The Scarlet Hill/Part 2

by Frank Owen

 

Part II

The Pear Garden

 

 

1.

Ming Huang was a patron of every artistic enterprise whether it was concerned with poetry, painting, calligraphy, printing, music or religion. He classified religion in the same group because to live righteously is a fine art. Religion is the thing to which man clings when he is frightened, though he may be careless with his gods at all other times. The T'angs fought magnificently. Cowardice was a word unknown and yet they held righteousness above valor. They were alert and highly cultured. They believed that beauty was born with the earth and that poetry was the voice of the heart. It was as natural for a man to quote poetry as to breathe, and none so poor that he could not learn new songs. In every lilac bush, there was a lyric, a song of winter snow like willow-flowers falling, or almonds blooming in ecstasy for spring. Enchanting indeed were the mornings, the sun-splashed green hills, the clear, wind-swept sky and a supreme faith in their Emperor who watched over them like an elder brother. Tranquilly they went about their tasks, strong in the belief of the ages that evil cannot touch the righteous man.

Such was the case with Wu Tao-tzu, the most celebrated portrait painter of all China. He was well-educated, devout, with amazing memory. Once when Ming Huang sent him to reproduce the beautiful scenery of a certain river in Szechwan, he returned without a picture. The Emperor was disgruntled because his instructions had not been carried out.

Wu Tao-tzu bowed in utmost humility.

"I have it all in my heart."

Thereafter he departed to a small hut near the river's edge to meditate in solitude, until one morning when the mood was upon him, he threw off "a hundred miles of painting."

Wu Tao-tzu painted over two hundred and fifty pictures on the walls of Temples. These pictures were worked out to the finest details, stupendously realistic. When it rained, mists gathered on the mountains in his pictures. "His dragons shook the air; his men and women breathed, charmed, awed, ennobled." One of the mythical stories of his career is worthy of recounting. Ming Huang commissioned him to paint a landscape on one of the walls of the palace. Wu asked for absolute privacy and solitude while the work was in progress. The Emperor acquiesced, as he usually did with the whims of artists. Thereupon curtains were hung to conceal the painting and eunuchs were placed on guard to see that Wu was not disturbed.

At last, the painting was finished, a scene to enchant the eye and make description impotent—a broad sweep of pastoral landscape, mountains, and woodland in which birds could be heard singing. The sun was warm and from a dark maze of bushes came the lazy drum of crickets.

Ming Huang, conscious of the increased warmth of the air, fanned himself languidly to call the wind. It was as though the walls of the room had entirely disappeared, giving way to a vista that enslaved the eye.

Wu Tao-tzu pointed to a grotto hidden in the base of a tall mountain.

"Within grows a spirit," he said. Whereupon, he clapped his hands and the gate of the grotto opened.

"The inside of the cavern is beyond compare," he continued. "Permit me to show you the way."

So saying, he entered the grotto, the gates swung shut and the picture slowly faded from the wall. Such was the astounding departure from this earth of Wu Tao-tzu, master of brush strokes.

Ming Huang smiled as he turned away. He remembered the fabulous tales that were circulated about Wu, tales which he made no effort to contradict. Wu knew that the more he was talked about, the greater would be his fame. On one occasion Wu had journeyed to a certain Buddhist temple and was rudely received by the priests. Wu was religious but not sufficiently religious to bow before a slight. He pondered over the matter, finally deciding on a course of action. On one of the temple walls he drew the picture of a donkey. That night all the furniture in the temple was kicked to pieces. The priests were victims of badly ruffled nerves. Wu fanned himself gently. He fanned the back of his neck and his heels. It is good to cool one's heels while one watches the distraught antics of those who have caused affront.

The priests babbled pleas with their prayers. Since they were devout, the prayers were to Buddha. Since they were distraught, their pleas were to Wu Tao-tzu. They implored Wu to erase the donkey from the wall. Wu's face was inscrutable but he was laughing in his sleeves and the breeze cooled his arms. Better, he thought, to erase these bad, evil-smelling priests who brought disdain upon their calling. Finally, however, though reluctantly, for he had grown to cherish that donkey, he rubbed it from the wall and tranquillity returned to the temple.

Ming's reflections on Wu were akin to envy. For the truth was though Ming Huang was the Emperor of all China, he was vastly interested in sorcery, magic, witchcraft and all supernatural manifestations. Perhaps in Wu Tao-tzu, he had found a substitute for Lo Ssu-yuan, the Magician, who was clever in many fields and supreme in charlatanry. One of his most engaging tricks was to make himself invisible and to reappear at will. Ming Huang commanded him to teach him the trick.

Lo smiled. His hands fluttered about as though they were moths. While he had been performing the trick for the Emperor, he had dwelt at the Palace. Used to the miserable living conditions of an itinerant circus performer in the Southern Provinces, the bounty of the Court was such that he had no intention of retiring from it. The outstanding trick of his celebrated, though impoverished, career was to find the means to remain under Imperial patronage. Even the crumbs from the Emperor's table, to Lo, were rare delicacies. This, of course, was understatement for it was not the crumbs that Lo ate but a repast that paralleled the feast itself.

Affably, Lo had taught the Emperor half the trick. When they were together they could both disappear. But when Ming Huang attempted the phenomenon alone, he failed miserably, and miserable he was in truth. He cajoled, commanded, begged, pleaded, threatened, but to no avail. Lo kowtowed, smiled blandly, and shook his head. It was pleasurable to be a necessary tile in the affairs of the Illustrious Emperor. To Lo, Ming Huang was more than "The Son of Heaven." He was security—a thatched roof, a little rice and contentment.

"I think I will have you killed," Ming Huang told him casually.

