by Kim Man-jung
Is there a twig where the circling magpie may alight?
The Empress Dowager read it and gave it to the princesses, saying, “I would never have guessed she was this talented.”
“The magpie in the poem is her and we princesses are the phoenixes,” said Princess Lan-yang. “She has made the comparison very clear. Fearing I might not permit her to join us, she added a subtle hint in the last line, and she alludes to The Book of Songs2 and the poems of Ts’ao Ts’ao,3 merging them beautifully. The emotion in her poem is like the old saying, ‘The birds of the air rely on man—how can man not pity the birds?’”
The princess took Ch’un-yün to meet Ts’ai-feng, explaining, “She is the daughter of Inspector Ch’in of Hua-yin, and you will grow old together.”
“Then you must be the Lady Ch’in who wrote the willow poem?” said Ch’un-yün.
Ts’ai-feng was shocked. “Who could have told you about my willow poem?” she asked.
Ch’un-yün answered, “Marshal Yang thought of you constantly and would recite that poem from memory when he reminisced about you. That is where I heard it.”
Ts’ai-feng was deeply moved. “Then he hasn’t forgotten me.” She sighed.
“How could you think such a thing?” said Ch’un-yün. “He carries that poem with him everywhere. He is in tears when he reads it, and he sighs when he recites it.”
“If he still loves me as he did, I will die happy even if I should never see him again,” said Ts’ai-feng. And she told them about how Yang Shao-yu had written the poem on her silk fan, and Ch’un-yün said, “I am wearing some of the jewelry he won that day.” They began to tell each other stories, but a eunuch came to announce that Madame Ts’ui was leaving and the two princesses had to go back to say good-bye.
When they returned to the audience chamber, the Empress Dowager was saying to Madame Ts’ui, “Marshal Yang will return shortly and the betrothal gifts will be returned to your home. But now that Princess Ying-yang is my daughter, I want my two daughters to have a double wedding. Do you find this agreeable?”
Madame Ts’ui bowed to the ground and replied, “I will abide by Your Majesty’s decision.”
The Empress Dowager laughed. “Marshal Yang has resisted me three times for the sake of Princess Ying-yang. So I would like to play a trick on him. There is an old saying: ‘Bad news turns out to be good news.’ When he returns, tell him that your daughter took sick and died. In his letter to the Emperor, he described his meeting with her. Let us see if he can recognize her on his wedding day!”
Madame Ts’ui, having received the Empress Dowager’s instructions, took her leave and returned home. Princess Ying-yang went out to the palace gates to see her off and then she called Ch’un-yün and told her about the Empress Dowager’s plan to fool Shao-yu.
“I already pretended to be a fairy and ghost and fooled Marshal Yang. I feel bad about it. Isn’t another trick like this too much?”
“It’s not our idea,” said Ying-yang. “It’s my mother’s.”
Ch’un-yün could not restrain her laughter as she left the palace.
* * *
Meanwhile, Shao-yu let his soldiers drink the waters of Po-tung Lake and they were getting well, raring to fight again. He assembled his officers, issued them orders, and mobilized his army to the sound of beating drums.
The Tibetan king, Tsen-po, had just received the jewel sent by the assassin Shen Niao-yen. When he learned that Marshal Yang’s army had marched out of P’an-she Valley, he was on his way to discuss terms, but his own generals bound him and took him to Shao-yu’s camp, where they surrendered.
Yang marched his soldiers into the Tibetan city, put an end to the looting, and pacified the people. Then he went up into the Koul Kun Mountains4 and erected a commemorative stone with an inscription that celebrated the authority and benevolence of T’ang, and then the army marched back to the capital singing songs of victory.
It was already autumn when they reached Chen-chou. The land was bleak, the air chilly, the flowers wilted. The mournful honking of departing geese made the men long for home. Shao-yu retired to the guest house, but the night was long and quiet and he could not sleep.
