The Scarlet Hill/Part 3
Part III
Lady T'ai Chên
1.
Ming Huang was happy once more, and as usual when he was happy he turned his attention to the well-being of his people. An old custom in Ghina was to place tubs of food in all towns and villages so that the poor and hungry might be fed. Now he directed that two tubs of food be placed out instead of one. The decree was published in the Court Gazette. He made a grant to the College of Astronomy for the erection of a Celestial Sphere which, according to plans, would revolve by hydraulic machinery every twenty-four hours.
In all the towns and villages, schools already had been established, but he made a further gift to the schools of money so that they might be able to hire the services of scholars to copy any poetical works that were not already in their libraries. Unfortunately, during the days of the T'angs, not even the greatest poets had their works published. Poems were written for pleasure only, sometimes on walls of houses so that the people might read them as they strolled through the alleys. The poems were not even signed, appreciated not because of the famed name of the poet but for their rhythm and pictorial excellence. Sometimes a group of poets at some friendly gathering chanted their poems in turn. Occasionally a friend presented a bit of paper or silk upon which a beloved poem might be written down and treasured always. In no country has the written character been so reverently treated. No scrap of paper with written characters upon it was ever permitted to lie neglected upon the floor.
The concubine of Prince Shou was the most beautiful
woman Ming Huang had ever beheld. Have her, he
would. Not even mountains could stop him. Nevertheless
he was aware that he was confronted with a somewhat
delicate problem. It must be done with an air of
dignity. He was affronted by anything ignoble.
He discussed the matter at great length with Li Lin-fu, arriving finally at the conclusion that it was best for her to become a nun for a while, in order that the affair might have a veneer of respectability. Prince Shou would be given a bewitching concubine to replace Yuhan.
Despite the Emperor's preposterous solicitude, the despair of Prince Shou was known only to the darkness and the night. He lay and tossed upon his couch, tortured in heart and thoughts. Sleep clutched at his eyes to torment him, but would not enter.
In anguish, he cried, "Sorrow stabs my heart, and I am overwhelmed with sad thoughts. Vainly trying to sleep, I do naught but sigh. My grief is aging me. O ye blue heaven, when shall my sorrow have end?"
Father and son did not meet to talk the matter over. Even so great an Emperor had no stomach for such an encounter. So Prince Shou was deprived of his beloved concubine by royal decree, as though the seal of officialdom could sanctify a union which the old moralists of China believed never should have taken place.
Even Kao Li-shih, the Grand Eunuch, sought solace in the garden in the silent company of Lan Jen, as though, enunch though he was, he was momentarily sickened by the display of uncurbed desire in the hearts of men. And so he turned for solace to the gardener who was beyond desire, but not beyond emotion. In the quietude of sheltered flower-paths, the two eunuchs wept. Lan Jen believed that his faithfulness to the Emperor had been unfaithfulness to the Empire.
2.
Yuhan, who while she had been the Prince's concubine had gone by the name of Princess Yang, was elated. She was re-enforcing her dreams with a firm foundation of jade and jewels. There was no height beyond the reach of her stupendous ambition. Entrance into court meant not only personal power but riches for her family. Even now her uncle was a high official in a distant province. In the stakes of Empire, she had won China. Her name would go down in history as the girl-poet who bewitched an Emperor.
However, she was sufficiently artful to appear bewildered and very much overcome by the excitement her beauty was causing.
"From today forth," Ming Huang declared, "you will be known as Lady T'ai Chên."
"Lady T'ai Chên?" she repeated breathlessly.
"Yes," said he. "She was one of the daughters assigned in mystic fable to the Goddess Si Wang Mu."
It was a gracious compliment and she acknowledged it by bowing low.
"From this moment on," he said and his voice trembled, "you are mine, mine alone, more precious than amber or jade."
From his sleeve he drew an exquisitely carved gold ring, in which were set two large pearls.
"Pearls are the tears of mermaids," he said, as he slipped the ring on her finger. "But they are more than that, they are charms to avert disaster, the only one of the Eight Precious Things that a dragon pursues. No serpent can be transformed into a dragon unless he possesses such a gem."
Lady T'ai Chên smiled with rapture as she held up a graceful hand. She thought: "Nor can a concubine be transformed into an Empress unless she possesses such a gem." However, when she spoke it was in wholehearted admiration.
"It's exquisite. No light is so fascinating as the sheen of pearls."
"Unless it is the light of your eyes."
"And the carvings in the setting are of butterflies."
"Because butterflies are the symbols of conjugal felicity."
"But I cannot wear it," she said, drawing the ring from her finger, "for I am the concubine of your son, Prince Shou."
"No longer," Ming Huang told her. He was annoyed that she should mention a state of affairs, the transition of which called for delicate handling. "No longer are you the concubine of a Prince but of the Emperor. I am 'The Lord of Ten Thousand Years' and by the absolute power vested in me, you are mine. No power on earth shall ever separate us, for I am the most powerful of Rulers. I doubt if there is a barbarian strong enough to dispute my right. As for my son, he is weak. He will be entirely satisfied with the arrangements that will be made."
"I am honored, Your Majesty," she said humbly. She stood with bowed head, perhaps so that he could not see the elation in her eyes. After all this was the culmination of all her dreams, dreams so lofty that she had dared not whisper them to anyone. Now there was nothing to stop her from some day being Empress of China. She knew that the Emperor would never turn from her. She had little worry about the charms of other women. Already there were many thousands of women eager to do the Emperor's bidding. Yet all of them faded into the mists of obscurity before the spell of her smile.
"But I am a little bit frightened," she whispered.
"When you have the Emperor's protection?"
"I do not wish people to think me immodest. It might lead to my bitter denunciation in secret by other women."
"Who dares dispute the Emperor of China? However, your point is well taken. No one will speak ill of you. You are after all but a concubine. They know that you cannot disobey my wishes. But because I want everything to be done in a manner of strict decorum, I have already arranged that you are to retire to the T'ai Chên Palace, in the mountain solitudes, there to become a nun for a while until geomancers proclaim that it is a propitious time for your return."
He paused abruptly. "You are shivering," he said, and threw off his cape which he placed about her shoulders.
"Your neck and shoulders are like living, breathing white jade. Your eyes are like apricot kernels."
Luxuriously, she put her cheek against the ermine. Never had she been so thoroughly warmed, a warmth that penetrated even unto her heart.
Early the next morning, she repaired to the quietude of the T'ai Chên Palace to do penance, to pray to her gods, to forget Prince Shou and to perfect her schemes.
3.
Meanwhile Ming Huang turned to the affairs of State as though by so doing he could turn the thoughts of his people from the glamorous Lady T'ai Chên. He decided that he would visit various sections of his Empire.
Accompanied by a large retinue he journeyed first to Loyang, the Eastern Capital. As he arrived at the Palace, the weather was very hot and dry. The farmers were distressed. If the young sprouts were scorched, the whole crop might be destroyed. They appealed to their Emperor, thankful that in this hour of trial, he had not forsaken them but had come to Loyang. Ming Huang, pleased at their confidence, was glad that the exigencies of other situations had made it advisable temporarily to leave Changan.
Now it so happened that in the Temple of the Wise and the Good there lived an Indian Priest from Gand-hara, named Wu Wei who, it was claimed, knew how to evoke the dragon and cause rain.