"In that case," Lo whispered, "I will disappear before the headsman is able to accomplish his unpleasant task. Then, O Illustrious Emperor, it is not I who will lose my head but the Emperor who will lose face. Word will go about on the wings of the wind that he who was Emperor of All Beneath the Sky was not powerful enough to blot out one poor weazened circus magician.

Ming sighed. "Your warning is appreciated. I must devise some other plan."

"Take plenty of time," Lo said, "there is no hurry." Though he spoke lightly, he was saddened. Suddenly the Palace garden had become an unhealthy place. If he remained, he might become an ancient. Better to leave Changan at once, rejoin the circus though it would be a sad day for his stomach. How it would growl at being deprived of an abundance of good cooking! Perhaps, Lo reflected, the rest would do it good. There could be no denying that for several moons it had been taxed beyond endurance. But endure it did, like a wrestler who though frequently thrown, returns to the fray.

A dozen days later on the road going westward, an envoy returning from Shu met Lo, who rode a small donkey.

They both paused and dismounted to converse.

"The Emperor is very angry," declared the Envoy. "He has given orders that you are to be captured and crushed to death in an oil-press."

Lo brushed the matter aside. "The Emperor was joking. Why should he be so vindictive? Besides what could he possibly do with such poor oil as my body would supply? Why if you were to shake me, my bones would rattle in the bag of my skin, so poorly supplied with flesh am I. As for fat, there is none."

The Envoy laughed. As directed, he shook Lo, who beat a couple of bamboo reeds together, making a pleasing success of the experiment.

The Envoy was impressed. "Why there would be scarcely any oil at all," he said.

When Ming Huang heard of the encounter from the lips of the Envoy, he said, "After all, if Lo were fed to an oil press, the resultant oil would be of poor quality. If a wick were placed in it and lighted, the flame would at once disappear. Let it be known far and wide that from this day forth, Lo Ssu-yuan must cast no more shadow in Changan than the wind."

Afterwards, however, Ming Huang frequently attempted the trick of invisibility. It was regrettable that Lo no longer dwelt at the Palace. Not till the moment when he had watched Wu Tao-tzu disappear into the magic mountain did chagrin leave him, for Wu had as much ability with magical forces as Lo Ssu-yuan. In addition, he was an unsurpassed artist. Ming Huang smiled. Then his face grew grave, for now Wu, also, had disappeared.

Ming sighed. Sometimes, in truth, it was difficult to be an Emperor.

 

2.

To the Court at Changan came so strange and varied an assortment of emissaries, that frequently it was termed "The Court of the Blessed." Buddhism strode in from India, haughty, slightly arrogant, sure of its power, and not without reason. Those Chinese who adopted it, revamped it to suit their needs.

Buddhism was sold to the world with a technique unsurpassable. Mountainous obstacles were tom down with steel-claw tenacity. Repetition endlessly. Over and over again all the tenets and prayers until new converts could repeat them by rote. Largely through Buddhistic zeal, printing was developed into a fine art. In the beginning scrolls were hand written, each copy passed about from hand to hand. Then the priests used little seals, either of wood or stone, portraying the Buddha, which they stamped on paper or silk times without number. It was but a step from this to block printing, a long step, perhaps, but a step none the less. Block printing led to the problem of ink, an ink that would lie evenly on a flat surface.

It was but natural, then, that the Chinese, who invented block printing, should also manufacture the finest of inks. There were about a dozen grades. One of the best was derived from t'ung oil, soot and lampwick grass, to which was added isinglass made from fish maws, a preparation of camphor to give it an agreeable odor and gold leaf for luster. The ink was then molded into sticks, dried and decorated with graceful characters. It was ready for use when rubbed on an ink slab and moistened with water. From a habit the Chinese have of sucking their writing brushes to a fine point, the phrase "to eat ink" has become a synonym of "to study."

Ming Huang gave great impetus to calligraphy when he founded the Hanlin Academy, "The Forest of Pencils," oldest cultural institution in the world.

Paper was already in general use throughout the Empire. It was made of a wide range of substances-rice straw, hemp, mulberry, bamboo. That used for painting was typically white with a fine pattern of parallel mold marks. Paper was invented six hundred years before the reign of Ming Huang, but it was under him that it achieved its widest use as a cultural product. Among other things, the Buddhist monasteries seized upon the new device of printing from movable type. They set up the Diamond Sutra, quickly followed by other religious works. The printing departments of the monasteries were beehives of fanatical zeal. Their doctrines mixed with the thoughts of poets and bore fruit that was extremely palatable and sometimes strange. As in the case of the poet Ch'ang Chien, who graduated from Hanlin College and for a while attempted an official career. He was devout, restless, unsuited to the cunning required for advancement at the Court. Though the Emperor himself was forthright, unfortunately all the officers of the Court were not. Especially true was this of Li Lin-fu who, because he was of Imperial lineage besides being an exceptional scholar, was President of the Board of Rites. His influence at Court was extreme. Perhaps in a game of wits, he had won the Emperor's confidence. When he was ennobled a Duke, he acted as though he were the Emperor's brother. He was crafty, ruthless, despicable.

Ch'ang Chien wearied of a court in which there were two emperors. Had he not retired to the mountains he might have breathed the vapors of death.

 

3.

But Ming Huang frowned upon violence if humane methods were possible. He was in accord with the precepts of Lao Tzu: "In governing men or in serving god there is nothing like moderation."

The Emperor was opposed to capital punishment and frequently suggested that it be abolished. Li Lin-fu collaborated to the point where the Criminal Judge reported that within the year only fifty-eight executions had taken place and the Head Executioner was growing fat. However, three times fifty-eight had died, but the report was issued in compliance with Imperial wishes. No one disputed the figures because when a man's head has rolled freely in the dust, he is in no condition to argue.

 

4.

