When he had arranged to marry Minister Cheng’s daughter after he had passed the examinations, Shao-yu intended to go home during the following autumn to bring his mother to the capital, and then celebrate his wedding. But he had taken up his duties as an official of the Imperial Academy and did not have time to go home. He was in fact on the point of leaving the capital to fetch her when national events intervened. The Tibetans were constantly invading the marches, and the three governors of Ho-pei, styling themselves the princes of Yen, Chao and Wei, allied themselves with their stronger neighbors, raised an army, and started a rebellion.
The emperor, in great distress, assembled all his counsellors, civil and military, to discuss the sending of an army to put down the insurrection, but the counsellors could not agree on a plan until Yang Shao-yu stepped forward and said: ‘In olden times the Han emperor Wu-ti summoned the prince of Nan-yüeh and remonstrated with him. Your majesty should do the same and quickly send a letter warning these rebels. If they do not yield to reason you should send an army to destroy them.’
The emperor told Shao-yu to get the writing-materials and compose the letter at once. Shao-yu kowtowed and wrote the letter as he was commanded. The emperor was very pleased with it: ‘That letter is solemn and dignified. It is gracious but it will show them our strength and power. These foolish rebels will surely see sense.’
The letter was sent off at once to the three rebel commanders. Chao and Wei at once gave up their royal titles and obeyed the imperial decree. They sent letters asking for pardon together with a tribute of ten thousand horses and a thousand rolls of silk. Only the Prince of Yen held out. His territory was far from the capital and he thought he had strong armies. The emperor recognized that the capitulation of the two commanderies was due to Shao-yu’s sagacity, so he issued an edict:
It is nearly a century since the commanderies of Ho-pei, trusting in the strength of their troops, each raised a standard and began a rebellion. The emperor Te Tsung marshalled a hundred thousand troops and sent them out with his general. But he failed to break the rebellion and get the submission of the rebels. Now, however, Yang Shao-yu has obtained the surrender of two commanderies with a single epistle. Not one soldier has been deployed or killed. The imperial power has been strengthened throughout the Empire. We note this with the most profound satisfaction and hereby grant him three hundred rolls of silk and five thousand horses in recognition of his services.
The emperor also wanted to raise Shao-yu’s rank, but Shao-yu went before the throne, kowtowed, and said: ‘Drafting an imperial decree is no more than part of my duty. The surrender of the commanderies was due entirely to the imperial prestige. How can I possibly presume to accept these rewards? There is still one commander in open rebellion, and I regret that I have not been able to draw sword or spear in an effort to wipe out the nation’s shame. Therefore I cannot possibly accept promotion; I do not offer my loyalty for the sake of advancement. Victory or defeat does not depend on the number of troops, so I beg that I may be allowed to set out with one regiment of soldiers and, relying on the imperial power, go to settle the matter with the Yen rebels by fighting them to the death. Thus I might make return of a ten thousandth part of the imperial grace shown to me.’
The emperor thought well of this, and asked the opinion of his counsellors, who said: ‘Three commanderies were in league against the empire and two of them have capitulated. Little Yen is not more that a piece of meat in a cauldron or an ant in a cranny. If an army approaches, Yen will crumple like a dry twig or shrivel like a rotten one. The imperial armies should try persuasion first and if that fails then strike with power. Let Yang Shao-yu be sent and try to make Yen see reason. If it does not surrender, then will be the time to crush it.’
The emperor approved this plan and commissioned Shao-yu to go to Yen and try to persuade the rebels before striking them. When he was ready to set out he went to say goodbye to the Minister Cheng, and the old man said: ‘In the border lands men are wild and bad, and rebellions are everyday occurrences. You arc a scholar and you are going to a dangerous place. If anything should happen to you it will be not only my wife and I, but the whole nation that will suffer loss. I am old now and have no business in the government, but I still have the right to present a memorial to the throne to prevent your going.’
Shao-yu dissuaded him: ‘Please do not worry so much. If conditions in the capital are unsettled, people in the border states take advantage of them to make trouble, but, since the emperor has firm control and the government is honest and orderly, the two strong powers of Chao and Wei have already made their peace. Yen is much smaller and is nothing to worry about.’
Cheng said: ‘The emperor has issued his decree and you have made up your mind, so I will say no more. Only please take great care of yourself and be watchful to safeguard the imperial honor.’