Ming Huang ordered Kao Li-shih to ride to the small hut of the priest to implore him to use his talents to bring rain to the province.
It was a new task for Kao, to ride pell-mell down a road in quest of a rainstorm. He could not help smiling. It seemed slightly ridiculous to him. Nevertheless, his Emperor had commanded, and so he obeyed.
He found Wu Wei seated before a rustic chapel. He was a round-shouldered old man, thin, small; a puff of wind might have blown him away. Yet he sat tranquilly, lost in profound meditation. His head was nearly bald, but his beard was gray and plentiful.
He looked up drowsily as Kao approached.
"I come from the Emperor," said Kao.
"A learned man," muttered Wu Wei gravely.
"He has sent me to implore you to bring rain in order that the drought at Loyang might be ended."
"Why complain? This is seasonable weather. Do nothing and the elements will take care of themselves."
"Know you not that the people are suffering? The grain is scorched. The cattie need water. The pigs grovel in dry earth. Rain would be cheer to every living thing."
"If I summoned the dragon, it would result in terrific storms."
"No matter. The farms would be blessed with water. The people would not mind even the deafening roar of thunder or the unleashed fury of great winds."
Wu Wei sighed. "If it is the Emperor's wish, I will do it, even though I believe the wisest course is not to tamper with things that cannot be controlled."
He roused from his lethargy. Preparations were solemnly made. Banners were set out, also scrolls and images.
Wu Wei's expression was almost a sneer. "These will not bring rain," he said. "Remove them. All that I wish is one small bowl of water."
When the bowl had been set before him by Kao, he stirred it with a small knife, repeating a gibberish of incantations over and over again, almost endlessly. At last, from the surface of the water, a small dragon appeared, no bigger than a man's thumb. For a moment only it was visible, then it faded off into mist. Once more Wu Wei stirred the water, muttering an unintelligible sentence thrice over. From the bowl a white vapor arose. It was like unto smoke.
"Now go!" cried Wu Wei. "Go as fast as you can. Tell the Emperor at Loyang that I have acceded to his wishes. Rain is coming."
Kao sprang on his horse and galloped away. Wu Wei watched him until his horse smalled into shadow. On, on, Kao went. Once he looked back, to behold a white cloud unrolling like a bolt of white silk. As he reached the south side of T'ien-chin Bridge, the storm overtook him, uprooting great trees along the road.
He was drenched, when he arrived at the Palace to make his report.
On the spot at which the storm overtook Kao Li-shih, Ming Huang ordered that a temple was to be built.
4.
Ming Huang was restless at Loyang, longing to be on the march. He could not forget the glory of Lady T'ai Chên.
Once more his company set out. The T'angs taught their horses to amble, thus conserving their strength. They were able to go extraordinarily long distances without distress.
Under Ming Huang the breed and mettle of horses were kept at a high standard. Though in appearance they were not comparable to those of Arabia, they matched them in endurance, in adaptability and in understanding. The horses of government officials were so well cared for, one scholar declared he would rather be a viceroy's horse than his secretary. At times, the care of horses merged on the fantastic. One of these ennobled horses belonged to the Emperor. After serving his Imperial Master well, he was retired to a life of ease. In the Imperial stables, he was assigned an ornate room with special servants to care for him. He slept on a matted couch and lived upon dates and preserved meats. His ending was melancholy. He became so fat, he died. Ming Huang commanded that he be buried in an Imperial coffin. The pall-bearers must have been giants.
Once the Emperor sent Kao Li-shih to buy certain horses that were being auctioned at a fair. As Kao knew little about horses, the results were far from satisfactory. A sadder lot of horses had never come into the stables.
"You must have picked them," declared Ming Huang, "by gazing at the portraits of others."
So fond of horses was Ming Huang that he kept a Court painter to make studies of them exclusively. His name was Han Kan and though he was a master of portraiture, it is for his horses that he will forever be remembered. His first job had been as pot-boy at an inn patronized by Wang Wei whose interest had been aroused when he beheld him drawing pictures of horses and men in the dust of the inn yard. He supplied the boy with sufficient money so that he could devote all his time to study. Later, Wang Wei presented him to the Emperor who found a place for him in the household.
Han Kan studied assiduously in the palace stables, constantly making sketches of horses. So carefully done were they, they were really portraits. In these paintings, nothing was permitted to detract from the horse as the center of interest. Human characters were secondary. One of his most famous masterpieces was of a hundred horses, no two alike, painted so superbly that one could almost see the bones beneath the skin.
5.
Ming Huang and his party continued onward, day after day, camping by night. Sometimes they stopped a few hours to hunt. Action beyond everything else was essential, so that the Emperor would sleep from sheer weariness. Even so, it was hard to forget Lady T'ai Chên. Her fragrance eclipsed the breath of flowers.
"Wherever she walks," he said, "flowers grow in her footsteps."
Finally they arrived on the famed Road to Shu about which poets have written so rapturously. Now, indeed, would there be good hunting. Used to luxurious living even on tour, the party partook of the finest of foods, for several of the Palace cooks were with them. But none of the nobles, the ministers or the soldiers brought their women and so their natural forces were abated hunting the wily hare. Only Kao, who, as usual, traveled with his Emperor, was unconscious of disturbance.
One day in the excitement of hunting, Ming Huang and a small group of his followers became separated from the main party. Tired, hungry, disgusted and disappointed, for the hare had escaped, they stopped by the roadside to rest. Near by was the small house of a retired scholar. Humbly he came across the fields and invited the Emperor in to eat and rest.
Ming Huang accepted at once. The house was little more than the crudest grass hut. It reflected extreme poverty. But as the good wife came forward, there was such warmth and cheer in her smile the house seemed to change. It became a warm friendly place. Meanwhile the scholar went outside and killed his only donkey. From its carcass, he cut a generous portion of meat for his wife to prepare. She hummed softly as she went about her task.
While he waited, the Emperor engaged the scholar in conversation, by saying, "Tell me your name, kind friend."
"I am Wang Chü, a native of Huai-chou, a student of astronomy. I have retired to this spot so that I may have quietude to study the stars, and meditate on the goodness of the gods for granting me so worthy a wife."
"You have indeed found wisdom."
"And contentment."
"Perhaps you can help me with some of the vexing problems of Government. For instance, at the moment, except for an occasional clash on the northern borders, China is at peace with all countries. However, the members of the powerful Wei family who live in Shensi to the south of Changan, are a source of endless annoyance. The more kindly they are treated, the more arrogant and autocratic they become."
For a while, Wang Chü sat in profound meditation. Finally, he said, "If they rebel, slay them. What is friendship if it destroys the very forces it has sworn to uphold?"
The Emperor sighed. "In my youth, there was violence enough. Battle after battle. Endless border clashes. Intrigue and despotism in the royal household. The blood of my own aunt is on my hands, but for the good of China it had to be that way."
"Likewise, for the good of China, the Wei family must be curbed."
"You are a learned man, noble Wang. I will take your advice and stamp out the internal disorders."
Now the meal was ready, the meat was done to a turn, the table had been set, food had been carried out to the other members of the suite. There was food in abundance, kind hosts and a friendly fire. The Emperor relaxed and ate with relish. Never had he drunk wine that so abundantly supplied satisfaction. It coursed through his veins. The cottage was no longer poor. It had everything, including an intangible quality that momentarily lifted the weight of Empire from the Emperor's shoulders. He insisted that the good wife sit at table with them, an unheard-of honor.