To Ming Huang came gifts in an endless surging sea of willing tribute—a fragile glass cup that tinkled like fêng-ling bells; lacquer that gleamed like the night's black splendor when the moon rests and star mice leap across the sky; silken rugs of a color resembling old coral, soft and smooth as moss creeping along moist rocks.

Ming Huang beheld the gifts and smiled. What advantages were expected in return? Rich indeed must be the man who can afford to accept gifts. But an Emperor must accept the things he does not need from those who cannot afford to give, lest he disturb the strange harmony of nations which so easily is worn threadbare. Like Mencius, the sage, all that Ming Huang desired was to live in harmony with the age in which he had been born. Musingly, he took a rose, caressing the soft petals as though they were the warm cheeks of Mei-fei, his favorite concubine. Soon she would bear him a child. Perhaps it would be male—his nineteenth son. out her caresses, how could he endure the bitter two-edged tongue of the Empress? Bitter indeed was the tea which on rare occasions he was forced to drink with her. She was a good woman. He accepted the fact without demur. But it hurt violently when it was flung unexpectedly in his teeth. Yes, Mei-fei was a refuge to which he could flee from the cares of Empire or his wife's discord. Sometimes, in humility, he called himself, "The Imperfect Emperor." However, the Empress took the statement too literally.

He appeared at Court in plain, simple garb, while his officers and ministers glittered in gold and jewels. Despite this, no one could have mistaken his nobility, nor confused him with those who bowed and fawned and touched their foreheads to the floor. He needed jewels no more than the mountains or the sea. His intellect was a light toward which all men turned with awe.

Near by a eunuch stood, holding a parrot.

"Give me the little green-coated chatterbox," said the Emperor.

The bird seemed gratified at the attention.

"I would make you a duke," he said, "were it not for your plumage. Except for that, you match my courtiers, and you are never a worry to me."

 

5.

Five colored clouds of happiness illumine the sky, and only one gray cloud of sadness, but it was this gray cloud that hung over Changan. A melancholy autumn broke in rain. The Wei River rushed down from the Kansu mountains, swamping the level plains, rivaling the Yellow River with which it merged at T'ungkuan. The bazaars were flooded. Tranquilly the merchants viewed the destruction of their stocks, leaving all things to take their natural course. If it did nothing else it taught a lesson. It verified the philosophy of Lao Tzu, "The Old Boy," who was born with a beard, and learned wisdom in his cradle: "The reasons why rivers and seas are able to be lords over a hundred mountain streams, is that they know how to keep below them. That is why they are able to reign over all the mountain streams." To fight against the inevitable, was like fighting the wind with a bamboo sword. The flood would bring blessings to the farmer. With increased crops, would come increased profits. Increased profits would mean more money to spend at the bazaars.

In the Palace gardens, the flowers looked despondent. The eunuch, Lan Jen, the Imperial Gardener, gazed about in bewilderment. Deprived of natural love, he gave all the passion of his heart to flowers. Under his care, flowers bloomed for the round of the year. During the colder months, he selected the hardier ones. Sometimes he built small fires in the earth to warm the roots. On nights when the weather was in tumult, he remained in the garden, as though he were urging the flowers to keep fighting. Given such care and devotion, the flowers were quick to respond. It was said of Lan Jen that he molded flowers as a sculptor molds clay. Under his hand they took new form. From the daisy, he developed many species of chrysanthemums. But now the flowers were drenched and weary; the marble paths were rivulets; the terraces, cascades.

Cheerlessly, the Emperor held court in Phoenix Hall. Rain was a blessing. It was good for the crops, but it was a calamity when it brought floods and sucked people from their homes to drown like trapped rats.

For Mei-fei who languished for a sight of the sun, it was a thing of evil. Though her discomfiture was acute, she still had a smile for the Emperor whom she adored, not because of his exalted position but because of his love and tenderness. To her the face of Ming Huang was like unto the glory of the sun, with all its warmth and comfort. She was thankful for the privilege of carrying his child. How fervently she prayed that it might be a son.

In the dreary garden no bird sang, but Mei-fei could hear nightingales singing in the blue-wonder of her thoughts.

The Emperor was distressed by many things. Reports were coming to him that here and there throughout the Empire counterfeit coin was in circulation; to what extent he had no way of telling. But he believed it was a serious matter. When the monetary system of a country becomes infested with corruption, security rots.

Fêng, his favorite cat, had run away or been stolen. Though there were many other cats in the palace, by comparison to Fêng they, too, seemed counterfeit. Now he was gone, and all that remained was his picture, painted by Wu Tao-tzu. Even though it was lifelike, it could not jump into his lap, nor rub its head affectionately against his knee. To the cat, he was not "The Brilliant Emperor" but a beloved master who stroked his back with such abundant pleasurable knowledge.

The loss of the cat was a two-fold disaster. Though Ming Huang missed him tremendously, even more acute was the worry occasioned by his departure. It is not a good omen for a cat to leave a house, though it be a grass-hut or a palace. A cat is a domestic fox, no animal as wise as he. Did his flight portend disaster for Mei-fei? Was he fleeing from evil influences? He was faithless to leave when Mei-fei was ill. He was a scoundrel, deserving death nine times over. Mei-fei had always treated him well.

Many priests of widely separated faiths were praying for her—Taoists, Buddhists, Nestorians—by Imperial order. Perhaps one of them would have power over the forces of health; power to drive out the evil spirits that so perniciously attacked her. What good the Gods of Medicine to mankind if they had no friends among mortal priests? The Emperor's own faith lay with Tao, for "it engenders all things, nourishes them, develops them and fosters them, perfects them, ripens them, tends them and protects them." But his mind was flexible. He was not averse to accepting the skill of alchemists if they had anything to offer.