“It’s been more than three years since I left home,” he thought. “My mother’s health must be declining. Who will take care of her if she is sick, and who will look in on her every morning and every night? I have repulsed an invasion and achieved victory, but I have yet to fulfill my filial duty to her.
“I have failed her as a son. For years I have been so busy with my state duties that I haven’t yet married, and it has been very hard to keep my promise of betrothal to Cheng Ch’iung-pei. Now I have reclaimed five thousand li of territory and pacified a million rebels, and the Emperor will surely reward me with a position of high rank to show his gratitude. Yet I would rather decline those rewards and ask instead that he allow me to marry Minister Cheng’s daughter. But will he permit it?”
Somewhat comforted by these thoughts and feeling more at ease, he fell asleep with his head on the pillow. And he dreamed that his body flew high up into the heavens and entered the Palace of Seven Treasures surrounded by rainbow-colored clouds. There, two ladies-in-waiting met him and said, “Lady Cheng is asking for you.”
He followed them into the palace to a wide courtyard full of flowers blooming. Three fairies were sitting in a white jade pavilion. They looked like royalty, and the brilliant light around them dazzled his eyes. They were leaning on the railing playing with flowering branches, and when they saw him enter they stood up to greet him.
When he was seated, the oldest of the fairies asked, “Have you been well since you left us?”
Looking closely at her, he realized that she was Ch’iung-pei, the girl whose inner chambers he had entered, with whom he had talked of music as he played on the ch’in! Amazed and delighted, he tried to say something, but he was unable to speak.
“I have left the world of humans and entered the Heavenly Kingdom,” said the fairy. “It makes me sad when I am reminded of the past, and if you are to meet my parents, you will have no news of me.”
Then she introduced the two other fairies. “This is the Weaver Girl and that is the Jade Fairy of the Incense. You are connected to them by your previous life. Please seek them out, reunite with them, and I shall be comforted.”
Shao-yu looked at them—they seemed familiar, but he could not remember who they were. Suddenly, he was startled awake by the pounding of drums and he realized he had been dreaming. When he paused, trying to recall it, he knew it was not at all a good omen.
“Ch’iung-pei must be dead.” He sighed to himself. “Ch’un-yün’s recommendation and my aunt’s matchmaking were all for nothing. Our betrothal is a failure and she is dead. Is this my karma? But they say a bad dream can be a good omen. I wonder if it is true of my dream.”
* * *
Months later, Shao-yu’s vanguard marched triumphantly into the capital, and the Emperor himself came out as far as the Wei Bridge to welcome them. Shao-yu wore a golden helmet and golden armor, and he rode a majestic horse that could gallop a thousand li. He carried the long yak-tail spear the Emperor had given him, and all around him flew dragon and phoenix flags. Near the front of the procession was the cart that held the caged Tsen-po, the Tibetan king, followed by carts loaded with tribute from the thirty-six provinces of Tibet. Nothing like it had been seen before under Heaven.
Shao-yu dismounted and bowed low to the ground to greet the Emperor, who took him by the hands and raised him up, praising him for his victories.
An edict was immediately issued, just as had been done in the past when Kuo Tzŭ-i of Fen-yang had been given many awards along with his own territory over which he was made a prince. But Shao-yu insisted on declining these honors, and in the end the Emperor relented and issued an edict making him the prime minister and the Duke of Wei, giving him a town of thirty thousand hous
eholds and other rewards too numerous to recount here.
Shao-yu followed the Emperor’s carriage into the palace, and there he formally expressed his thanks for the gifts and titles. The Emperor held a great victory banquet and ordered a portrait of Shao-yu to be made and placed in the Ch’ilin Pavilion where the portraits of famous men were hung.
Afterward, Shao-yu left the palace and went to Minister Cheng’s house, where the entire household—except for the minister and his wife—came out to the courtyard and bowed to welcome and congratulate him.
When Shao-yu asked after the health of the minister and his wife, his friend Thirteen replied, “My uncle and aunt were well until my cousin left this world. They were so grief-stricken they lost the will to live and are unable to come out to welcome you. Please—will you come with me to the inner quarters?”