His wife wept and said: ‘After you became ours we were much comforted in our old age by the thought that we had a good son-in-law. Now you are going far away I am filled with anxiety again. Come back quickly and safely.’
Shao-yu went to the garden pavilion to pack for the journey, and Ch’un-yün clung to his clothes weeping: ‘When you went to work in the Academy I got up early to roll up your bedding and help you put on your court robes. You used to look at me so tenderly, as though you could hardly bear to go. But now you are going to the far distance and yet you say nothing at all.’
He laughed and said: ‘A career man who receives an order from the emperor in a national affair must not care whether he lives or dies. Still less can he bother with everyday family matters. You are fretting about nothing. Don’t spoil your pretty face with tears. Look after your mistress dutifully and I shall soon be back with a gold seal hanging from my belt. Just wait for me.’
He went out of the gate and mounted his chariot.
Soon he came to Lo-yang and found it much as he had last seen it. Then he had been a fifteen-year-old boy traveling very simply on a little donkey. Now, only a year later, he had a general’s glory and was drawn by four horses. The mayor of Lo-yang had the streets swept for his arrival, and the prefect of Ho-nan respectfully accompanied him on his way. The whole road was alive with the throng of people struggling to see him, and the passers-by cheered loudly in admiration of his splendor.
As soon as he arrived he sent a boy to seek out Ch’an-yüeh, but the boy found the gates of her house locked and the pavilion fastened. Only the cherry trees still blossomed outside the wall. The boy inquired of a neighbor and learned that the previous year in the springtime Ch’an- yüeh had had a one-night affair with a traveling scholar. Shortly after that she said she was ill and refused to entertain any guests and stopped attending official banquets. A little later she pretended to be insane and threw off all her jewels and ornaments, dressed in a nun’s robe and set off wandering round the countryside. She was still not back and nobody knew where she was.
The boy went back and told all this to Shao-yu, who was bitterly distressed by the news. He went to look at her house and grieved over the joys of their meeting, then went sorrowfully to the guest-house. That night he could not get to sleep.
The prefect sent him a score of dancing girls to cheer him. They were all top-ranking professionals. They were pretty and beautifully dressed and vied with each other in their charms. He looked round at them all, but evinced no interest in any of them, and did not even ask one of them to sit near him.
The next morning he had to go on his way. He wrote a poem on the wall:
Rain passes T’ien-chin and the willow buds are green,
The landscape is as lovely as it was in last year’s spring.
How sad it is to come again, although I come in state,
For even in the drinking-hall there is none to pour the wine.
He threw down the writing-brush and got into his chariot to continue on his way. The dancing girls who had been unable to touch his feelings hung their heads in shame. They jostled each other as they copied his poem and took it to the prefect, who scolded them: ‘If you had made him take notice of you, your reputations would have been made. If not one of you could win his favor, it is a disgrace for Lo-yang.’
He found out who it was that Shao-yu had referred to in his poem, and posted notices throughout the provinces to try to find out where Ch’an-yüeh was before Shao-yu returned again.
When Shao-yu arrived in Yen the people of that remote area, who had no idea of the power of the government, nor of its splendor, struggled with one another like gryphons on earth or phoenixes in the clouds, crowding round his chariot. Everybody wanted to see him, and they hindered his progress.
When he went to meet the Prince of Yen, his dignity was like thunder and his graciousness was like spring rain. The people danced and sang and told each other: ‘The emperor is going to spare us!’
Shao-yu explained the attitude of the government and told the prince how powerful the emperor was. He made him appreciate the choice between submission and rebellion. His words were as fluent as the waves of the sea and as severe as autumn frosts. He was irresistible. The Prince of Yen was impressed and deeply moved. He bowed to the ground and begged for pardon: ‘Yen is too far from the capital for us to feel the effect of the emperor’s will and authority, and we have treated the central government all too lightly, and not concerned ourselves with obedience and good order. You have enlightened me with your message. In future we will mend our ways and be loyal subjects. Please go back to the imperial court and obtain peace for us as a faithful vassal state, and turn our troubles into blessings.’
A banquet was held in the P’i-lou Palace and Shao-yu was offered a present of a hundred ingots of gold and ten magnificent horses, all of which he declined. Then he left the Yen region.