"Here," said he, "let us imagine that I too am a scholar, pondering over the important things of life, and not one who because of circumstances has become the leader of a mighty people. It has been truly written that a Chinese peasant is better than a barbarian prince." He sipped wine thoughtfully, then he added, "After all, there is little difference between us; I am Emperor of China, ruling over all beneath the skies, while you are Master of the Skies and so rule the heavens themselves."
6.
Lady T'ai Chên returned from her mountain retreat in all the regal splendor of an Empress, guarded by soldiers carrying gleaming spears. They rode in ornate chariots, drawn by magnificent white horses with hoofs of silver. Accompanying mounted troops bore banners upon which, boldly embroidered, was the figure of a dragon on a background of yellow. An elephant, sure of foot, carried the palanquin in which the lady languorously reclined. The air was pungent with sandalwood and musk, and the faint echo of mysterious intoxicating spices. At last in the eyes of the Emperor she was precious, like ivory, white jade or pearls. He hungered for her, and the hunger of a man for a beloved woman is a force strong enough to cause a throne to tremble. Yes, the Emperor hungered for her. She held up one graceful slender hand, small fingernails reddened by balsam flowers. She smiled. He would not be disappointed.
Meanwhile in the Palace gardens the Emperor waited. His impatience was hard to curb even though he knew their ritual of penitent separation was so soon to end.
In delectable contemplation, he murmured, "The choicest bud, unblossomed, exhales no sweets."
It was slightly understatement. For she was like a blossom unfolded in all its glory, fragrance and power.
That night at the Palace red candles burned.
7.
Lady T'ai Chên bathed luxuriously in the fabulous bathing establishment of His Majesty. It consisted of ten rooms, rooms for leisure, festivities, dancing and more intimate pursuits. The pool itself was so large that it was able to accommodate a small boat built of silver and steel, lacquered and set with pearls and jade. Within the boat were embroidered cushions, silken coverlets, and numerous bamboo cricket cages. His Majesty loved the chirping melodies of the little prisoners.
"A cricket's music," he often said, "is a love song, a mating call, nor does he hesitate because with one supreme embrace, his sexual life is done. To his dying day he goes on chirping, vainly, as though believing that his brave music will make him potent once more."
Ming Huang was well aware that the chirping sound of crickets was not a voice at all, but the friction of their wings. But it pleased him to exaggerate. At least, it was true that the chirping was a sexual characteristic. At the Imperial Palace only the females of one species—the black tree cricket—were kept. As soon as the females of all other species were old enough for the sex to be determined they were fed to the geese and the cormorants.
Ming Huang loved his insect musicians more than any other of his animals, with the possible exception of bold Fêng, the cat, who when the opportunity presented itself was not above gobbling up a pensive cricket though he might be in the very middle of his song. On such occasions only with great restraint was Ming Huang able to curb his anger sufficiently to permit the miserable culprit to continue to enjoy earthly existence.
As Lady T'ai Chên swam about in the water leisurely, she enjoyed the gentle cricket music.
Frantically, the Amah pleaded with her to hurry.
"Would you keep the Emperor waiting?"
"Can I help it? Why does he have so entrancing a bath pavilion? But do not fear for my safety. Soon he will be too busy for anger. I shall be in no danger, except of crushed bones from the pressure of his arms."
Something was hurting her foot. She dived to the bottom of the pool. When she came to the surface, she held a handful of turquois on which the light played as though they were stones of fire. Lady T'ai Chên gazed on the jewels and though her eyes were black, their depths seemed as green as green flames.
Had the Emperor placed turquois in the water to symbolize a delicate compliment, that she was exquisite enough to bathe in jewels? She laughed softly and plunged again into the water. Yes, it was good to keep him waiting.
The girls who had come to help her get ready were so excited they could hardly do anything right. They had never participated, even though slightly, in such an awe-inspiring occasion. They marveled at Lady T'ai Chên's composure.
To her, however, there was nothing strange or unnatural about it. If there was ever a moment when she needed poise, verve, fluidity of movement like unto water that shapes itself to the vessel in which it is contained, it was now. Her rendezvous with the Emperor must not be a transient episode. She would not consider being the plaything of a moment. She must have the fixity of stars. Her mind was as clear and fresh as the sea, and her purpose as eternal. Splashing about in the pool, she sang snatches of love songs from "The Book of Odes":
"The peach tree young and beautiful,
Abundant are its fruits."
Her faithful old Amah came forward and poured Arabic perfume of fabulous rarity into the water. It sparkled and glimmered and shone like specks of gold upon her naked loveliness.
"In the valley is a carambola tree;
Charming the grace of its branches!
How full of vigor its tender beauty!"
At last she stepped from the bath. Her old Amah dried her body tenderly with towels of softest linen. The fragrance of her body was like unto that of wistaria in the cool dew of purple dawn. She abandoned the "Odes" for the songs of a modem poet:
"Rain is in the air,
The wind is rising,
The grass bends before it, cowering low;
Even cassia flowers bow,
While tender leaves are shed.
Now comes the rain
As clouds go dancing down the sky."
The young girls listened in awe.
"How can you sing so gaily on such a day?" one asked.
"Would somberness be more seemly?"
"I'd be sad."
"Why?"
"To be giving up childhood. It's a big step."
Lady T'ai Chên laughed deliciously. "I gave up childhood three years ago when I became the concubine of Prince Shou. It was an excellent exchange. Never once did I find fault with my uncle's arrangements. He is indeed a capable official. It is a fallacy, my little one, to cling to dolls. It is much better sport to permit a man to believe you live for his every whim, and then oppose him in almost everything. Man loves the title of master, but he soon wearies of submission."
"Tush! Tush!" said the old Amah. She wondered why she put up with the caprices of her little mistress. She was in a somewhat chaotic state of mind, a mixture of shocked sensibilities and maternal tenderness. The old Amah had once been married. Almost half a century before her young husband had been drowned in one of the rampages of the Yellow River. She had never remarried. Her bleak, barren existence had been somewhat improved when she had entered the House of Yang to watch over Yuhan. Never thereafter had she been far from her. It was something to live for, like the blessing of motherhood. Unceasingly, she had burned tapers before her gods, pleading that her child be not so headstrong. The gods heard her plea, but their reaction was not entirely satisfactory. Yuhan became gentle and thoughtful. She learned to sing, to dance, to play the lute, and the songs were of her own composition. The gods gave her talents in abundance but they neglected to take from her her power of connivance. Whatever she desired, she secured, be the methods ever so devious.
The Amah sighed. She could neither teach Yuhan humble submission, nor the importance of compliance without remonstrance.
However, Yuhan had had no trouble teaching the Amah to love and serve her devotedly. That was all she wanted.
8.