When Shao-yu heard this he was dumbstruck. When he had recovered his wits, he asked, “Which of your cousins is it who died?”
“My uncle had no son and only one daughter,” said Thirteen. “Heaven has neglected her. Isn’t it tragic? What can one do but be sorrowful? But please—when you go in to see my uncle, try not to show your sadness.”
Shao-yu wept until his collars were soaked with his tears.
Thirteen comforted him. “Your marriage contract was like a dream come true, but this family’s karma is so bad that your engagement was hopeless from the start. So get ahold of yourself and do not be so sorrowful.”
Shao-yu dried his tears and thanked Thirteen, and they went together into the inner quarters to meet Minister Cheng and his wife.
They were happy to see Shao-yu and congratulated him on his triumphant return, but they mentioned nothing about their daughter.
“I had the good fortune to save the nation from invasion and I have achieved great success and received the Emperor’s favor. I have declined most of it, asking him only to change his mind and let me keep my marriage promise. But already the dew of morning has dried and the splendor of spring is faded. How can the living conceal their sorrow for one who has died?”
Minister Cheng frowned. “Today we are all gathered to celebrate your success,” he said sternly. “We are not here to mourn—let us not speak of sad things.”
Noticing Thirteen’s sideways glance, Shao-yu followed him out into the garden. Just then, Ch’un-yün came down from the pavilion to meet them, and seeing her Shao-yu was reminded so much of Ch’iung-pei that he began to weep again.
Ch’un-yün knelt in front of him. “My lord, please do not be sad,” she said, trying to comfort him. “Please dry your tears and listen with an open heart to what I have to say. From the beginning, my mistress was a heavenly being who was temporarily exiled in the world of mortals. On the day she reascended, she said to me, ‘You once left Minister Yang to be with me, but now that I am leaving this world you must go back to him and serve him. He will return soon, and when he thinks of me and with sadness, tell him this to comfort him: Since the wedding gifts were returned, I am like a stranger to him, and if he is sad remembering the time when I listened to him playing the ch’in, tell him it is against the orders of the Emperor for him to be so self-indulgent. It is also not what I would wish.
“‘And it is not a good thing. Also tell him that we should not have any memorial service at my grave, nor should he weep for me after my death, and that if he does not follow my last wishes he would be insulting my memory. I would suffer for it in the next world. The Emperor is waiting for his return to discuss his marriage with the princess. Her virtue is like the devotion of the osprey as it says in The Book of Songs. That is what I want—for him to do as the Emperor says.’”
Hearing this, Shao-yu was even more grief-stricken, and he said, “Even if she left those words for me, how can I possibly help but be sad? If I died ten times over, I could still never repay her for such generosity.” Then he told Ch’un-yün about the dream he’d had at the guest house on his way back to the capital.
It made Ch’un-yün cry. “Lady Cheng is in the Heavenly Kingdom, and you are sure to meet her there. Do not grieve so—it will make you sick.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“There is something else,” said Ch’un-yün. “But I hesitate to tell you.”
“Tell me everything she said,” Shao-yu replied.
“She said to me, ‘You and I are of the same body. If he cannot forget me and he desires you as he desired me, if he would not desert you, I would still be loved by him.’”
Shao-yu became even sadder at this. “How could I possibly desert you?” he asked.“Especially now that I know she wanted me, in her last request, to keep you? Even if I were to marry the Weaver Girl in the night sky or have Fu-fei of the river Lo5 as my concubine, I would never dream of deserting you.”
13
TWO PRINCESSES, TWO WIVES
The next day, the Emperor called Shao-yu and said to him, “Regarding the princess’s marriage, the Empress Dowager issued a strict edict, and I was concerned. But now young Lady Cheng is dead and the situation is resolved. We had decided to hold the wedding as soon as you returned. You are at the peak of youth, with a high rank, and the time is nigh for your marriage. Your mother is still living, after all—how is she to perform all of her many duties on her own?
