After the hermit had departed the mother and son looked after one another devotedly. Time passed and Shao-yu’s abilities developed to such an extent that the local governor referred to him as ‘the Wonder Boy’ and recommended him for a place at court, but the boy refused out of regard for his old mother, whom he did not wish to leave. By the time he was thirteen or fourteen he was as handsome as P’an Yüeh; he could write verse like Li Po: his calligraphy would compare with that of Wang Hsi-chih; he was as clever as the famous strategists Sun Pin and Wu Ch’i. He was expert in astronomy and geomancy. He had mastered military tactics, and was skilled in fighting with both sword and spear. He seemed to know everything. In former existence he had been of refined temperament, so he had a limpid heart and a liberal mind, and his understanding was far beyond that of ordinary men.
One day he said to his mother: ‘When my father went off to heaven he confided the fortunes of the family to me. But we are still wretchedly poor and you have to work very hard. If I stay around here like a watch-dog or a turtle dragging my tail, and make no effort to get on in the world, the family will never prosper. I shall never be able to make things better for you. That is not what my father wanted. I have just heard that the government is going to hold a Civil Service examination, and now is the time to enroll. I want to leave you for a little while and go to sit for the examination.’
His mother saw that he was not going to be put off, but she worried about him going on a long journey alone when he was so young, and she wondered how long they would be parted. She said to him: ‘You are young and inexperienced, and this is your first real journey. Take great care of yourself, come back safely. I shall be waiting anxiously to see you again.’
Shao-yu heard her meekly and then said goodbye and set off on his little donkey, accompanied by a tiny lad as his attendant. After a few days they came to Hua-chou in the magistracy of Hua-yin, and were then not far from the capital city of Ch’ang-an. The scenery was especially magnificent, and the start of the examination was still some days off, so he travelled in easy stages, enjoying the mountains and visiting famous landmarks. He was not in the least bored or lonely.
Suddenly he came upon a place where a secluded house was set in a pleasant wood. There were shady willow trees round about and blue smoke was rising like a roll of silk being unwound. There was a freshly-painted pavilion, beautifully kept, set in this delightful place. He reined in the donkey and went very slowly among the willow fronds which swept the earth like the hair of a girl when she combs it in the breeze after coming from her bath. It was a beautiful spot, well worth turning aside to see. Pushing the fronds aside with one hand he hesitated, almost unable to go forward. He sighed: ‘Back home in Ch’u there are some lovely trees, but I never saw anything as fine as these willows before.’ And he composed a song about the willow trees.
The willows shimmer like green silk,
The long fronds brush the painted pavilion.
Why should you plant them so carefully?
The mere sight of such trees stirs the senses.
Why are the willows so green?
The long fronds brush the silken pillars.
Why should you want to pluck them?
The mere sight of such trees stirs the heart.
He chanted this aloud once. His clear young voice sounded like a bronze bell or a jade chime through the motionless clouds, and made the valley echo. He was heard in the upper storey of the pavilion where a pretty girl was suddenly awakened by his voice from a daytime nap. She pushed her pillow aside, drew back the edge of the embroidered blind, and, leaning on the carved balustrade, looked round to see where the voice was coming from. Suddenly her eyes met Shao-yu’s. Her hair was mussed and her jade hair-pin was askew. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep and she looked dazed. Her eyelids were messy and her makeup was smudged, so that her own natural loveliness, beyond what anyone could describe or paint, was revealed.
The two of them just stared at each other, saying nothing. Shao-yu had already sent the little boy ahead to the inn to arrange the evening meal. Now the boy came back to say that the food was ready, and the girl, having stared for a moment, went in and closed the curtains, leaving only a faint trace of her perfume lingering in the breeze.
Shao-yu was sorry the boy had come back at that moment. Once the blind was closed there might as well have been three thousand leagues of sea between him and the girl. He left for the inn with the boy, looking back three times at every step, but the silk blind remained firmly drawn. When he arrived at the inn, he sat down feeling gloomy and at odds with himself.
The girl’s family name was Ch’in and her own name was Ts’ai-feng. She was the daughter of a royal inspector. She had lost her mother when she was very young and had no brothers or sisters. She was old enough to have put her hair up, but she was still not married. Her father had gone up to the capital, and the girl was left alone in the house, when she unexpectedly saw this good-looking young man and heard his poem. She thought to herself: ‘A woman has to follow her husband all her life. Her success or failure, her happiness or unhappiness all depend on him. That is why Cho Wen-chün when she was a widow went after the general Szu-ma Hsiang-ju. I am still unmarried, and though I do not much care for the idea of being my own go-between in arranging an engagement, there is an old saying: Wise subjects choose their king. But I did not ask that young man who he was or where he lived, so if I want to ask my father later on to send a go-between for me I’ll have no idea where to send him.’