Dressed for her entrance into the seraglio of the Emperor, Lady T'ai Chên was as exquisite as porcelain, warm porcelain. Her eyebrows were like willow leaves. In her slightly almond eyes, lustrous and black, was the alluring enigma of all the ages. Not a blemish disturbed the purity of her complexion. And in her eyes tears and laughter seemed commingled; tears and laughter, chief and fun; a girl who could thrill to the antics of Punch and Judy, or charm an Emperor. Into her hair she had woven flowers. Even her old Amah appeared younger as she fell under the magic of her smile. In her dew-moistened lips lurked the sweets of enchanted gardens; her cheeks enticed the touch, suggesting sweeter mysteries about which only the brave might dream.
That night she had chosen her own costume. It was so simple it surprised the Amah. But not so the young girls who waited upon her with a feeling of awe. She could have dressed in rags and they would have imagined it to be cloth of gold.
Lady T'ai Chên's costume was of delicate rainbow tones, silk like the dusk of moonrise. She wore neither jade, lapis lazuli, nor pearls; supremely assured that none were needed. For enticement, she added a white feather jacket.
When Kao Li-shih saw her, he wept for the manhood he had relinquished in order to be the Grand Eunuch; though some historians maintain that it was for the Emperor that he wept. What would happen to the Empire now that breath-taking beauty was in power?
Despite Kao's astounded objections, she insisted on taking a lute with her. His knees shook as he wondered how Ming Huang would react to that.
If he had had a beard, he might have tom out all the hairs in his perplexity.
"I do not want the Emperor to be bored," she said shyly.
9.
Restlessly, Ming Huang waited in the quietude of his own private garden. Here and there in the trees a lantern burned, though not too many to banish the velvet blackness of the night. The fronds of the trees stood out in sharp silhouette against the deep blue rapture of the sky.
And then she came to him. Kao had left her at the garden entrance. He did not wish to incur the wrath of His Majesty. But Ming Huang was in no mood to notice the lute, so fascinating was she. Penitently she came toward him. Though he had known thousands of women, he was confused.
He held out his arms and she came to him.
"Why does the bird sing?" he whispered, somewhat huskily. "Why does the poet make songs? Why does the sun give warmth? Why is there warmth in the breast of my beloved?"
She permitted him to hold her for a moment only, then she slipped gently away.
"Tonight should be commemorated," she said. "Where is there brush and ink? I shall write a song for my Emperor."
"On such a night?"
"Yes, else it may be forgotten."
"There is an ink-slab in our sleeping room," he told her.
The magnificence of the room matched the glory of the scarlet bed with hand-painted panels. It was an enormous bed, not designed alone for sleeping but for pleasurable reclining, besides things only to be whispered behind the concealment of fans.
Lady T'ai Chên graciously took the rice paper and ink which he procured from a wall cabinet. Then completely oblivious to the impatience of the Emperor, she spread the paper on the floor before her. She hummed softly as she set down verses with graceful brush strokes. He marveled at her ability, not suspecting that most of the song had been composed when she was a nun in the mountain retreat. Over and over she had quietly rehearsed the song, to the woodland and the mountains. Nobody knew nor for that matter cared about the manner in which her penitent hours were spent. And so she wrought her song of a fusion of poetry, ink, music and the hunger of the Emperor.
At last the song was finished. She took her lute and started to dance, a dance that was sheer enticement, and as she danced she sang "The Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket." Slowly she undid the coils of her hair and let it fall in blue-black splendor about her shoulders. As she danced close to the Emperor, the breeze caught her hair and it brushed his cheek.
"Enough of this!" he cried at last. "It is like inhaling the fragrance of a feast without eating!"
She made no resistance as he took the lute. Her eyes were stars. Her lips seemed to be bleeding.
"Let us sleep in the garden," she suggested impulsively, "and remain until the moon melts into the dawn."
As she stood there smiling, with cloudlike hair, and flowerlike face and beauty that caused even stars to wonder, it was hard to refuse. Nevertheless he did so.
"Tonight must be spent in the scarlet bed," he told her. "That is my will. Although you seem to have forgotten it, I am still Emperor of China. Tomorrow night, if you wish, we will spend in the garden. But tonight, above all nights, is mine. Here we shall remain."
Her only answer was a smile as she slipped off the feather jacket.
10.
From that night forth the court gradually changed. It became more colorful and gay under the smile of Lady T'ai Chên. Although the austerity with which Ming Huang had begun his reign, such as the forbidding of the use of silk for fans and the burning of jewels, had been much relaxed, the majority of the people refrained from a vulgar display of finery. Naturally the Ministers, the Generals, the Governors and the Envoys had wallowed in magnificence. Pomp was a badge of office; how else could one proclaim his importance?
Ming Huang was tolerant. It was ridiculous, and he knew it. The superior man, according to Confucius, may be compared with jade. If there is a flaw in jade, it can be seen from the outside; and in like manner a superior man will not conceal his faults. Ming Huang carried the thought a step further. The superior man needs not colorful silks, nor rich brocades; neither does he need jewels, nor medals. No banners need accompany him on his pilgrimages. His equipage may be without tassels of any color, no runner ringing a gong need clear the way before him. The superior man could go barefooted, dress in sackcloth, walk unaccompanied, without the vestige of an official cap. His sole possession might be a begging bowl. And as he crouched in an unfrequented road in the shade of a friendly tree, the world would come forward, lift him up to a high pedestal. For the mind of the superior man is like the brilliance of the sun; it lights the intellectual world, and in the intellect are all the things men live by. So when the officers of the Court at Changan strutted about in gorgeous raiment, Ming Huang smiled. He was quite capable of appraising the value of those about him. And none could surpass in devotion, in friendship, in understanding, Kao Li-shih, the Grand Eunuch.
The Emperor did not know that Kao was uneasy about Lady T'ai Chên. Far too frequently beautiful women had played havoc with the Annals of China. Nothing must happen to spoil the regime of this greatest of Emperors.
However, as time wore on with disarming placidity, Kao breathed more easily. Nevertheless he was ever watchful. Nothing happened during the first year to cause particular dismay. The Court accepted Lady T'ai Chên. It is not hard to pay homage to beauty. Strangely enough she aroused little jealousy among the Palace ladies. Their feeling was akin to awe. Her ascendancy was so apparently effortless. None could see how carefully she thought out her campaign. Besides, the increased grandeur of the Court was distinctly desirable. The more pomp and ceremony, the more opportunity did the officials have to emulate peacocks and primp, and bow, and scrape. The parasitic elements of the Court were the most ostentatious.
Had Lady T'ai Chên been Empress she could not have obtained greater nor more sincere homage. The people liked her sincerity, her enthusiasm, the great interest she had in everything. When she walked in the garden, small birds were not afraid of her, frequently alighting on her shoulders. And never were the flowers so beautiful nor their perfume sweeter than when she walked among them. Her very footsteps made melody in the garden. The wind in the treetops played its best that she might be pleased. Perhaps even the sun paid homage to her, for some who knew her have written that as she walked there seemed to be an aureole of light about her. Others denied this, explaining that her natural radiance was so vivid it gave the effect of magic. And magic it was indeed to Ming Huang, who had slipped under the spell of a dream.
In privacy, Ming Huang often bemoaned the fact that there was such a discrepancy in their ages. He had ascended the throne seven years before she was born. The difference in their ages was thirty-four years. Nevertheless, their romance was neither calm nor gentle, despite the fact that he bowed to her every whim and within his power granted her every wish. She was very fond of lichees. Now the lichee of South China is far superior to that of Shu, so the Emperor kept relays of fast horses to bring a steady fresh supply to Changan.