When he had traveled about ten days on his return journey, he arrived at Han-tan. While he was passing through that place a strikingly good-looking young man, riding a superb horse, appeared on the road in front of him. The boy heard the calls of the outriders who were clearing the way for the cavalcade, and got down from his horse and stood by the roadside, watching. Shao-yu said: ‘What a magnificent horse that boy is riding!’
As he drew closer to the youth he saw that he was a very handsome boy with a face as beautiful as an opening flower or the rising moon. He had a charming presence that attracted everyone’s attention and astounded them all. Shao-yu said: ‘I have seen many boys in city and countryside, but never one so good-looking as he is.’
Then he said to one of his attendants: ‘Ask that boy to come and see me.’
Soon after he entered the guest-house for the night the beautiful young man arrived. Shao-yu sent someone to show him in, and when the youth entered Shao-yu was completely captivated by his appearance, and said: ‘I was very much taken with your good looks and good manners when I saw you by the roadside, and wondered whether I should send someone to ask you to come and see me. I was afraid you might refuse. But now that you have come and we are together I am delighted. What is your name?’
The boy answered: ‘I come from the North and my name is Ti Po-luan. I grew up in a small village where I had no good teachers nor influential companions, so my education was very poor. I can neither write verse nor use a sword properly. But my heart is sound and I am ready to die for my friends. When you came through Ho-pei with all your splendor and your goodness, everybody was deeply impressed, and I ached to live with you. I forgot my low birth and ignorance, and was ready to live like a dog or a cockerel in your yard if that would make it possible for me to be near you. And you thought enough of me to send for me like this. It is a case of two voices responding to each other, two hearts with one thought.
Shao-yu was overjoyed: ‘If we both want it, that is marvellous. In future we will ride bridle to bridle, you shall eat your meals with me, when we pass through beautiful scenery we shall be able to enjoy it together, and at night we can forget the trials of the journey in the pleasures of the moonlight.’
They went on till they arrived back at Lo-yang. As they were crossing the T’ien-chin Bridge, Shao-yu looked up at the pavilion again and recalled his happy meeting with Ch’an-yüeh. He was very sad once more and thought to himself: ‘If she had known that I was coming this way she would surely have been here to meet me. They said she had become a nun. That means that if she is not in a Taoist temple she will be in a Buddhist monastery. But how can I find out which one? If we miss one another again I have no idea when we shall have a chance to meet.’
As he looked at the pavilion he suddenly saw that there was a girl standing up there, holding the blind back so that she could look down the road at the passing people. It was Ch’an-yüeh. His sad thoughts were brought to an end and his face lit up as he saw her again. When the chariot passed by the pavilion at speed they looked at each other with unspeakable affection and joy. By the time he got to the guest-house she had already come by a short cut. She caught hold of his robe, but between joy and sorrow she could not speak. She wept copiously. Eventually she bowed and greeted him: ‘I am so relieved that you are safe that you had been sent on a mission by the emperor and would pass this way. I was not able to get here to meet you. You can imagine how pened to me, and there is no need to tell you again. Last spring I heard sound after the long journey. Yondau will have heard what has hap- I felt about it. It was too far for me and I wept bitterly. But the governor came to the temple where I was and showed me the poem you had written on the wall of the guest-house. He was very kind to me, apologized for having treated me badly in the past and told me to come back here and wait till your return. I was so happy!
‘I came back to my old home, feeling at last that somebody wanted me. Every day I went up alone to the T’ien-chin pavilion and stood there looking for your cavalcade. I shall be the envy of everybody in the place. It is all too much! But now you have risen high in the world, haven’t you married yet? Tell me the good news.’
‘I am betrothed to the daughter of the Minister Cheng, but we have not had the wedding yet. She is as wonderful as you said she was. You’re a marvellous go-between. I owe you mountains of thanks.’
So they picked up their old love again and he could not tear himself away for several days. Because he was sleeping with Ch’an-yüeh he did not send for the boy Ti during this time, until one morning a serving boy came to him and said privately: ‘I don’t think that Ti boy is to be trusted. I saw him playing around with Kuei Ch’an-yüeh in the inner quarters.’
Shao-yu said: ‘He would never do such a thing! Besides, I have complete faith in Ch’an-yüeh. You must have been mistaken.’