She undid a roll of ornamental ruled paper, wrote a line or two of poetry and gave it to her nurse, saying: ‘Take this letter to the guesthouse and look for the young man who came to the pavilion just now on a little donkey and stopped and chanted a poem about the willow trees. Give the letter to him. Let him know that I am looking for the person to whom I can commit myself in marriage according to my karma, but be very careful how you put it. He is as beautiful as polished jade and has the most delicate eyebrows—compared to ordinary men he is like a phoenix among barnyard fowls. Make sure you see him yourself and hand over the letter personally.’
The nurse replied: ‘I will take great care and do just as you ask.’ She went out, but immediately came back, saying; ‘If your father finds out and asks about it, what shall I say?’
‘If my father asks about it I will answer him myself.’
‘And how if the young man is already married or engaged.’
‘If the young man is married I shall not mind becoming his second wife. But he looked very young. I don’t think he will have married yet.’
The nurse went to the inn and asked for the youth who had made a poem about the willow trees. Soon Shao-yu came out and spoke to her: ‘I am the man who wrote the willow poem. Why do you want me?’
When she saw his handsome features she had no doubt he was the right man, so she said: ‘We can’t talk here.’
Half-guessing her errand, he showed the old lady into his room and when they had sat down comfortably he asked her why she had come. She replied with a question: ‘Where did you compose the willow poem?’
‘I come from a long way off, and this is my first visit to the capital area. I was enjoying the sights when at noon today I came upon a painted pavilion in a lovely grove of willows north of the road and spontaneously produced that poem. Why do you ask?’
She said: ‘Did you see anybody?’
Without hesitation He replied: ‘Indeed I did. There was a fairy in the pavilion. I can still see her beauty and her scent is still on my clothes.’
‘Now I will come to the point. That house is the home of my master, Inspector Ch’in, and that girl is his daughter. I am her nurse. Since she was tiny she has had the purest heart and the sweetest disposition, and she has a very sharp eye for character. She saw you just once, but she wants to entrust herself to your care. However, her father is away in the capital and we must get an answer from him before anything can be settled. If you go away in the meantime you will disappear like a piece of duckweed on the ocean, and we shall not know how to find you. But karma is vitally important and momentary embarrassment is nothing, so, overcoming her modesty, she has adopted the expedient of asking her old nurse to come and ask your name and where you live, and whether you are married.’
Shao-yu blushed with joy, and thanked her: ‘My name is Yang Shao-yu. My home is in the land of Ch’u. I shall never forget the honor of being looked at by her. I am young and I am not married. I have only my old mother in all the world. The question of marriage will have to be discussed by the parents on both sides, but I will plight my trouth here and now. I swear by the everlasting greenness of Hua-shan mountains and the ceaseless flowing of the river Wei.’
The nurse was happy too and drew the letter out of her sleeve and gave it to Shao-yu. When he opened it he discovered that it was a song about willow trees:
Beside the pavilion they planted willows
So that you could tie your horse there.
Why did you pluck a branch for a whip
And start off again for the town?
Shao-yu chanted the stanza over, and liked its freshness. He praised it: ‘Neither Wang Wei nor Li Po could have written better!’ he said, and wrote another stanza on a piece of the same kind of paper and gave it to the nurse, who put it in her robe. As she was about to leave the inn, Shao-yu called her back and said: ‘Your mistress is from Ch’in and I am from Ch’u. Once we are parted it will be difficult to get news across the mountains. We have no reliable proof of today’s contract and it is all much too uncertain. I want to visit the young lady by moonlight tonight. Go and see what she thinks about it. There seems to be a hint in her letter. Please let me know at once.’
The nurse agreed and went straight back to the girl and told her: ‘Young master Yang swore his consent by Hua-shan and Wei river and believes this is his karma. He praised your poem and wrote another one in reply.’
Then she gave the note to the girl, who read it aloud:
Ten million willow fronds
Bind up the cares of my heart.
Why not make a cord in the moonlight
To bind up the tidings of love?
When the girl had finished reading it her pretty face lit up with pleasure. She enjoyed his reference to the coming night, and the ancient story about the old man of the moonlight, who kept a register of all the marriages on earth, and bound with a scarlet cord the feet of those who were destined for each other. The nurse said: ‘He asked me to see what you think of his coming here tonight to exchange poems.’
The girl smiled and said: ‘For a man and a woman to meet before they are married is most improper, but since I intend to spend the rest of my life with him, how can I refuse him? Yet if we meet at night I am afraid people will talk, and if my father finds out he will be exceedingly angry. It will be all right if we wait until the daytime and meet in the hall of the house and make our promises there. Go back and tell him that.’