It was his custom each morning after the colorful pageantry of court procedure was over, to go to her private rooms. From India, from Arabia, from Japan, from Egypt and Byzantium, envoys came and bowed and scraped and almost ploughed up the floor with their brows, so greatly honored were they to be permitted to have audience with this Emperor of all China.
Then this same Emperor would go to the quarters of Lady T'ai Chên. Perhaps it was her desire to bathe, or else to bathe in the light of the Emperor's approval. Occasionally she pretended to be annoyed because he was late in coming. Pouting, she would walk about the room tossing her clothes carelessly about everywhere, and Ming Huang, Emperor of all beneath the sky, would follow meekly in her wake, picking up her garments. It would not do for the servants to see the disrespect to which his majestic person had been subjected. It might cause him to lose face, in which event the necessity to chastise her would be paramount. At last when she had divested herself of the last garment, he would put them carefully away. Not till this was done, did he return to revel in the milk and honey freshness of her body.
"If you were not mine," he murmured, "what use would be my Empire, or the sun's glow, or the river's edge? What use would be pearls and jade or carpets like crushed pomegranates if you were not mine?"
She stirred in his arms and there was sleep upon her voice.
"Just hold me, hold me tight."
With his head pillowed on her gentle, fragrant breasts, he said, "This is all the Court I desire with little Lady T'ai Chên as the sole envoy."
But not always did they get on so divinely. My lady was quick to anger. Once when her jealousy had been momentarily aroused, she cut off a portion of her hair which she gave to Kao Li-shih.
"Take these tresses to your master," she said. "Tell him to make from them new strings for his lute, so that beneath his touch they will vibrate to the strings of his heart. Kao, do you not think they will bring him back to me?"
She imagined he had gone for a rendezvous with one of the other Palace ladies. This was far from the truth. Memory of her was much too vivid to make any other woman desirable. His absence was occasioned by ordinary routine of state affairs. He had always been deeply concerned with the health and welfare of his people. Any new advancement in surgery or medicine was reported to him at once.
That day he had gone with Dr. Wang Wei to witness an amazing surgical operation. From the Southern provinces a doctor had come unto Changan who had a weird luminous stone attached to a silk thread. When a patient swallowed the stone, it was possible to see within his body and operate upon that section where there was disorder. Wang Wei had made arrangements for such an operation to be performed in the presence of the Emperor.
Ming Huang decided this was far better procedure than the custom of making effigies of patients in order to put evil spirits to flight, or the even more absurd method of trying to drive demons into a large jar with a whip.
Medical science was advancing. Only that week in Changan, a doctor had performed a delicate operation to remove the disfigurement of a harelip, while another doctor was experimenting with pus inoculation in order to lessen the ravages of certain pustular diseases.
Ming Huang contributed generously to surgical experimentation, though when he was indisposed he invariably sent for a magician.
Small wonder then that magicians clung to the Imperial Court with leech-like tenacity. Many of them were nothing but charlatans, magnanimous with words but of frugal accomplishments. In this they resembled many of the eunuchs and a large majority of the underofficers of the Court. But a few of the magicians were men of interesting personality. They were dexterous in their performances. They understood human nature to as high a degree as they understood legerdemain. Their speech was eloquent, flexible, hypnotic. Spectators beheld what they wished them to see.
Such a man was the renowned Ch'i-ch'i. What his real name was nobody knew though he spoke vaguely of his desert origin. He had selected his name from the legend of Yin Ch'-ch'i who caused flowers to bloom out of season after their roots had been treated by an Indian drug. Inadvertently he created the impression that he was very old, yet in appearance he was handsome and strong. He spoke with authority, as though he was sure no one would grapple with his words in an endeavor to contradict him, and there was a quality to the even flow of his words that lulled his hearers into a state bordering on drowsiness.
On one occasion, after Ming Huang had eaten a hearty meal, he sent for Chi'i-ch'i to amuse him. Lady T'ai Chên sat at his feet, her head against his knee, her eyes half closed. They were in the Orchid Pavilion at the garden's edge. The waxed-paper translucent windows had been drawn aside so that the green breeze of summer could drift through, with its mingled attar of earth and flowers.
Ch'i-ch'i stepped forward. Every movement was studied, yet apparently careless. He took a large piece of white paper and cut out the figure of a small boy. Several times he tried to stand the boy up, but always he slouched down and fell over.
"Now what have we here?" murmured Ch'i-ch'i, almost as though he were talking to himself. From an invisible shelf on the walls of the wind, he took down a reed instrument. When he blew upon it, the notes were eerie, though not without witchery. He chose festive songs of the ancients that have fascinated since those far-off days when men seized upon crude musical instruments in order to express their innermost feelings.
So stirring were the clear shrill notes, even the small paper figure cocked up his ears. It transformed the sized texture of his being. He began to laugh and dance like an elfin figure. He stood on his head and wiggled his toes. Next he turned somersaults, after which he danced again.
Ming Huang had drunken much at lunch, so that might have accounted for his complete satisfaction. Or perhaps the firm tips of the breasts of Lady T'ai Chên were barely perceptible as he gazed down upon her and her silk jacket fell a trifle away from her throat. In any event he was in a mood to applaud. Some, without imagination, have since suggested that perhaps it was only the spirit of the wine that he saw dancing. However, in the mind of the Emperor there was no doubt. Therefore, when suddenly the magician seized the small boy, tore him into small bits and tossed them on the air where they seemed like almond blossoms falling, Ming Huang was angered.
"Was such brutality necessary?"
"The boy was without feeling," explained Ch'i-ch'i. "Had he been a real boy I'd have sacrificed my life for him even if in doing so my blood had spattered on the floor like rain. It was merely a trick, Your Majesty. Albeit, it is a trick that has frequently been of rare service to me. For instance, one night I was walking down a long, dark, evil road. Bandits had been reported in the neighborhood, and though demons shunned that some road, the bandits were cause of enough concern. I pondered over a course of procedure, then it all became jade clear. I cut out the figure of a mighty warrior, a paper companion with large bulging muscles, a figure to cause awe in the countryside for he was twice as large as any bandit. He accompanied me, and we conversed pleasantly. Your Highness, may I crave a jug of wine?"
Immediately, Kao Li-shih, never far distant to help or serve, brought a canister of warm wine and several small cups.
"Will Your Majesty drink?" he asked.
"No, no, it is for the magician."
Kao handed the wine to the magician, drew up a small table in case it was needed, and departed.
Ch'i-ch'i filled one of the cups and drank. Then he drank again.
"And what did you do with the warrior at the journey's end?" Ming Huang asked. "I trust he was fittingly rewarded."
"On the contrary, I tore him up. When we reached a place where there was candlelight, I gazed upon him. He was so monstrous looking that my knees quaked. And, alas, to save my knees, he had to be destroyed."
Ch'i-ch'i walked across the room. From his pocket he drew brush and ink stick. Moistening the ink stick with a little wine, he quickly drew upon the wall the picture of a woman.
This done, he returned to the table. Filling a cup with wine, he began to sip it very deliberately. As he finished the last drop, the face of the woman on the wall flushed. Red, too, were the cheeks of Lady T'ai Chên, though no redder than the need for her that shone from the eyes of Ming Huang.