“The wedding will be held at your home, and as Duke of Wei you will need to hold a memorial service at the proper shrine. I have already prepared a place for you to live in the palace and now await the day of the ceremony to be decided. Do you agree to all of this?”
Shao-yu bowed and answered, “My crime of refusal deserves ten thousand deaths and yet you are so gracious and merciful that I know not where to crawl and die. I have presumed to agree to your plans, but I am of low birth, ignorant, and unskilled. I cannot possibly be worthy of being the princess’s husband.”
The Emperor was pleased, and he ordered the minister of rites to set the best date for the ceremony, and the court astrologer chose the middle of the ninth month as the most auspicious time. The Emperor said to Shao-yu: “I did not tell you before, because no firm time had been set for the wedding, but I have two sisters. They are both educated and superior in every way. I was looking for a husband like you for my second sister, but it turns out to be impossible. So I am going to follow the Empress Dowager’s advice and ask you to marry them both.”
Shao-yu suddenly remembered the dream he’d had at the guest house at Chen-chou. It was decidedly strange. Bowing to the Emperor, he said, “I was uneasy when you chose me to be the princess’s husband, and now you say I am to marry two princesses? I have never heard of such a thing. How could I possibly agree to it?”
“Your accomplishments are the most distinguished in the history of our nation,” said the Emperor. “I cannot reward you adequately, but I can give you both of my sisters in marriage.
“The two princesses are so close that when one stands the other sits, and when one comes the other follows. They cannot bear to be separated and want to grow old together. The Empress Dowager wants them to share a husband—you cannot refuse.
“There is also a lady secretary, Ch’in Ts’ai-feng, who is from a distinguished family. She is beautiful and intelligent, and the princess Lan-yang loves her very much. I suggest you take her as a concubine.
“I wanted to tell you all of this ahead of time,” said the Emperor.
Shao-yu stood and bowed, and he thanked the Emperor before he took his leave.
* * *
Princess Ying-yang had been in the palace for many months, serving loyally, getting along with Princess Lan-yang and Ts’ai-feng as if they were sisters, which pleased the Empress Dowager very much.
As the day of the wedding drew closer, Princess Ying-yang confided to the Empress Dowager, “When you decided on the seating order and put me ahead of Princess Lan-yang, I reluctantly accepted, though it was presumptuous of me, because I thought I might offend you if
I was stubborn in my refusal. But now when we marry the prime minister, it is not proper for Lan-yang to relinquish her place again. It is my sincere hope that you and the Emperor will give careful thought to this issue so that I may have my proper position in the family and there will be no disharmony.”
In a moment, Princess Lan-yang, who was with the Empress Dowager, said, “Ying-yang’s virtue and talent have been like teachers to me. Even though she is of the Cheng household, I believe I should still yield my place to her like the wife of Chao Shuai. Now that she is the Emperor’s sister and my older sister, how can there be a difference in status between us? Even if I am the second wife, that does not change my status as the Emperor’s sister. If I was going to be the first wife all along, what was the point of adopting Ying-yang in the first place?”
The Empress Dowager asked the Emperor what he thought of the matter.
“Lan-yang is entirely sincere, but I have never heard of a princess doing such a thing even in ancient times,” he said. “I say we should recognize the beauty in this humility and let things be as she wishes.”
“You are right,” said the Empress Dowager. And she ordered that Princess Ying-yang be made the first wife of the Duke of Wei and Princess Lan-yang the second wife. Ts’ai-feng, being of a distinguished family, was made a concubine of the first rank.
According to custom, the wedding of a princess had always been celebrated outside the inner palace, but this one, by the Empress Dowager’s order, was to be held inside.
On the auspicious day, Shao-yu, wearing his jade belt and ch’ilin1 robe, married the two princesses in a ceremony so splendid and ritual so solemn that words fail to describe them. When the ceremony had concluded and everyone was at ease, Ts’ai-feng came to join the princesses.
To Shao-yu, they appeared so radiant and serene it was as if they were three fairies come down from Heaven, and he could not help wondering if it was all a dream.