The boy was very angry, but he went away. Soon he was back again and said: ‘If you still think I am making up lies, please come and look at them now.’
The boy led the way to the servants’ quarters in the west wing. There Shao-yu saw the two young people leaning over the wall laughing and talking together, fondling each other’s hands. He tried to approach them quietly so as to hear what they were saying, but Ti heard the sound of his footsteps and ran away in alarm. Ch’an-yüeh looked round and blushed with guilt.
Shao-yu asked: ‘Have you been a friend of Ti’s for very long?’
She answered: ‘We are not friends; but his sister is an old friend of mine and I was asking after her. I am a dancing-girl, you know, and I am not shy about men. I am used to holding hands and joking and whispering in their ears. But I have raised doubts in your mind, and I am very sorry about it.’
Shao-yu said: ‘I trust you completely. Please don’t let it worry you at all.’
But he thought: ‘Po-luan is only a boy. He is bound to feel ashamed that I caught him. I must call him and set his mind at rest.’
So he sent a serving boy to fetch Ti, but he was nowhere to be found. Shao-yu was very disturbed: ‘In olden days Prince Chuang of Ch’u, when the queen broke the hat-string of a man who inadvertently offended her while the lamps were out at a party, made all those present break their hat-strings and so saved the man from embarrassment. But I, by misjudging an innocent trifle, have lost my precious young man. Whatever can I do about it?’
And he made the servants search everywhere for Ti.
That night he was with Ch’an-yüeh, talking over their love both past and present, drinking and playing with her. It grew late. They extinguished the candles and lay down together. They passed the night in love and soon the dawn came. When he awoke, she was up already, and sat doing her face in the mirror. Shao-yu looked at her lovingly. Suddenly he started, and looked again more intently. The delicate eyebrows, the bright eyes, the clouds of hair at her temples, the rose-petal cheeks, the willow-slender waist and snowy skin were all like Ch’an-yüeh—but it was not Ch’an-yüeh. Alarmed and worried, he lay for a while without speaking.
At last he said to her: ‘Who are you?’
‘I am from Po-chou. My name is Ti Ching-hung. I have been a friend of Ch’an-yüeh for years. Last night she did not feel well, and she could not spend the night with you so she asked me to sleep with you instead so that you should not be angry with her. I presumed to come to you in her place.’
Before she finished speaking Ch’an-yüeh opened the door and came in; she said: ‘Now you have won yet another woman, I congratulate you. It is a long time since I recommended Ti Ching-hung of Ho-pei to you. What do you think of her?’
Shao-yu said: ‘She is even lovelier than her reputation would have it.’
But as he looked at Ching-hung more closely he realized that she was the exact double of the boy Ti Po-luan. He asked her: ‘Is Po-luan your brother? I am afraid I was unfair to him yesterday. Where is he now?’
Ching-hung laughed as she answered: ‘I have no brothers.’
Then Shao-yu realized the truth and laughed: ‘So it was you who came with me from Han-tan. And it was you who stood chatting with Ch’an-yüeh in the corner of the garden yesterday. But why did you dress up as a boy and deceive me?’
‘What hopes could I have had of attracting your attention? Even though I am low-born and dim-witted, I have always wanted to marry a gentleman. The Prince of Yen heard about me and bought me for a peck of jewels and put me in his harem. Although I ate the best of food and wore the most beautiful silks, it was not what I wanted. I fretted like a parakeet in a gilded cage. Then when the prince invited you to a banquet in the palace, I looked through the screen and saw you. You were the man I had been yearning for. But how could I get out through the nine gates of the palace and then cover the vast distances to get to you? I thought over many possibilities, and finally decided on a plan. I could not leave the day you did, or the prince would have sent someone after me to fetch me back. So a few days after you had gone I quietly made off with one of his fastest horses and in two days I had reached Han-tan, where you saw me and called me. I should have told you who I was straight away, but there were too many people about. The best way to keep my escape secret and to avoid arrest was to stay in men’s clothes.
‘Yesterday evening I did what Ch’an-yüeh asked me to do. If you forgive me for that deception too, I shall live for ever in grateful admiration. If you will overlook my humble birth and let me live under your protection together with Ch’an-yüeh, when you are married to some noble lady, Ch’an-yüeh and I will come and congratulate her.’
