Frank Owen

by A Husband for Kutani

  However no trace of his true feelings showed in his voice as he asked, “And what method do you intend using to keep me here?”

  “An interesting thought to mull over. There are a host of methods at hand for your destruction. A few drops of poison slipped into your wine. A slim knife deftly turned while you slept, or a slim girl while you were awake. If you succumbed to the torture-flower of love, you would cease thereafter to be a menace to us as surely as though you had been decapitated. The strongest chains are not always forged of steel. If you would prefer a passing with more horror associated with it so that future legend might be more colorful, I suggest that you submit yourself to the process of embalming while you are still alive. But enough of morbid thoughts. Tonight you are my guest and I am interested in your conversation. It will perhaps be some time before I tire of your company. Until I do you need have no fear of your wine, and your sleep will not be disturbed by a slender knife. I cannot, however, protect you from the wiles of a slender girl. Only your own will power can do that.”

  “It surprises me that you do not point out that there is little likelihood that I could find my way through this maze of underground labyrinths without a guide, and therefore I cannot get away until you choose to open the portals of my underground tomb.”

  “Mere oversight, but your summing up is admirable. I was not wrong when I credited you with clear thinking. Nor were we wrong when we expended so much time, money and energy to make you one of us. You must have every comfort. We give you these mountains. Let us hope the mountains will give you something in return.”

  3

  Some time later when the meal was over, Chang Kien suggested that they go for a walk in the garden.

  “For you must know that when nature fashioned these mountains ages ago,” he said, “she hid a garden in the center, protected by unscalable mountain walls, a retreat to which a man may retire to forget the troubles and sorrows of earth. For in this garden no discordant note has ever been heard. The only entrance to it is through winding caverns, and unless a traveler knew the way, he would never discover it. Certain members of the great K’ung family live in houses built among the trees. Others, like myself, prefer living within the mountain. Understand, not all the family of Confucius dwell here for there are many thousands of us.”

  For awhile the path through the caverns was lighted by lanterns. Several times it became very narrow and they could not walk abreast. Again the path was steep. Once they were forced to climb a staircase in the rock. It was high and steep but when they reached the top, the view was well worth the effort, for they were in a vast amphitheatre. Now there were no lanterns for none were needed. An eerie light encompassed everything, like the thin edge of day merging into night.

  “The illumination is caused by phosphorescent chemical deposits,” Chang Kien explained. “And those flakes that fill the air like willow flowers falling are bits of gypsum.”

  Far below flowed a black river. “It is endless,” went on Chang Kien. “From the unknown earth it comes; back to the unknown earth it goes. And as it glides along, splashing against the rocks, it sounds like organ music in a cathedral.”

  “The whole place resembles a cathedral with high-vaulted ceiling.”

  “And those grotesque stalactite and stalagmite formations help out the illusion. Is there not a certain air of peace about this cavern?”

  “Yes,” agreed Pandro, “the hush in the air makes me feel like sinking to my knees. For the first time in my life I feel very close to God, as though but a moment ago he was here and I can still hear the faint echo of his footsteps.”

  “God is everywhere,” murmured Chang Kien. “Not your god, nor my god, nor the Hindoo god. But the God who speaks to us in silence as we walk through a whispering forest, or beside the turbulent sea. Perhaps many of us lose God because we try to make our worship of him too complicated.”

  At that moment, Chang Kien paused abruptly.

  “Hark!” he said.

  Pandro listened. And now the organ music of the black river seemed to have intensified. It rose in a mighty crescendo. Somewhere in the distance a girl was singing.

  “Enchantment,” murmured Pandro.

  “The magic of Jasmine’s voice.”

  Abruptly the singing ceased.

  “Where is she?” asked Pandro.