The magician bowed. "I crave leave to withdraw," he said, knowing that for the moment, all the Emperor's attention had been diverted by the magic of love.
11.
No longer was the pillow of Ming Huang disturbed by grief or anxiety. Memory of Mei-fei had spun itself out to a thin thread, disturbing him no more than the perfume of faded flowers.
Frequently before retiring with Lady T'ai Chên, they played a game of dice together. On one such occasion, Ming Huang needed three fours to win! With a flourish and a mumbled Taoist exhortation, he flung the dice from him. They rolled and bounced; one settled down to the desired number while the others went on spinning.
"Four! Four!" cried the Emperor, as though the foundations of the very Empire rested on those ivory cubes.
At the sound of his voice, they abruptly came to a stop in accordance with his wishes.
The Emperor was elated. "Even if I had not a throne," he said, "it would never be necessary for me to beg."
"Except, perhaps, for the favors of Lady T'ai Chên."
He pressed her to him. "You dwell in my heart."
Kao Li-shih stepped forward. "Your Majesty," he said, "may I suggest that something be done to commemorate this unusual moment, when even dice bow to your will."
"A splendid idea," agreed the Emperor. "Therefore, it is my will that from this moment forth and forever after all dice shall have the fours colored red in exactly the same manner as aces. All other numbers shall be in black."
And so it was done. The dice are so marked even unto the present day.
12.
The road upon which the Imperial lovers trod was extremely rocky and disturbed by storms. The battles that took place in the Palace gardens shook the highly emotional persons of the eunuchs until they were scarcely able to eat. When they forced themselves to do so, they were annoyed beyond endurance by disgusting regurgitation. They sighed and wept. Why, oh why, could not the Emperor have become infatuated with a girl of more even temperament?
Strangely enough, the Emperor made little complaint. Those hours of rapture in her arms afterwards, when the storms were over, were beyond the limitations of poetry or music.
However, on one occasion, the Emperor's nerves, on which she had played so incessantly, suddenly snapped.
"I have had enough!" he cried, hoarsely. "Get out! Get out! Get back to your family. I spew the vision of you from my eyes!"
Lady T'ai Chên smiled.
"I thank you, my Emperor," she said softly. Why did her voice have to have that quality of golden chains drawing him to her? "I am glad to go. You weary me.
I am tired. Perhaps because of the ridiculous disparity in our ages."
The Emperor's eyes seemed ringed with blood, the fire of hatred at this creature who dared to defy him.
"Get out!" he cried furiously. "Get out!"
She took the hibiscus blossom from her hair, held it a moment to her lips, then tossed it to him. It fell at his feet.
"I'll go," she whispered, "but remember as long as you keep this flower, you will hold my heart."
When all the perfume and color had gone from the garden, he stooped and picked up the flower with shaking hands.
13.
And now it seemed as though Changan was in eclipse. Ming Huang had no appetite. He was well rid of her. She trespassed upon his dignity. Some whispered that Lady T'ai Chên wore half the robes of an Emperor. And an echo of their words had drifted back to Ming Huang. He would forget her in dissipation. He kept aloof from his wise counselors, seeking forgetfulness among the women of the palace. Their arms were without warmth, or perhaps he was in truth grow* ing old as Lady T'ai Chên had so boldly asserted.
Kao Li-shih who watched over the Emperor, with eyes that could even peer into his heart, was distressed. At the coming of Lady T'ai Chên, he had pitied the Empire; at her going, he pitied the Emperor.
"Your Majesty," he gently suggested, "why not send for her, the one woman capable of restoring your happiness?"
"No, no," said the Emperor, "she must stay away."
After all, if he gave in, he would lose face.
A few days later, Kao came to him again.
"Lady T'ai Chên has sent for her clothes," he said, "and all her belongings."
"They shall not leave this Palace!" cried the Emperor. Never had he appeared so belligerently, so powerfully majestic. There was nothing face-losing in such an attitude. "Tell her that if she wishes to wear her clothes, she must wear them here!"
Poor Lady T'ai Chên. Before such sweeping power, what could she do? She had practically no clothes to wear, and she was far too modest to go naked except in the privacy of her own apartment at the Palace, so she returned to the Emperor. Never had she looked so demure, so meek. On her face was such a penitent expression she might indeed have been envied by nuns. No woman in all history has been better versed in the supreme art of humility. She threw herself at Ming Huang's feet, wrapped her arms about his knees, wept softly and implored forgiveness.
"While I was away," she murmured, "I could not sleep. My breasts ached to pillow your head. I passed the nights in lonely solitude with no companion but my lute."
So stirred was he by the tumult within him, he could not speak. With hands that burned her flesh, he lifted her up. At that moment, there was no disparity in their ages. The intense fire of youth surged through his veins, the power and strength of a trained athlete, "of lightning loins and wind-swept foot." He forgot his anger, forgot all his face-saving vows, forgot even that he was Emperor of all beneath the skies.
"Today, my little one," he said, "we have reached the summit of the Tien Mountains." The top of the Tien Mountains touches heaven.
That night, the Emperor ordered eunuchs to carry a couch into the cool splendor of the moon-drenched garden, where they could lie in drowsy enchantment.
Hours later, on the fringe of exhaustion, Lady T'ai Chên slept. But the Emperor flung sleep from his eyes, enjoying the fragrant nearness of her warm ivory body. Truly earth with her was heaven.
Not till the flowers were tremulous with the dew of morning, did she awaken.
14.
From that day forth, her power increased. She was raised to the title of Kuei-fei, "Honorable Consort." It was a title bestowed on a beloved concubine and must not be contused with the title of Empress. The real Empress lived in extravagant solitude far removed from the influence of Ming Huang. He honored her, but he could not endure her.
Henceforth Lady T'ai Chên was known as Yang Kuei-fei, the girl who matched the grace of flowers.
Invariably the Emperor bowed to her wishes. Yang Kuo-chung, her dissolute cousin, who scoffed at the classics and worshiped nothing but dissipation, was given a position at Court. He had dissipated his natural forces to such an extent that he was always cold, and so he usually kept a group of concubines clustered round him so that he might be warmed by the warmth and freshness of their youth. His nerves were jaded, he slept badly and constantly was on the lookout for new sensations. To him, flattery was a drug that he took to excess. Those who understood his frailties, found him easy to persuade. He was incapable of withstanding acclamation.
However, many of the Courtiers refused to accept him at anything but his true value. They admired the Emperor who was ever indulging in liberal thought, but in this particular appointment he had been too liberal.
One of the Courtiers voiced the sentiments of many when he said to Kuo-chung, "Men lean on Yang Kuo-chung as though he were Mount T'ai, but I regard him as a mountain of ice."
"A pretty thought," mused Kuo-chung, "akin to a landscape by Wang Wei, and I would be impressed were it not for the unfortunate circumstance that ice melts."
The Courtier bowed. "So will your power."
Kuo-chung refused to be annoyed. It was too much exertion when there was no necessity. After all, he was firmly entrenched at the Palace. Nevertheless, he said, "Wang Wei paints snow and his fame endures."
"But he sets it down on paper or silk ere the snow melts. Even after the snow is gone, the landscape remains, frozen reality."
