid.” She had excellent skill in the literary arts and embroidery, and she was her mother’s favorite.
A flute of white jade had been part of the tribute presented to the court from Syria.7 It was exquisitely crafted, but when the Empress Dowager ordered the court musicians to play it, no one could produce a sound. One night the princess dreamed that a fairy came to her and taught her how to play it. When she awakened, she took up the flute and produced a beautiful, harmonious melody.
The Empress Dowager and the Emperor were greatly surprised and pleased by this event, but no one outside the family knew of it. Whenever the princess played the jade flute, cranes would gather in the courtyard and dance to the music.
The Empress Dowager said to her son the Emperor, “In ancient times Nung-yüeh, the daughter of Duke Mu of Ch’in, could play the jade flute beautifully. Lan-yang plays just like her, and since Nung-yüeh met her husband Hsiao-shih,8 who was also a flute player, through her music, I am sure Lan-yang will do the same.”
This is why Lan-yang was of age to be married but no suitable husband had yet been found for her. That night the princess played her flute, watching the blue cranes dance under the bright moon, and when she was done the birds flew away to the garden of the Academy and danced there. After this, the people in the palace all said to each other, “The cranes are dancing to Minister Yang’s flute.”
When the Emperor heard of this, he realized that the princess and Yang Shao-yu were clearly destined for each other. To his mother, he said, “Minister Yang is not only the right age for our princess, he is also peerless in appearance and ability. What do you think of him marrying the princess?”
The Empress Dowager laughed. “I have been worrying about finding the right husband for Hsiao-ho,” she said, calling Princess Lan-yang by her personal name, which meant “Panpipe Harmony.”9 It had been given to her because those two characters were written on the white jade flute. “But from what you have told me, it seems that Heaven has made our selection for us. Still, I will need to look at him before I decide.”
“That won’t be hard,” said the Emperor. “In a day or two I will call him to come to discuss books with me, and then you can get a peek at him and make your decision.”
The Empress Dowager was delighted.
* * *
A few days later, from his throne in P’eng-lai Hall,10 the Emperor sent a eunuch11 to bring Yang Shao-yu. The eunuch first went to the Imperial Academy, only to discover that he had just left. So he went to Minister Cheng’s house, only to be told that Shao-yu hadn’t arrived there. Confused, the eunuch rushed about, hither and thither, trying to find him.
Shao-yu happened to be with his friend Thirteen at a drinking establishment, where they were enjoying wine and song with two famous courtesans, Chu-niang and Yü-lu.12 When the eunuch finally found them, he informed Shao-yu of the Emperor’s orders to report to the palace at once. Thirteen was frightened and immediately leaped up and made himself scarce, but Shao-yu was so drunk by then he barely understood what was happening.
The eunuch persevered, and with the help of the two girls, he got Shao-yu onto his feet, into his official dress, and to the palace. The Emperor told Shao-yu to take a seat, and he began quizzing him about past dynasties, the achievements and failures of past rulers.
Shao-yu’s answers were very coherent, and the Emperor was pleased with him. “They say poetry is not an emperor’s occupation,” he said. “But my ancestors enjoyed composing verse and they were widely read and appreciated by the people. Tell me, who in your opinion were the best and worst poets in antiquity? Which kings wrote the best verse? And among subjects, who was the best?”
Shao-yu replied, “The dialogue between ruler and subject by means of verse began with Emperor Shun and his minister Kao Yao. Among the works of emperors, the finest are Han Kao-ti’s ‘Song of the Great Wind,’ Han Wu-ti’s ‘Ode to the Autumn Wind,’ and Wei Wu-ti’s ‘Moonlight and Starlight.’ Among ministers I would say the most notable are Li Ling of Western Han, Ts’ao Chih of Wei, and T’ao Yuan-ming and Hsieh Ling-yun of Chin.
“But through the ages, no dynasty has had literature flourish as much as ours, the T’ang, and the finest era was in the forty-year reign of Emperor HsüanTsung.13 He was the best poet among emperors and Li Po was not only the best poet among subjects, he was the greatest of all time.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said the Emperor. “Whenever I read ‘The Song of Ch’ing-ping’ or his ‘Ode on the Joy of Travel,’ I regret that I could not meet Li Po, but now that I have you here, that regret is gone.
“According to an old tradition, I have picked a dozen women of the palace—female secretaries, if you will—to assist you. They are all talented and beautiful. I would like to enjoy what it must have been like to watch Li Po composing poetry while he was drunk. I hope you will not disappoint these women.” He had the female secretaries set out an inkstone case made of crystal, a white jade brush holder, and a yellow jade water dropper.
Then each woman spread out a silk scarf and a silk fan as the Emperor had ordered, and Shao-yu, still happily drunk, wrote on them the verses that spontaneously came to mind, the tip of his brush flickering like lightning through wind and clouds. When at last he finished, the women knelt before the Emperor and presented each fan and scarf inscribed with Shao-yu’s compositions. The Emperor regarded each fan and scarf, every poem like a jewel, and ordered the women to bring the finest wine in appreciation of Shao-yu’s impressive achievement.
They carried in trays of gold with cups fashioned to look like parrots and poured them full of wine. Some knelt before Shao-yu and others stood around him, urging him to drink, a cup in each hand, and when he had downed a dozen cups in the Emperor’s presence, his face flushed red and his vision grew dim.
The Emperor told the women to clear away the wine. “His poems are worth a thousand pieces of gold,” he said to them. “Their true worth is beyond price. What precious things will you give him now as reward?”
The women removed their dazzling golden hairpins and jangli
ng jade ornaments and cast them down before Shao-yu. “Gather up the paper, the brushes, the water dropper, and the secretaries’ gifts,” the Emperor commanded a eunuch. “Take everything and accompany the minister back to his house.”
Shao-yu rose to thank the Emperor and collapsed from too much drink. The Emperor ordered the eunuchs to help Shao-yu up. They took him to the south gate of the palace, where they put him on the back of his horse and took him home to the pavilion in the garden, and there Ch’un-yün undressed him, taking him out of his court robes.
“Wherever did you get so drunk?” she asked him.
Shao-yu could only nod.
The servants piled the brushes, the jade ornaments, the water bottle, and the jewelry on the floor, and seeing it all there, Shao-yu laughed and said, “These are all the gifts the Emperor has sent to you. I am earning as much as Tung-fang Shuo!”14
Ch’un-yün wanted to know all the details, but Shao-yu was already fast asleep, snoring like thunder.
* * *
Shao-yu woke up late the next morning. He was still washing his face when the gatekeeper rushed in and said, “Prince Yüeh is here!”
“Prince Yüeh came in person?” asked Shao-yu, startled. “It must be something important.”
He quickly went out to greet the prince and showed him in to the reception room, where he extended every courtesy. The prince was about twenty years old, his features so handsome and clear that he seemed to be of another world.
Shao-yu knelt before him. “What is your command, Your Highness, that you would visit me in my humble dwelling?”