He sighed. The truth was, he had more faith in Fêng than in either priests or doctors, for cats know more than even witches. If only he would return. His wish was granted almost at once, for coming across the marble floor of Phoenix Hall was the little domestic fox which, for two days, had been missing. He was wet, bedraggled, woebegone. On the polished marble floor he left a wet irregular line of footprints with here and there a dab of mud.

The President of the Board of Rites, the Ministers of State, the Archivist of the Censorate, a noble array of Princes and Dukes, an army of eunuchs, and the Generalissimo of the Empire all gazed on his appearance with horror.

Li Lin-fu made as though to drive him out. What right had he to affront His Majesty by appearing in such soiled condition? Several eunuchs hid their eyes from the awful sight.

But Kao Li-shih, the Grand Eunuch, smiled, for he understood the Emperor.

"Your Majesty," he said, "a small envoy approaches worthy of your attention."

The cat looked around as though saying, "What are you all staring at?"

Promptly the Emperor arose, a signal honor, and stepped forward smiling. At once, the cat leaped into his arms, mud and all, and commenced licking his cheek.

The officers and ministers were thankful that such a catastrophe had not happened to them, to spoil their elaborate, embroidered costumes. As for the Emperor of China, he looked as though he had been made Emperor of India as well.

That afternoon, the rain ceased. The sun tore aside the clouds. Mei-fei improved so much that that very night she was able to play a game of chess with the Emperor.

 

6.

Winter was coming. In Changan it was four-coat weather. Across the sky were long lines of wild geese. Snow drove in early, blotting out distance, bleaching the landscape, but still there were flowers blooming in the Palace gardens. Lan Jen was not disturbed. The snow was a coverlet under which the flowers of spring would sleep in wool-warmth.

In his enthusiasm, Wang Wei, an Assistant Minister at the Court, founder of the Southern School of landscape painting, profound mystic, devout Buddhist, lover of mountain peaks and snow-wrapped silence, painted a picture of his friend Yüan An, lying in the snow, and in the snow bananas were growing. To Wang Wei the picture was without absurdity. It had been conceived in his mind and set down on paper. His creative activity was one with spirituality. His inspiration was heaven-sent. He paid no attention to seasons. In the same picture he would have peach-blossoms, lotusflowers, apricots and hibiscus in bloom simultaneously. And even in the warm greens and browns of summer, he saw the ghosts of vanished snows.

Wang Wei was also a superb poet, and a Doctor of Medicine, with a surgical knowledge few could equal. Ming Huang, his patron and friend, had more faith in his healing power than in any of the other pompous Court doctors. That is why he always kept him near the room of Mei-fei. Wang Wei was deeply concerned about her condition. Her lassitude was extreme. Nevertheless, he did not divulge his forebodings to the Emperor. After all, there was nothing he could do. There was nothing anybody could do but wait.

Fortunately, during those days, few envoys came to the Court because of the rigors and difficulties of travel. Li Lin-fu was able to attend to most of the official routine.

Two days after the coming of the snow, Mei-fei gave birth to a son, a son upon which her eyes never gazed; neither did the child behold his mother. There was rare beauty in the snow, but not like unto the serenity of those strange lands to which Mei-fei departed, holding the precious son to her breast. What use had she now for earthly existence?

Ming Huang stood beside her bed, his head bowed in grief. The verdict of Doctor Wang Wei had been whispered gently, "They have mounted a white steed and galloped into distance."

Throughout the Empire, the tears of all people mixed with the tears of the Emperor.

 

7.

During the balance of that winter it was as though the mighty Empire of China was without a titular head. No longer did the footsteps of Ming Huang lead to Phoenix Hall. The Court was without color. Everyone was dressed in white, the sad white of death and winter snows, not to honor the memory of Mei-fei; after all she was but one of three thousand women; but to ape the Emperor who was so attired.

He remained secluded, cloistered, a hermit in a magnificent palace, attended by faithful Kao Li-shih and a retinue of eunuchs who kept out of sight as much as possible. As well to set nets to catch the wind as to succeed in escaping the watchful eye of the Grand Eunuch. He who could never be a father, was a father to the Emperor.

 

8.

It was disturbing to the Court officers, the Ministers of State, the Generalissimo of the Army, the Governors of the Provinces, the students of Hanlin Academy, and even the President of the Board of Punishments. He was upright, fearless, and dejected. What use the carrying out of legal decrees, if the Emperor were not in residence to applaud? Why the whole brittle pomp and majesty of government might falter. Without the pageantry of Imperial functions, the prestige of China, beyond doubt, would shrink—this in addition to the tawdriness of their ornate costumes and uniforms and the tarnished appearance of their jewels and their medals. They shone by the reflected light of the Emperor. Without him, the Court was without brilliance. An Emperor should not weep tears of blood, he should tower like Tai Shan, the Sacred Mountain before which men of many faiths bow in reverence.

A girl must be found to captivate the Emperor, to distill desire within him, and stimulate his energy. Earth holds no more potent tonic than the soft, fragrant body of a slender maiden. What a pity it was that among all the three thousand women in the Palace grounds, there was not one capable of making him forget the beloved Mei-fei.

The Court functionaries implored Kao Li-shih to search the Empire for a daughter of the people worthy of the highest honor. Kao, impersonally, was a rare judge of the beauty of women. Due to his condition, they did not hide in modesty when he was near. Kao, however, demurred. To all pleadings he replied he was unworthy of the high honor they were endeavoring to force upon him. He sincerely doubted his ability to choose. Like all great men, he walked humbly.

However, he suggested that they consult Lan Jen, the old gardener. "A man who knows flowers," he said, "knows women."

