In this he eclipsed Lu Chau, his greatest rival. Lu Chau was equally as skilful, but he did not own his own furnace. Tsang Kee Foo hated Lu Chau, though he always greeted him with a smile and welcomed him to his home. In cordiality he treated him as a brother. Yet deep within him was buried a burning hatred, a hatred that burned as surely as the pinewood in his furnaces. For one thing, Lu Chau was handsome. He was possessed of a beauty that made all women his slaves. They looked up into his black almond eyes, into his face which was like a full moon, and listened to the flattery that dripped ever from his lips; and at once they were lost in a surging sea of desire. Lu Chau's attraction for women was as famous as his fine porcelains. In ordinary circumstances Tsang Kee Foo would not have cared for the talk which Lu Chau caused, were it not that Lu Chau was infatuated with the lovely Mei-Mei, a China girl as gorgeous as any bit of porcelain.
That poet of old must have been thinking of Mei-Mei when he wrote:
Her voice makes perfume when she speaks,
Her breath is music faint and low.
The lovely Mei-Mei was a product of porcelain, even as were Tsang Kee Foo and Lu Chau. The very foundation of her family, of her house, was built on porcelain. But she paid no attention whatever to the modeling of cups and vases. Her concern was solely with the painting of them. Most of her vases were decorated with Yunnan blue and yellow, though other colors also were used upon occasion. Mei-Mei ground all her own colors from rock crystals, arsenic, copper, lead and pewter. No colorist was ever more adept than she. Her creations were justly famous. It was said that she infused her personality into her creations. Each bit of pottery reflected her mood. When she was melancholy, so was the jar. When love, desire or laughter enveloped her it found reflection in her work. Whether all the quaint tales that were recounted about her were true or not, they served to emphasize her popularity. If all the great artists of China were put down, the name of Mei-Mei would have to be among them.
With all her colors she was satisfied, with the sole exception of pink. The pale pink color which she desired was hard to locate. There were many types of red, but not the elusive pink for which she had sought in vain for years.
Lu Chau wooed her with vast enthu-siasm. He was always smiling.
"For ever I will stand guard over you," he declared, "like an old gingko tree if you will but pause to listen to my voice. Marry me and I will fashion wondrous pottery for you to paint."
Tsang Kee Foo was equally as vehement in his wooing. He quoted to her all the love songs of the poets. He brought flowers to her of rare elegance.
"When we are wed," he declared, "life thereafter will be but one superb poem of loveliness. Greater than Kutani-ware is the porcelain of Mei-Mei and greater than the love of any other is my love for you. It is like an endless lyric poem, or a brook that flows on for ever through the ages. When the sun ceases to rise yellow over China, then only will my devotion fade."
Mei-Mei smiled. She sang softly to herself as she worked at her art. She was decorating a vase with ivory-white and mirror-black. Close beside her was one of great beauty in celadon.
"Who first brings to me the secret of the pale pink color that I crave," she murmured, "to him will I surrender and to none other. Marriage at best is a subjection of womanhood and I can only