Shao-yu was very pleased: ‘Even the famous dancer Yang Chih-fu cannot compare with you. She played the same sort of trick on Duke Li Wei. I am only ashamed that I cannot compare myself to the duke when she came to him in the night. Since we have been doing so well together, why should we have to make new plans?’
Ching-hung thanked him many times over and Ch’an-yüeh said: ‘Since Ching-hung has slept with you for my sake, I ought also to thank you on her behalf.’
They bowed again and again.
Shao-yu slept with them both the next night. In the morning light he said: ‘You will not be able to go with me on the rest of my long journey, because there are too many people to spy on us. But as soon as I am married I shall send for you.’
And so he set off for Ch’ang-an.
Shao-yu arrived back at the capital to make his report to the imperial palace at the same time that the letter of submission and the tribute of gold and silk arrived from the Prince of Yen. The emperor was delighted and wanted to reward Shao-yu for his labors and to give recognition of his merits by making him a marquis, but Shao-yu, greatly alarmed by this suggestion, fell on his knees with his head to the ground and declined the offer. The emperor, deeply moved by this attitude, took Shao-yu’s hands in his own and made him Minister of the Board of Rites, as well as an imperial academician. It was an unprecedented accumulation of honors and dignities.
Shao-yu returned home and Cheng and his wife received him in the main hall of the house. They congratulated him on his safe return from his dangerous journey and his success, and told him of their great pleasure at his promotion in the state. The whole household was brimming with happiness about it all.
Shao-yu went to the garden pavilion and met Ch’un-yün again. They talked of their inner thoughts since they had parted and of their joy at being united again, and the rapture of their love beggars description.
The emperor was very impressed with Shao-yu’s ability in literature and frequently called him to his private quarters to discuss the classics and historical writings, so that most days saw the young man in attendance at the palace.
One evening the emperor kept him very late. When he arrived back at his official quarters the place was bathed in moonlight and he felt restless. He could not get to sleep. So he went up to the top story of the pavilion and sat there leaning on the balustrade, admiring the moon and reciting poems in the mood of the place. Suddenly his ears picked up the faint sound of a flute borne distant on the breeze as though it were coming down from among the distant clouds. He could not distinguish the melody, but the tone was like something from another world.
He called one of the secretaries and asked him: ‘Is that sound coming from outside the palace walls? Or is there someone within the palace who can play like that?’
‘I cannot tell you,’ said the secretary.
Shao-yu took out his own jade flute and played a few tunes on it. His music, like the other, went up to the sky and made the clouds halt in their course. Suddenly two blue-grey cranes came flying over from the gardens of the inner palace and began dancing in time to his flute-playing. The secretaries of the Academy were amazed. ‘Prince Chin of Chou, who moved the phoenixes with his pipes, has come to our place!’ they said.
Now the empress-dowager had two sons and one daughter. One son was the emperor, and the other was Prince Yüeh. The daughter was Princess Lan-yang. When the princess was born, a fairy had appeared to the empress in a dream and placed a pearl in her bosom, and when the girl grew up she was as lovely as her name, which meant ‘orchid’. There was not the least taint of vulgarity in her manners, she was gifted in calligraphy and embroidery, and the empress-dowager doted on her.
There had been a white jade flute sent to the court as part of the tribute from Syria. It was exquisitely fashioned, but although the court musicians were asked to play it, none of them could coax a note from it. Then one night in a dream the princess met a fairy who taught her to play a secret tune. When she woke up she tried out her art on the Syrian jade flute and immediately obtained beautifully clear and harmonious tones. The empress-dowager and the emperor were very much surprised, but also very pleased: nobody outside the family knew anything about it. Whenever the princess played, cranes would gather in front of the building and dance to the music.
The empress said to her son: ‘In olden time Nung-yüeh, the daughter of Duke Mu of Ch’in, was a remarkable performer on the jade flute. When she played the phoenixes came. Lan-yang clearly is like her. And since Nung-yüeh met her husband, the flutist Hsiao-shih, through her music, surely Lan-yang will do the same.’
Because of this, although Lan-yang was grown up, no bridegroom had been chosen for her. But on this particular night she played the flute in the moonlight and the cranes came and danced as usual, and then they flew off to the gardens of the Academy and danced there too. People in the place started to talk: ‘When Minister Yang plays the flute, cranes come and dance for him.’