Li Lin-fu, President of the Board of Rites, had undertaken the task of negotiation, with the aid of Ts'ui Lin, a Minister of State. So exhaustive was his knowledge of affairs, that it gave rise to the saying: "About ancient times, ask Kao Chung-shu (a colleague); about the present day, inquire of Ts'ui Lin." But Ts'ui could not think of any girl with sufficient enticement to arouse Ming Huang. Li Lin-fu was annoyed that Ts'ui did not remember the six daughters that blessed the House of Li. Only one of them was married. Her husband's name was Chêng P'ing. His hair had turned white while he was young. Li gave him a potion of some broth which Ming Huang had sent him as a very special present. Thereafter in a single night, Chêng's hair turned black once more. This marriage had been a happy one, for it had been determined in a precedent-shattering fashion. Li believed that his daughters would be happiest if they chose their own husbands without parental interference. Therefore he arranged a gauze screen in his home behind which his daughters might hide, and observe without being seen, while he invited young men to his house, ostensibly on affairs of state, actually to see if they might prove to be son-in-law material. So far, the ruse had worked but once, and Li was worried. The other five girls were pleasing to the eye, but the eyes of no young men as yet had been pleasing to them. As is the custom of fathers, Li believed they were exceptionally lovely. Would one of them suit the Emperor? Several times Ts'ui Lin had dined at his home. But now he scratched his ears and pondered, but made no mention of the five who waited at the House of Li.

Li was vexed, but he did not show it. Court etiquette prevented him from suggesting that his own daughters might be the answer to the puzzle. He was amazed that they had not enchanted Ts'ui Lin. That set him to wondering. After all, maybe it was best to consult Lan Jen.

Even though his mind was made up, he delayed acting until the "breeze was full of spring, and heaven drove the plough-star forward turning its handle to the east."

 

9.

The Emperor roused sufficiently to enact the ritual of the 'Patron of the Soil.' He considered himself bounden to this since it was wrapped up with the welfare of his people. Homage to the Gods of the Soil, might keep away the locusts, abolish drought, secure abundance. Though he was the most powerful Emperor beneath the sun, he knew that life on earth only exists because of the bounty of the soil. A man may bellow like a lion, strut like a peacock, conquer his weak neighbors, suppress his own people, be a legend like unto a dragon snorting fire, yet he cannot create one simple garden flower, nor a single grain of rice. Without being able to manufacture even a flea, he boldly molds new gods, which, strangely enough, are in his own image. Yet, when all his glory is stripped from him, without the gifts of the soil he is nothing. Through his dependence on the soil, he has a kinship with the lowliest beggar crouched at the approach to a temple and exhibiting his festering sores for all to view.

The swallows returned to Changan, on the very morning of the day of worship.

As Ming Huang emerged from the palace, he murmured: "When the mind is not present, we look and do not see; we hear and do not understand. We eat and do not know the taste of food."

Around the field that was set apart for the service, people gathered in droves. They were chanting a hymn:

 

"The mound is ready,
Our hearts also;
The bamboo flutes sound,
The wooden cithers vibrate.

The rites unfold with majesty,
The bells and the gongs sound,
To honor the Sovereign on high,
In the hope that he will
Bless us."

 

When the voices were stilled, the Emperor traced the first furrows with a yellow plough. The people stood with bowed heads. Not a sound disturbed the silence, not a leaf stirred. The trees momentarily abandoned their murmuring.

Ming Huang walked slowly, with stumbling footsteps, as though afraid of Spring. But it was not Spring that disturbed him but the burden of grief in his heart.

After the Emperor, came his eighteen sons, the Princes of China. Each traced five furrows with a red plough. Ming Huang imagined he could see the small son of Mei-fei, the nineteenth Prince, at the end of the procession.

Finally came the ministers of the Court, each ploughing nine furrows.

Once more the people burst forth in joyous song, for they knew that even though the wheat grown in this field would be used in part for Imperial sacrifice, the greater portion would be divided among the poor of the city. In this manner, the hungry would be fed from wheat grown in ground that the Emperor himself had helped to plough.

And when the royal retinue had departed, there came a procession of barren women who walked through the field, in the firm belief that from the fertility of the soil, they, too, would draw fertility.

 

10.

At the Palace that evening, Li Lin-fu searched for Lan Jen.

In the garden, Lan Jen wandered and groped out wisdom. "Where goes the perfume when the rose is gone, or rainbow colors when the soft lights fade? Where are the joys of yesterday? Perhaps they bloom again within tomorrow's flowers."

Li Lin-fu approached. "You work late," he said.

"Work?" repeated Lan Jen, in wonderment at Li's poor choice of words. "This is not work."

"Admirably spoken. I shall mention it to the Emperor."

"That is not necessary. The Emperor is acquainted with my attitude."

But Li refused to be turned from the road of thought he had chosen as the proper approach to the subject that all the Ministers had decided was of vital importance to the Empire. At least it was important to them, and to their reasoning, they were the Empire.

"If all people of Changan held the same viewpoint, gods might live here in supreme contentment. Perhaps there would be fewer wars if there were more trees and mountain landscape. Wars are bred in cities."

"That is true. Men listen too seldom to the voices of the trees."

"What I meant, when I addressed you, was that I expected you to be home by now."

"This is my home."

"You live in the garden?"

"What better home could one wish? I have a small house beneath a willow at the river's edge, in a spot so beautiful the moon pauses for a moment each night as it tramps across the sky."

"Lan Jen, our Emperor is in trouble. He has journeyed to the Mountains of Black Despair since the death of his concubine Mei-fei."

"I know. The flowers bow their heads, and their tears mix with the dew."

"We must find a girl so lovely that he will forget all else."

"Why do you come to me?"

"Because slender, graceful girls are akin to flowers."