  “I have no idea. Echo plays strange tricks in these caverns. It bridges distance. Behind you are a dozen or more winding passages, many of them unexplored. Perhaps they lead to yesterday or to tomorrow’s dawning. After all, if Jasmine wishes to remain hidden, why should we seek her? When I think of her I am reminded of that legendary chieftain who purchased a glamorous slave and took her to his house to live with him, whereupon their positions were reversed. He lived with her. Again I think of Ch’ang-ngo whose beauty comes to us through a thousand years of legend; and of Fei-yen, mistress of the Emperor Yang-ti of the Sui Dynasty. So great was his love, he elevated her to share his throne. And although he was Emperor of the people, Fei-yen was the Empress of Yang-ti. Of her Li Po has written gracefully:

  ‘In all the clouds he sees her light robes trail,

  And roses seem beholden to her face.’”

  Not far from the cathedral underground, they emerged into a garden. Even though darkness had descended and the moon was rising over the mountains, birds still sang in the treetops.

  “A garden in the center of the desert,” gasped Pandro Sharp.

  “Like a jewel on the white bosom of nature,” said Chang Kien. “But there is nothing extraordinary about this thing that you choose to look on as a phenomenon. The high mountain walls keep out the dust storms and at the same time serve to collect moisture. So, too, the land is kept free of thirst by an elaborate system of irrigation. The basin is large enough so there are no shadows from the mountain walls to obscure the sunlight and the glory of the moon.”

  As they walked along the mountain paths they passed many small houses. Some were in darkness. In several, lanterns burned. Occasionally before a doorway a man was seated, dosing, dreaming.

  “Tonight the air is clear,” said Chang Kien, “so clear that I am able to see my people in true prospective. Yes, perhaps we are barbarians. And why should we not be since we honor so profoundly Confucius, a simple man who never claimed to be a god? Of him it has been written that he was a statesman, a bard, an antiquary rolled into one. His sagacity put the most illustrious of ancient and modern philosophers to shame. According to Confucius ‘they must often change who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.’ Therefore I am constrained to weigh the vast wisdom and mercy of the Occident against our barbarism. In Germany recently two women of noble birth were subjected to the inconvenience of having their heads sliced from their bodies in expiation of crimes against the state. Might it not have been a good idea for the state itself to have been decapitated for its crimes against the people? ‘An oppressive government is more to be feared than a tiger.’ However, the question is of trifling importance since everything connected with the execution was enacted with perfect decorum. The executioner wore full dress, a high hat and white gloves. You must pardon me if, although I have sprung from the loins of a nation whose justice has been founded on thousands of years of torture, I am unable to appreciate murder scanned to such a meticulous degree of refinement. But then Central Europe is not alone among my problems. Due to my limited, stunted mentality I was shocked when I learned that in Canada a woman was hanged and when the trap was sprung she was decapitated. This was no doubt unavoidable but the executioner wore a frock coat. In New York State when a prisoner is to endure the discomfort of the electric chair, invitations are sent out so that a gala crowd may congregate to enjoy the execution. Lacking as I am in the fine shades of education, I find this commodity that you call civilization slightly nauseating. To throw off my melancholia, I am constrained to think of that nameless Chinese prisoner who sacrificed his life for little Helen Priscilla Stam who was orphaned at the tender age of three months by the murd
er of her parents by bandits at Miaosheo in southern Anhwei. When the captors were about to destroy the child, this poor, ignorant, nameless prisoner pleaded that the little one be saved. When the leader asked who would forfeit his life for the child, the prisoner to whom life was sweet because he had only recently regained his freedom, volunteered. Thereupon he was killed on the spot and so the life of the little one was saved. Do not take my word for this story. I refer you to the records of your own New York Tribune for verification. Now, in order to help my conversion, it would be stimulating if you could give the name of some splendid American who has given his life in like manner for a Chinese baby. Such an illustration would add weight to your preposterous claim of superiority.”

  “In the face of such biting sarcasm what can I say?” Pandro asked helplessly. “Tonight I am not in a mood to argue. Tonight I am disinclined to scoff at anything Chinese. The old classics seem very real at this moment, for I feel as though I had been transported into them. In truth, this must be legend, for see—Jasmine Flower is approaching.”

  As Jasmine Flower reached them, Chang Kien said abruptly, “There are certain matters which call for my immediate attention. Will you walk awhile with Mr. Sharp?”