Kuo-chung yawned. Sustained argument was always exhausting, so he turned away. He knew that vanquished or not, he would always be victor while his cousin graced the Emperor's bed. Nor was his confidence imprudent for during the ensuing weeks his position at court increased in importance as his illustrious cousin, Yang Kuei-fei, continued to smile upon him. She had a sincere affection for him, despite his having wasted his youth in riotous living. Though she confided in nobody, she was planning even greater things for him at the opportune moment.
It was a far cry from the day when the Emperor had mounted his throne in humility, for now the Court was the most colorful in all the world. Countless were the gay affairs at the Palace when beautiful women in sheen of pearls and satins glided through the fantastic measures of "The Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket," while Yang Kuei-fei watched excitedly, her cheeks glowing with color, star-dust in her eyes, the joy of composition in her heart, for it was her song they were playing, the song she had composed for the Emperor on their first rapturous night together. Ming Huang, too, was stirred by exquisite emotions. He watched her in adoration. He thought of the glory of her body, so soft and warm and fragrant, her cherry lips that he yearned to bite, the liquid wonder of her eyes in which a man might drown deliciously, but above all he remembered the slender grace of her dancing, of her habit of letting her garments slip so that one small rounded breast showed for a moment. A eunuch brought him wine and he drank feverishly.
All the austere yesterdays were forgotten, like flowers bloomed and gone, or weeds flung from a garden. While he had Yang Kuei-fei, there was no place in Changan for sadness or despair.
On Yang Kuei-fei's birthday, the junior department of the Pear Garden played "Fragrance of the Lichees." Afterwards there were dancing horses, followed by a sumptuous feast attended by court officials, poets and other men of cultivated personalities who dwelt in Changan. She was showered with gifts and jewels, gold and silver, bronze, diamonds, jade, amber and lapis lazuli. But the thing she prized most was a copper mirror, the personal gift of the Emperor, of sea horses and grape design while the outer border was decorated with butterflies. It was made of an alloy of copper and tin, and had been buried in the soil of Loyang until it was like silver. The soil of Loyang is famous for its feng-shui. Afterwards the mirror had been removed, freed of earth particles and polished by hand for a month. Then a yellow silk cord had been passed through a knob in the center and it was ready for Ming Huang to give to his beloved.
Her hand shook as she took it from him. She was immensely superstitious; not even to retain her exalted position would she have dared to break a mirror. This was the first bronze mirror she had ever owned. Up to that time she had treasured a small jade mirror, a gift from her uncle, and many times she had gazed into the water mirror of nature as she walked through the garden. Now as she took the gift, she said, "I hope it is a mirror in which I may appear beautiful."
"Have no fear of that," Ming Huang assured her. "Its power was tried on twenty canaries. Every single one of them sang when he beheld his reflection."
"Perhaps it is a magic mirror," she whispered breathlessly.
And the Emperor said, "With your face in it, it is magic enough for me."
Near by stood Chang Kui-ling, one of the Ministers of State, a poet of distinction, a man of lofty disposition, faithful but saddened by the decadence that was creeping into the Court. He was opposed to licentiousness and misrule. All his sensibilities were offended by the appointment of Kuo-chung. And so, as he gazed on the breath-taking loveliness of Yang Kuei-fei gazing into her mirror, he whispered, "By having ourselves reflected in a mirror, we see a face; by having ourselves reflected in mankind, we see the future."
"Hush!" cautioned his colleague, Han Hsiu. "His Majesty will hear you!"
"Fear not," was the bitter reply. "His Majesty right now has ears for no one but his favorite."
However, the incident gave Chang Kui-ling an idea, and diligently thereafter he nourished his plan until on the occasion of the Emperor's birthday, it was full grown. When others presented rare and costly gifts, he offered only a treatise he had compiled containing admonitions which he had ransacked history to bring together. He called it "The Golden Mirror for the Sovereign's Birthday." Ming Huang was not offended, rather was he pleased by this evidence of diligence. He had great respect for Kui-ling. He admired his integrity and his boldness, but to his wise precepts he turned a deaf ear.
Kui-ling had an engaging way of communicating with other members of his family by carrier pigeons which he called his "Flying Slaves." He had begun training these birds in his youth, with rare understanding, and they responded with all their ability. When his mother died, he planted a purple flowered "shrub of longevity" by her grave whereupon white birds came and nestled in the trees near by, showing by their color that they mourned with him in his grief.
Ming Huang who treasured birds, and gave them sanctuary in the Palace gardens, spent many happy hours with Kui-ling, all cares of state forgotten, experimenting with the little "Flying Slaves," endeavoring to send messages of endearment to Yang Kuei-fei who ate lichees with keen enjoyment as she waited eagerly for them in the Orchid Pavilion.
Li Lin-fu, meanwhile, was displeased. He resented even the slightest suggestion that Kui-ling was rising in power.
15.
Ming Huang would have been perfectly happy if only he had been more nearly of an age with Yang Kuei-fei. Her extreme youth, her occasional outbursts of exuberance, when she forgot all dignity in the joy of the moment, emphasized the wide margin of years that lay between. Particularly when it rained was she like a small girl. She loved to walk and dance in the garden while the rain spattered down upon her. A rainbow made her wish, forgetful for the moment that having charmed an Emperor, there was nothing on earth that could not be hers for the asking.
With his own hand, Tu Fu had written for her with graceful brush-strokes on picture-silk, "The Joyous Rain of Spring, it follows the wind and gently invades the night, moistening all things, but still the lanterns on the river boats shine brightly."
Using that verse as a theme, she was attempting to write a song that would have in it all the seduction, the somber beauty, the sullen moodiness and the redolent coolness of rain. Rain in the quietude of moonlight. Rain dripping from bamboo leaves. Rain, fine as mist, forming a rainbow bridge. Rain, blotting out earth, of terrifying fury while people were blurred into wraiths and demons screeched about the eaves of little houses or wailed in the dreadful forest distance. Yang Kuei-fei found it far easier to dance to the rhythm of the rain, than to capture the notes of its music. Time after time she failed, but still she tried again. She wondered how often Tu Fu had failed before he perfected "The Goodly Rain:"
"The goodly rain defers to the order of the seasons.
Becomingly, it is born with Spring.
Following the wet wind it enters the night—
Moist rain, fine rain, with never a sound.
The pathways in the wild are blotted out by the clouds.
From the river looms the solitary brightness—the light of a boat.
At dawn we see the damp glimmer of pink flowers
And the heavy blossoms embroidering the innermost Courts of the Palace."
What Tu Fu had done in poetry, Yang Kuei-fei wished to accomplish in music. Tu Fu had always struggled with poverty, yet his poetry was the envy of princes. Therefore, since she was abundantly supplied with everything, her task would be far less difficult. She tried to close her eyes to the fact that in poetry, Tu Fu was an Immortal even though he had failed of appointment when he took the examinations at Hanlin College and was at the Court solely by invitation of the Emperor.
But first, for a while after his arrival in Changan, he had been heartsick and lonely. As he rested beside the river, he wrote, "The sun is dim at eventide and shines on the old Traveler's clothes. I have wandered over hills and streams and finally arrived at this busy place. The people I meet are all quite new. Shall I ever see my native place again? The great river rolls on Eastward, but the Traveler must rest here awhile. The triple city is filled with beautiful houses. Even in winter the trees are verdant still in this busy famous Capital. We hear the flute and musical pipes. Certainly, 'tis beautiful, but where shall I stay? I turn again to the river. The birds go back to their nests, but my home is far from here. The new moon is up but not very high, the stars shine brightly. Why should I be sorrowful? There have been many travelers."