"That is true. I used to say, 'Has one not noticed the profile of a flower, the lovely clear line of a peony laughing in the sun, or of a rose, lush with morning dew? Is there a music more exquisite than the perfume of a rose? Or a sweeter profile than a simple garden flower?' Then one day, I found an answer. In ebony splendor, the night's blackness had descended. Like startled eyes the stars gazed down, and then, I, too, beheld her. She was bathing nude in the rock-crystal clearness of a jade green pool, lighted by green and yellow lanterns that hung in the trees near by. Her body was faintly golden, a golden girl with the fragrance and glory of flowers. Even I, a eunuch, was stirred by her beauty but above this there was a strength, a fascination, a greatness of spirit, a divine power about her—give it whatever term you wish—yet undeniably it was there. An old amah placed a green silken robe about her body as she stepped from the pool. It clung to her body as smoothly as the calyx sheathes the petals of a flower."

"You are a friend of China," Li Lin-fu declared, "for you have found the very girl of which we are in search."

"But she is the concubine of Prince Shou!"

"No matter. Even a Prince must step aside at the Emperor's command."

Through the watches of the night they talked, until the tardy moon rose with the dawn at its heels.

 

11.

A popular saying in Court circles was that "Li Lin-fu had honey on his lips but in his heart a sharp sword." He used flattery as adroitly as a soldier might use arrows or spears. He won his verbal victories because of his understanding of human nature. In a conference, he always spoke last. He was courteous and considerate. He conveyed the impression that nothing mattered except the subject under discussion. He knew that listening is a fine art. He seemed to weigh every word that was uttered. Those with a grievance were thankful when they were able to lay matters before him. Li had the gift of always appearing on the verge of giving in. However, when the moment was favorable, he would strike with lightning speed. Despite this, settlement was usually eminently satisfactory. Thereafter there was an additional person or two chanting the praises of Li Lin-fu.

But the Courtiers saw through his methods.

"Yes," they agreed, "he has a voice of honey, with the sting of a serpent." However, they were careful that their opinion did not become general knowledge. It was good for the Empire to have a man in high office whose conversation had all the elegant qualities of a rapier.

Li Lin-fu had confidence in Lan Jen. He was not blinded by physical passion. His vision was clear. Perhaps, in the fragile concubine of Prince Shou was the answer to all the problems that had blotted out tranquility.

Ming Huang listened as Li talked to him gently. His words were poetry, akin to the brush strokes of Wang Wei. He chose his words carefully and casually. He spoke lyrically of the pink coral breasts of the bewitching concubine of Prince Shou.

"A thousand poets," he said, "sing her praises, and burn incense in secret at her shrine."

This statement was excessive and slightly premature. Few poets knew of her existence. No one in China lived a more sheltered life. To Prince Shou she was precious, to be loved and caressed in the secret watches of the night.

In spite of himself, Ming Huang listened. The honey of Li Lin-fu's voice was imbued with an intoxicating quality.

"Can you imagine the clear, smooth texture of her body in the glow of the yellow-green lanterns and the soft glaze of the night's blue splendor?"

On and on, Li Lin-fu spoke, until Ming Huang became completely captivated by this slender girl, a girl of flower-fragrance and breath-taking ambition. Had Li Lin-fu known that day of the awesome forces with which he was trifling, he might have preferred to tear out his tongue rather than speak. But, alas, he knew none of it, and so he said, "With her it would be Spring always."

Ming Huang was drunk with beauty. At last he had gathered the threads of existence into a firm grip, until they were strong enough for him to face the future.

"It is my will that she dance for me," he said thickly, "dance for me to the music of the Pear Garden."

Li Lin-fu bowed gratefully. "It shall be arranged," he said.

After all it would not be hard to reach the ears of Yuhan through her old Amah.

 

12.

"It was the time of spring. The lute-player struck a chord, sounding the second note in the scale, harmonizing with the lower fifth, when suddenly the wind blew chill and the plants and trees bore fruit. It was autumn! Then he struck the third note, setting in motion the second lower accord; and gradually a warm wind fanned their faces, and trees and shrubs burst into exuberant foliage. It was summer! Again, he struck the fifth note of the scale, harmonizing with it the first upper accord; whereupon hoarfrost appeared and snow began to fall, and the streams and pools froze hard. It was winter! Once more, he struck the fourth note of the scale, setting in motion the fourth upper accord; whereupon the sun burst out in an excess of brilliancy and heat and the fast bound ice thawed rapidly. Finally he played a grand chord, the dominant of which was the first note of the scale, and immediately a delicious breeze sprang up, auspicious clouds floated across the sky, a sweet dew fell, and a fountain of pure water bubbled up from the ground." So wrote Lieh Tzu.

Almost a thousand years before the reign of Ming Huang, a Bureau of Music had been established in the Han Dynasty. It was given the task of selecting and editing folksongs to be preserved in ink so that they could be swallowed by generations far in the future. The songs, rough though many of them were, were diligently studied and polished. Most folksongs originate in the hearts of the people. Genius is not the sole province of scholars. Nor is it necessary for a man to be educated to have great thoughts. Unforgettable songs have been composed by men who could not use a bamboo pen or understand a printed character. Their songs were written on the air, by hearts that could not be stilled. In the solitude of the fields, the forests and the mountains, they chanted their thoughts to the dawn. In sadness, it was a lament, and the note in the wind was caught up. It echoed in the trees. Other men all over China joined in the chorus. No longer was the spirit of the people in prison. They found their release in music. Courage, joy, strength, hope.

In the T'ang Dynasty, under Ming Huang, music received its greatest impetus. The Bureau of Music gave way to the Chiao Fang for popular music and the Pear Garden for Palace Music. That section set aside for young women was called the Everlasting Spring Garden. However, at musicals and festivals, they both took part with the result that the term Pear was used in a broad sense to cover all secular music of the Palace. As a rule young women chose string instruments. Drums and reed instruments were for men. Occasionally drummers were on horseback. But all rules everywhere are made to be broken so that even these rules were not strictly adhered to.