The emperor came to hear of this. He was surprised, and immediately it occurred to him that Yang Shao-yu was undoubtedly the man intended by destiny to be Lan-yang’s husband. He spoke of the matter to his mother: ‘Yang’s age matches that of the princess, and he has no peer in the court for either good looks or sheer ability. We should choose him for her.’
The empress laughed and said: ‘I have been getting anxious about arranging a marriage for her, but now it looks as though heaven has settled the matter for us. All the same I would like to see him before we decide finally.’
The emperor replied. ‘That will be no problem. In a day or two he will come to my rooms to discuss books with me, and then you can see what you think of him.’
Her mother referred to Lan-yang as Hsiao-ho, meaning ‘flute harmony’. It was her personal name, as distinct from her official style of Lan-yang, and it had been given to her because the two characters with which it is written were carved on the white jade flute.
Some days later the emperor sat in state in the P’eng-lai Hall and sent a eunuch to fetch Yang Shao-yu. The eunuch went to the Imperial Academy, but found that Shao-yu had left. So he went on to the Cheng house, only to be told that Shao-yu had not yet come back. The eunuch was rushing about all over the place looking for him in great distress.
In point of fact Shao-yu had gone off with Cheng Shih-san to a wine-house in the city where they were drinking and singing with two well-known singing girls called Chu-niang (Vermilion Girl) and Yü-lu (Jade Dew). They were having a drunken and hilarious time. The eunuch found them and told Shao-yu of the imperial command to attend at the palace at once. Shih-san was alarmed and jumped up immediately and disappeared. Shao-yu was so drunken and befuddled that he did not realize what was happening. The eunuch fussed and harrassed him till the two girls eventually pulled him to his feet and got him into his court dress. He went off after the eunuch to the palace, where the emperor made him sit down and start discussing past rulers, their governments and wars, their successes and failures. Shao-yu was coherent and the emperor was very pleased with him, and said: ‘I know that writing poetry is not the principal occupation of rulers, but our imperial ancestors have all shown great interest in poetry and their works are widely distributed and read. Now give me your ideas about poets and their qualities, and tell me who you think was the best royal poet, and who was the best poet among the subjects of the throne.’
Shao-yu replied: ‘If we are looking for well-constructed verses by kings and their ministers, we must start from the Emperor Shun and his minister Kao Yao, but there is no need to discuss them at length. Then the finest works by rulers are the Han Emperor Kao-ti’s Song of the Great Wind, the Han Emperor Wu-ti’s Ode to the Autumn Wind, and the Wei Emperor Wu-ti’s Moonlight and Starlight. Among the ministers I would choose Li Ling of Western Han, Ts’ao Chih of Wei, and then T’ao Yüan-ming and Hsieh Ling-yün of Chin, who are all famous. But there has never been a dynasty with more distinction in poetry than our present one, and the finest period was in the forty-years reign of the Emperor Hsüan Tsung. He was the finest poet among our emperors and Li Po was not only the best poet among the ministers, he was the greatest poet of all time.’
The Emperor said: ‘Your evaluation is mine exactly! Every time I read Li Po’s Song of Ch’ing-p’ing or his Ode on the Joy of Travel I regret that I did not live in his days. But now that I have you I no longer wish I had Li Po.
‘I have followed an ancient custom by appointing a dozen or so women to take care of the ink and writing brushes—the Lady Secretaries. They are all very intelligent and there are no complaints about any of them. Now I would like to see what it was like when Li Po wrote poems while he was drunk, and I hope you will not disappoint these ladies. I should like to watch you myself.’
He then ordered one of the palace women to bring a crystal ink-stone case, a white jade brush-pot and a moon-shaped yellow jade water-dropper. These were set out and the women gathered round, excited about the emperor’s command that they should receive poems. They brought out silk handkerchiefs and fans and presented them for Shao-yu to write poems on them.
Shao-yu, still thoroughly drunk, wrote on them all swiftly and spontaneously, his brush flying as fast as lightning through the clouds. Before the sun’s shadows had moved appreciably, he had written on all the fans and other articles the women had set before him. The women took each article as the writing was finished and presented it for inspection to the emperor, who praised each poem for its gem-like perfection. He said to the women: ‘The minister has worked hard for you. Now bring him some of the best wine.’
The women brought in white jade plates, gold beakers, a crystal wine