  “I should be honored,” she said.

  So Chang Kien withdrew and Pandro walked deeper into the garden with Jasmine Flower. It was a dream in azure. The moon was a disc of liquid jade.

  “It is a great white cat,” said Jasmine Flower, “chasing star-mice across the sky.”

  Pandro smiled. “And I suppose that the small white clouds are really saucers of milk.”

  “You are adding new embroidery to the tapestry of legend.”

  “China is a land of poetry and legend. It is in the very air. So fantastic is most of its history, it is easy to believe that it is all imagined. Perhaps even you are but a woodland sprite.”

  “Pretty words,” she said. “Too bad they are not true. Yes, I am real and far lower in the social scale than most women, for I am only a slave.”

  “Impossible! Rather a Manchu princess.”

  “Nevertheless I am but a slave whom Chang Kien purchased at a hidden village in the Gobi. And I am thankful to him for his kindness. If I were his sister or his wife he could not do more for me. Now I am living like a princess and never by word or look does he make me conscious of my lowly origin.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Pandro. “No statement could stun me more. As I look at your face, I imagine that I am gazing at a glorious cameo. Even the moonbeams play more brightly about you than about any other object in the garden. If the moonbeams long to caress you, what chance have I, a mere mortal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I long to kiss your lips.”

  So long did she remain silent, he was worried.

  “I hope you are not angry,” he hazarded.

  “Not angry,” she whispered. “Waiting.”

  At that he took her in his arms and kissed her until the moon-cat paused in its pursuit of star-mice to gaze upon them.

  When finally he released her, Jasmine Flower said, “Why should I, who have always been a slave, resent your kisses? Many a time when I was in the depths of despair in years gone by I would have welcomed your caresses.”

  “There shall be no more despair,” he said emphatically, “and I am glad that Chang Kien has doomed me to remain in this mountain retreat always, for now I shall be forever near you.”

  Jasmine Flower shivered. “Shall we go back?” she asked. “The night is growing chill.”

  It seemed no time at all before they were back in the rooms of Chang Kien. At once Jasmine Flower withdrew.

  “A cup of wine before retiring?” Chang Kien suggested.

  “I should enjoy it,” said Pandro. “Never have I been plunged into a more interesting adventure.”

  4

  In the days that followed, Pandro was often in the company of Jasmine Flower and far from wearying of her, his interest intensified. She was a girl of divergent moods, one moment sad and melancholy, again smiling and so happy that the very flowers in the garden nodded to her. Pandro marveled at the utter freedom with which she went about. Slave though she was, she was bound far less by tradition than were even the high-born women of China. Chang Kien had traveled a great deal in Europe and throughout Asia and he had modern ideas regarding woman’s position in the household. Not for a moment would he countenance Jasmine Flower’s desire to wait until he was fed before partaking of food herself. Therefore he made no objection when she and Pandro Sharp gradually grew to be almost constantly together. On the contrary, at such times he seldom intruded.

  Chang Kien enjoyed spending long hours with Pandro Sharp in musings and meditations. He told stories of dragons, gods and heroes, especially the absurdity of the Emperor Shun who did nothing and yet governed well. His sole accomplishment was to sit gravely on his throne. He was religiously self-observant and so he was set down as a supreme philosopher to whom all men looked up.

  “To be at leisure for one day,” quoted Chang Kien, “is to be for one day an Immortal.”

  Pandro enjoyed mulling over the books that lined the teakwood walls.

  “If you like books that live,” said Chang Kien on one occasion, “I believe I can show you a volume that will absorb your interest.”

  As he spoke, he walked across the room and unlocked a wall cabinet. From it he drew a book different from any Pandro had ever seen. It was bound in some soft creamy substance which was warm to the touch.

  Pandro was enraptured. “Tell me the secret of this binding,” he said. “There is a fortune in it.

  “But it is too costly,” Chang Kien declared. “It is a book of White Jade, the Book of Love, poetry woven into a hundred exquisite patterns. If you wish I will tell you more about it.