Ming Huang was a music lover. Not infrequently he led the orchestra, or became one of the musicians, playing a reed pipe for which he had composed a special song entitled "Inverting the Cup." For drum music, he composed ninety-five pieces. The repertoire of the Pear Carden included martial songs, dirges of war, repetitive choruses and love songs. Many were derivatives of peasant music wrought under the impact of overwhelming emotion.

 

13.

Ming Huang decreed that there should be a Festival of Rejoicing at the Palace to mark the continuance of prosperity of the Empire. There would be a lavish entertainment, preceded by the music of the Pear Garden and the singing and dancing of the concubine of Prince Shou. Though other girls would dance they would be but a screen to hide the real purpose of the display of gaiety and grandeur. Perhaps he would not be captivated by the charms of this exquisite concubine about whose slender shoulders Li Lin-fu had woven so colorful a cloak of words. It was needless to disturb Prince Shou, if the girl was without the necessary degree of allurement. There were three thousand women at the Palace, the most favored Daughters of the People, all of whom fought for his favors. A vast number of them had already attained to the position of Nightly Privilege. Marvelous indeed must be the concubine who could rebank the fires that flickered to ashes at Mei-fei's passing, and dispel forever his despair.

The courtiers heard the proclamation with delight. The flowers on their embroidered costumes bloomed again. The butterflies emerged from obscurity. Mei flowers drifted about in the air like flakes of fragrant snow. It would be spring indeed in the embroidered costumed landscapes.

 

14.

The arena of the Pear Garden was hung with rare tapestries; landscapes, forests, mountains; scenes from history and legend, of soft mellow colors, colors that harmonized with the costumes of the Ministers, the Censors, the Generalissimo of the Army, the Grand Eunuch, and the multitudinous envoys, plenipotentiaries, Arab, Persian and Indian merchants, magicians, high-ranking provincial officers, Mayors, Governors, Marquises, Dukes, an endless procession of men, in full-dress regalia. Some of them looked like showcases for medals.

Ming Huang sat on a great embroidered chair, facing South. His costume was of imperial yellow silk, upon which were five-clawed dragons. Seventeen of the Princes attended the festival. Their costumes were of vermilion silk. But Prince Shou, whose favorite concubine was to be signally honored that day, had found it convenient to go off on a hunting trip to the Tsing-ling Mountains. He was in a somewhat embarrassing position; though annoyed by the interest of his father, the Emperor, in his lovely concubine, he could not very well openly oppose his wishes. What his thoughts were no man may know, for when he arrived at the mountains, he left his retinue and rode off unattended into solitude.

The Palace Ladies, and the musicians of the Everlasting Spring Garden, appeared like walking flower beds, for on their silken costumes flowers had been painted by hand, peonies, chrysanthemums, wistaria, azaleas and jasmine, while others had bits of jade and pearls stitched into their garments, but the jewels were no more perfect than the embroideries.

The musicians were arranged on four sides of the arena, with drums at the corners. The Emperor waved his fan languidly. It was the signal for the festival to begin. A giant of a man walked to the center of the arena. He carried a circular two foot gong. He raised his arm. In his hand was the hammer. He was sufficiently familiar with dramatic intensity to pause for a moment before bringing his arm down. The spectators scarcely breathed as they waited. Then came the crash of the gong, rolling like thunder, echoing to the distant corners of the province. The beating of the gong drove away evil spirits.

And now four singers and five dancers entered the arena. All were slight of build and dressed to resemble Fairies. Delicate songs and gentle music, with occasional interludes of tinkling bells like unto those attached to the corners of Buddhist temples, that tinkle eerily in the mountain silences as the breeze taps out new melodies.

Ming Huang listened, deeply absorbed. In part, these musicians had been trained by him. His ear was keen. He had perfect pitch. At rehearsals, when one note was out of tune he recognized it at once. With infinite patience he corrected it. He was never provoked. Over and over again it was played in order to perfect it. And so Ming Huang was elated that morning when the music was as flawless as the pantomime of the dancers. As the Fairies departed, a new song broke forth, a tantalizing melody in which guitars, reed organs and "Ching" stones blended with the rhythm of castanets. This was called Hsia-shao, the music of the Shun. The dancers carried flutes which they played to the rhapsody of the dance, a tune so joyous that it stirred the emotions, and caused the years to fall from one's shoulders like old autumn leaves.

When the last dancer had withdrawn and the music had ended, a little figure in a green silk costume strutted out into the center of the arena. He stood no taller than a soldier's knee, but his confidence was that of a giant. He was the littlest member of the Pear Garden, a gift to Ming Huang from the Persian envoy. His name was a mystery, but he called himself "The Green Lotus Man." In a squeaky voice he told weird tales of his travels, adventures and explorations. He denied that he was a dwarf, explaining that when he was small, a mean wizard had placed him in a pottery vase. There he had remained, a prisoner for years until he was strong enough to break his earthen prison. Then he ran away. In search of a home that was to his liking he had traveled the length and breadth of Asia. Now and then he was captured, and imprisoned for a while, a jovial slave of preposterous masters. He had remained with the Persian Envoy because he knew that he was to be given as a gift to the Emperor of All China. Though he were the smallest man on earth, it pleased him to belong to the greatest Emperor; besides he was homesick to be back among his own people. He had emerged from his mother's womb in Nanking.

Ming Huang had been fascinated by the little fellow. "I will make you a famous musician," he declared. But plans went somewhat awry. The little "Green Lotus Man" could not play a note of music, nor was he interested in any musical instrument except the conch shell. The conch shell gives a long mournful wail and is used mostly by mariners at sea, but the Emperor acceded to the small man's wishes.