However, now he was at the Palace. Gone was his melancholy mood. There were so many sights to stir a poet's thoughts, and almost everything he saw, he committed to written characters. The Chinese say, "The history of the State can be read in his poems."
Yang Kuei-fei inspired him to write,
"Next door to me the willows grow,
Graceful and slender like the waist of a young girl.
As I watched, the winds came
And broke many branches."
Between Tu Fu and Yang Kuei-fei there was an abiding friendship. The Emperor was aware of it, and in perfect accord. Being Emperor of China, what need had he for jealousy? Besides he admired and trusted the poet. Tu Fu was a man of sterling reputation. He was bound to Yang Kuei-fei by their mutual love of rain. Occasionally after a shower they were carried in sedan chairs to one of the oddest attractions of Changan, the Stone Bamboo Sprouts that had stood for over seven hundred years outside the western gates of the city.
These consisted of two great pillars sixteen feet high and nine feet round; with a miraculous reputation, for always after a rain-shower people used to gather about them to look for pearls. These odd jewels were of a greenish-yellow glow resembling millets. Usually Yang Kuei-fei could not withstand the desire to slip from her chair to join the people in their search. And when she found a pearl she was consumed with joy.
While he waited, Tu Fu remained in his sedan chair, composing a poem:
"Do you know that outside of Changan
Beside the road, there are a pair of bamboo pillars standing high?
Ancient tradition declares near-by is an eye of the sea,
As the stones show wave-marks, now with moss overgrown;
When summer rains come you may find small jadelike stones.
I think this very uncertain and hard to clearly explain.
I think perhaps 'tis an ancient noblemans tomb,
With these stones erected to mark his last home.
Alas! the common people seem to cover up the truth,
Like the eunuchs and their flattery before the Emperor.
Then the government goes wrong and great principles are lost.
And while people are in peril, they sit and take the benefits.
So those stone pillars have only empty reputations;
In future pilgrims worshiping here will not know the reason.
I wish for strong men to throw these pillars far away,
And cause men not to doubt, but to understand the truth."
Although Tu Fu was a wise poet, his explanation of the Bamboo Sprouts was entirely wrong. In all Changan only a few of the most ancient of the Nestorian priests knew that the pillars dated back to the middle of the Han dynasty and were the ruins of an early Christian monastery, built when the new religion was less than fifty years old. It was known as the Pearl Tower Pavilion. The gate tower had had ten rooms. It was destroyed by fire during the reign of the Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty.
16.
Zealously Ming Huang continued his quest for youth. Unwisely he discussed the matter with Chang Kui-ling. As usual Kui-ling was fearless in his reply, "An old man taking a young concubine is like a withered willow sprouting."
Ming Huang smiled. "Not quite a withered willow."
"Nor are you a young elm."
"I value your presence, Kui-ling, because I know I can always turn to you when I am weary of honeyspeech, and the fawning of blood-suckers. Your words are frequently bitter, but they are always wise. Nevertheless, I would be young once more. And I believe my desires are not beyond the veil of possibility, though undoubtedly I may require the services of a magician such as Ch'i-ch'i."
When Ch'i-ch'i was summoned into the imperial presence, he prostrated himself until his head beat on the ground as though it were a drum.
"Arise," Ming Huang told him, "let us put aside formality. I have sent for you that you may help me in an important task."
"All my power I lay at your feet."
"Good, then perhaps you can supply my need."
"For what, your Majesty?"
"Youth, can you give me youth?"
"That requires reflection, though it is in no way beyond possibility. I must seek through the scroll of my memory." He squatted down on the floor, crossed his arms, closed his eyes as though he were in a trance. For a few moments he sat motionless. The Emperor gazed upon him in awe. He had great faith in his exorcism.
To Ch'i-ch'i the problem was of extreme importance. Ming Huang was more than an Emperor to him. He was his host who so generously supplied food, drink and elaborate lodgings. He was shrewd enough to know that this was more than the usual run of tricks. No subject could be nearer the Emperor's heart. To fail meant to be expelled from the Palace.
Finally he opened his eyes. His face had an ashen tinge. Solemnly, he began speaking. "Wu Ti of the Han dynasty once asked the court magician, 'Is it possible to avoid growing old?' And the magician replied, 'Yes, in the Northeast grows the chih plant. In the Southwest is a fish that comes to life in spring. A brew made from these two ingredients would be able to bring back youth.'"
"Interesting," Ming Huang commented. "Perhaps, you, too, could make a similar brew. But, tell me, what is the chih plant?"
"It is a divine herb, something like a purple-flowered pear tree. Not being an alchemist, I cannot manufacture the drug, but I know an ancient doctor who can."
Ch'i-ch'i reasoned that if the experiment was a failure, the Imperial wrath would fall upon the doctor, not upon him. And since hope is the last thing that dies in a man's heart, he would keep supplying new doctors as long as there was need for them.
"Bid the alchemist welcome."
"He will be here this evening, perhaps even sooner."
"I shall wait anxiously."
That night the old Alchemist was received in the Pavilion of Aloes. He had a long white beard, a face like parched bamboo, and he walked as though the weight of centuries was upon his shoulders.
So concerned was the Emperor with his own affairs, it did not strike him as incongruous that the doctor who was bringing him youth was himself so parched by the years that a chance wind might have swept him away like a dried leaf. After he had made obeisance, the old Alchemist drew two jet black pills from a grassgreen bag. He mumbled a jargon that was unintelligible. The Emperor did not understand, so Ch'i-ch'i graciously interpreted the words.
"These pills are made from the black fungi that creep over jagged rocks on Purple City Hill. They are the only pills of the kind to be found in the whole of China. In them is youth. Take them in a large goblet of wine."
Kao procured the wine. He warmed it over a lamp while the Emperor waited restlessly.
Ch'i-ch'i, too, was perturbed but he reasoned that the wine would give the desired effect.
The Emperor dissolved the pills in the wine, then swallowed it eagerly. He felt revivified at once.
"Marvelous, Ch'i-ch'i!" he cried. "Your friend, the Alchemist, has performed a miracle. I feel younger already. And to show my appreciation for you both I shall have Tu Fu write a poem about your exploits that will live forever."
Ch'i-ch'i winced with disappointment. But he recovered himself at once.
"Gracious sovereign, may I speak?"
"Gladly would I listen."
"It is you who will live forever in people's memories. Only an Imperial personage is a fit subject for the genius of Tu Fu. The old Alchemist and I would be satisfied to live our few remaining years with a bit of jade, a little gold and a pearl or two."
"Your wish is granted, but it amazes me you have no wish for immortality."
Some time later, as Ch'i-ch'i bade the old Alchemist good-bye, in a place near the red gates of the Palace where they were unobserved, the old Alchemist said, "I shall return to my drug-shop. Before sleeping this night, I'll make a few more of those black pills. Since they purge the body of destructive obstacles to digestion, why should they not purge away the snows of years?"
The old Alchemist was a clever doctor. He understood the frailties of mankind, and the potency of the spirit that dwells within good wine.