  “I am very much interested.”

  Chang Kien sat down opposite Pandro. He placed the book on a small ebony table in such a position that the light from a yellow lantern played upon it. Pandro gazed at the book fascinated, and as he gazed, it seemed as though there came a subtle pink tint into the ivory binding.

  “Some years ago,” said Chang Kien, “there lived an Emperor whose fame is written large in the annals of China because he encouraged learning and was a patron of the arts. He rewarded those who achieved fame in literary pursuits and in painting. He encouraged the ceramic art. Many new designs in porcelain were discovered under his patronage. But chiefly is this Emperor remembered because of his love for Lee Nai, a tiny porcelain lady who might have stepped down from one of the exquisite vases of Kingtehchen. The Emperor adored this lady of the white jade skin and never was he happy when she was not close to him. He showered so many jewels upon her that it seemed almost to be raining pearls. He procured for her the softest silks to be found anywhere in the land. He gave her rich furs, expensive rugs and tapestries. Her windows opened onto a garden in which nightingales sang and a thousand varied flowers joined in sweetening the air to soothe her as she slept.

  “Lee Nai accepted all these gifts as a matter of course but they did not cause her one moment’s happiness. She was without love for the Emperor. When he was not near, she scoffed at his devotion. She had a host of admirers and often she stole off to meet a favored one in the pavilion near the Blue Lagoon in the garden. Once a faithful eunuch discovered her at her rendezvous. But before he could acquaint the Emperor with the perfidy of his lady, he was discovered mysteriously murdered. Lee Nai had a skin that was lovely to the touch but within her body was naught of love. Lee Nai was a witch, a fox-woman who cast out her nets at night not to catch the wind but to imprison all the courtiers who were foolish enough to succumb to her attraction.

  “Now it so happened that one night the Emperor could not sleep. He was troubled by affairs of state and so he walked beneath the pale moon’s edge down near the Blue Lagoon. And there he beheld the lovely Lee Nai in the arms of a porcelain-maker who was living in splendour, due to a grant that had been made him by the Emperor. Th
at night the Emperor became withered and old. He tottered as he returned to his rooms at the palace. Not by word or deed did he betray to the lovers that he was aware what had taken place. All through the night he sat in profound meditation. He could not cast the gorgeous Lee Nai into the streets. He worshipped her abjectly. Her soft skin was like white jade. What a pity it hid a heart so depraved. And then at last as morning came, the Emperor decided upon a plan. As soon as he had bathed and dressed in new robes he summoned Lee Nai to join him at an early morning meal. She came to him, sloe-eyed and more wondrously attractive than ever. It was seldom that she was forced to rise so early. She was provoked and her eyes smoldered sullenly as though with banked fires.

  “‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ said the Emperor, ‘but it is a magnificent morning and I wanted you to join me in this meal, the last we shall ever eat together.’

  “‘Are you going away?’ she asked, trying not to show her elation at the prospect.

  “‘No,’ he replied gently, ‘but you are. You are going on a far journey to purple lands from which there is no returning. In short, before the sun sets this day you will be dead, lying in white splendour, a prelude to immortality.’

  “‘But I do not understand you,’ she gasped. At his words, fear shone in her eyes. She shivered slightly. ‘I do not even feel ill.’

  “‘That is odd,’ said he slowly, ‘because last night you contracted a fatal illness down by the Blue Lagoon.’ At that she knew that her wanderings had been discovered and she fell upon her knees and pleaded for mercy. But the Emperor was eating pomegranates; the seeds were sweet. Not once did he heed the weeping, sobbing girl. Some time later she was delivered over to the executioners. Carefully her life was snuffed out so there would be no bruises on her skin. Later a book of crystal-like love poems was gathered together. It is the book that lies before us. The binding was made from the lovely warm skin of Lee Nai.

  “And the Emperor sighed contentedly. Now that wondrous skin covered a sequence of songs and sonnets. No longer did it adorn a woman accursed. And though many years have passed, the skin is still warm and soft to the touch and it still glows as though it is alive.”