So now the little green man walked out into the center of the arena. On his conch shell he blew a long eerie blast. Oddly enough it went well with the proceedings, besides wakening a few of the older and fatter courtiers who were fast asleep and dangerously near the threshold of snoring.

The Emperor smiled as the "Lotus Man" departed with all the aplomb and splendor of a Duke. He tripped once and almost fell, but he righted himself in time and so his dignity, to say nothing of the dignity of the Court, was saved.

The blast of the conch shell heralded the approach of the gorgeous concubine of Prince Shou, accompanied by a score of dancing maidens, undulating like the clouds of spring. Their draped costumes were of many colors, blue, orange, pink, white and purple like the morning sky. Yuhan wore a long red cape; but its satin sheen was no more vivid than the ripe red of her warm, moist lips.

Ming Huang gazed on Yuhan enraptured. Li Lin-fu had handled his chosen assignment in a manner akin to genius. New honors would be heaped upon him for advocating this particular festival.

In Yuhan's singing was the music of enchantment:

 

"I would walk down the Milky Way
Into the clear blue sky,

Over the Mountains of the Moon,
Until I reached the sun
Of my Emperors splendor."

 

Ming Huang turned to Kao Li-shih. "Her face is like a lotus flower; like floating clouds, her silken robe; like swaying willow-boughs, her grace."

Kao groaned in his heart. "Pity China." For he knew that her surpassing loveliness might better be recorded as "state-destroying charms."

 

"In the blue night,
Only the moon hears my whispers;
I hang my dreams on the stars,
So they will not be harmed."

 

She held out her arms. The dancers grouped about her and removed her cape. Her costume now was yellow; she had dared to wear Imperial Yellow that might have been woven of sunbeams. A golden girl, she stood before him. Her talent brilliant as new silk; moth eyebrows; teeth, pearls enhancing her ruby tongue; her cheeks like the blush of spring; her hair blue-black nets to catch the desires of men. Her eyes gleamed. They had impelled a poet to ecstasy:

 

"Bashfully, swimmingly, pleadingly, scoffingly,
Temptingly, languidly, lovingly, laughingly,
Witchingly, roguishly, playfully, naughtily,
Willfully, waywardly, meltingly, haughtily"

 

Her lips were more crimson than cherries, pouting, sulking, laughing, merry.

A small green dragon with blazing eyes entered the arena. Slowly he came toward Yuhan and crouched at her feet. He seemed to have been carved of jade, so motionless he was and of such a pleasing color. Within the ferocious small body was the tiny "Green Lotus Man," proud of the part he was able to play in the pageant.

Li Lin-fu looked grave. He wondered how the Emperor would react to this symbolizing Imperial prestige. However, his face relaxed as he noticed that Ming Huang was fascinated. He beckoned to Yuhan. She came obediently.

"Rest at my feet," he told her. "Together we will watch the pageant of sports that follows."

Accompanied by the dragon, she mounted the steps, and sat humbly at his feet. Inadvertently, her cheek touched his hand. At that moment, the Emperor decided that she must belong to him. No longer would he despair; for having the concubine of his son, Prince Shou, he would have a woman of infinite variety, like unto the allure of a thousand beautiful women in one. It was a pity that she was not free. That was disconcerting, but not an unsurmountable obstacle. Now he was no longer angry because Prince Shou had refused to attend the festivities. He had gone into the mountains to hunt, or to pray. At that precious moment he did not want to have Prince Shou near him. The small green serpent crouching at Yuhan's feet might have been the symbol of jealousy.

The first game that followed was polo. The Emperor himself was a magnificent player. When he participated, his team usually won. Not because the opponents were afraid to defeat the Emperor, but because they were unable to do so. In his enthusiasm for the game he had issued orders that all officials above the Third Grade were to learn to play. This was somewhat difficult because many of the best known statesmen were old, with fat paunches, and creaky knees. They had never before ridden a horse, with the result that they were totally inadequate. They fell off their horses with such force that they were breathless. It is bad form to fall from one's polo pony. The Emperor laughed uproariously as they feebly attempted to rise. Occasionally they had to be carried from the field.

"What a sad dreary drove of officials," said he.

Public opinion was against the Emperor playing polo. Even the thought that he might fall off his horse was a sacrilege, in view of his being "The Son of Heaven." Ming laughed at the absurdity of their forebodings. Why, he had practically been born on a horse. Simultaneously with learning to walk, he had learned to ride. When he was in the saddle, horse and man were one.

Neither Ming Huang nor Yuhan paid much attention to the game. He breathed in her fragrance, and whispered, "I would have my thirst quenched by snow, after the tumult that thoughts of you bring to my heart."

Yuhan bowed modestly. "All that I wish is to glow in the eyes of my Emperor."

"Have no doubt of that. Within you is a magic flame that warms my weary heart."

They had applauded when the game was over, for the Emperor's colors won.

The festivities ended with a circus. The arena was given over to acrobatic feats of trained athletes, including pole climbing and tight-rope walking. As a grand finale several elephants and a rhinoceros followed the antics of their trainer, swaying rhythmically to music and keeping in perfect cadence. There were also dancing horses, so perfectly trained that they did not even have to have a trainer to lead them. He stood at the side of the ring to give them confidence. The music was furnished by the full strength of the orchestra, and the songs were among those composed by Ming Huang for the drum; the drum beats guided the footsteps of the horses.

Ming Huang leaned forward. For the ears of Yuhan alone, he whispered,

 

"A mans life is a cloud
Scurrying across the sky,
A single note
Dying away in an echo,
A leaf that grows
And falls to the loam of a forest

Without reason,
Without regard
Unless he has loved a woman
With a body like white jade."

 

Yuhan smiled. "May your Majesty obtain great happiness reaching heaven like the clouds."

"The Spirit of Jade," he mused, "is to be found in the body of a beloved woman."