So the nurse went back to the inn and told Shao-yu what her mistress had said. Shao-yu was very disappointed, but he said: ‘Her pure heart and entirely proper answer put me to shame.’ He repeatedly urged the nurse that nothing must be allowed to go wrong, until she took her leave and went.
That night when Shao-yu went to bed in the inn he could not get to sleep. He kept tossing and turning, waiting for the cock to crow, and fretting at the length of the spring night. At last the morning began to dawn and the cocks crowed. He called the boy and told him to feed the donkey at once. Suddenly there was the sound of a huge army of cavalry, like the roar of a torrent, coming from the west. Shao-yu was very worried. He pulled on his clothes and went out into the street. It was a scene of indescribable confusion, a milling mass of armed soldiery trampling on fleeing refugees. The soldiers were shouting and cursing, and the refugees were complaining piteously.
He asked a bystander what was happening and learned that the rebel Ch’ou Shih-liang had proclaimed himself king, raised an army and started a revolt. The emperor was away in Yang-chou on a tour of inspection, and there was confusion in the whole capital area, where the rebel soldiers had spread about and were robbing the homes of the people. Some of the passes were sealed and all travel was impossible. Rich and poor alike were being pressganged into army service.
Shao-yu was thoroughly alarmed, told the boy to get the donkey ready quickly and made for Lan-t’ien-shan, where he hoped to hide among the rocks. There at the mountain top was a little thatched cottage surrounded by clouds and echoing with the cries of the cranes. Thinking that somebody must live there, he told the boy to wait awhile and then walked up between the rocks, till he came upon a Taoist hermit leaning on a low desk. The old man sat up straight and said to him: ‘You must be fleeing from the troubles. And you must be the son of the hermit Yang from Huai-nan.’
Shao-yu was amazed. He returned the old man’s greeting with a low bow and burst into tears: ‘Yes, I am Yang’s son. Since my father left us I have been living alone with my mother. Even though I am not clever I wanted to improve our situation and I was on my way to sit for the civil service examinations. When I got as far as Hua-yin my road was blocked by the rebellion and so I came to the mountains for safety. Now, quite unexpectedly, I meet you, sir. I know that heaven has helped me and brought me into contact with the immortals. It is a long time since I heard news of my father, and the longer the time that passes, the more earnestly I yearn to hear of him. You sound as if you knew something of him. Please, O immortal one, tell me what you know, and comfort your friend’s poor son. Where is my father? And how is he?’
The immortal laughed: ‘Your father and I were just playing chequers together on Chu-ko Peak. It is not long since we parted, but I have no idea where he has gone. His face has not changed and his hair is not grey, so do not worry about him.’
But Shao-yu was still weeping, and he begged the old man to help him meet his father. The old man only laughed again and said: ‘The love of father and son is deep, but the difference between immortals and men is such that even though I should like to help you I cannot. The hills of the immortals are far away and their ten provinces are vast, so I have no idea where your father is now. Now that you are here, why don’t you stay until the road is open again? You will be able to go on your way before very long.’
Although Shao-yu had heard that his father was well, since the immortal had no intention of helping him, he lost hope of seeing his father and gave way to his distress in tears, which began to soak his clothing. The old man comforted him, saying: ‘Meeting and parting, parting and meeting—that’s life, you know. Tears do not help.’
Shao-yu dried his tears, suddenly forgot all about the world, even forgot that his boy and the donkey were at the foot of the path, and found a place to sit down. Then he thanked the old man.
The teacher pointed to a lute hanging on the wall and said: ‘Can you play that?’
Shao-yu said: ‘I’m interested in music, but I never met a good teacher and so I have never been able to learn anything properly.’
The old man told a boy to take the lute down and give it to Shao-yu. He told Shao-yu to play it. Shao-yu put it across his knee and played a tune called The Wind in the Pines. The old man chuckled delightedly and said: ‘You have the right idea. I will teach you properly.’ He took the lute and taught him four tunes that were unknown to men. The music was clear and beautiful, such as had never been heard before. Shao-yu was very quick-minded, so that once he had learned a tune he had permanently mastered its mystery. The old man was so pleased that he got out a white jade flute and played a tune on it for Shao-yu to learn.
‘Even in the old days it was rare for two skilled musicians to meet. Now I shall give you this lute and this flute. One day you will find a use for them. Remember to look after them carefully.’
Shao-yu took them, bowed, and said: ‘You are my father’s friend. I want to serve you as my father. Please let me be your disciple.’
The old man smiled once more: ‘You cannot escape the lure of worldly honor and riches. How could you pass your time here in the hills with me? You must go elsewhere, and you cannot become my disciple. But I shall not forget your request. Let me give you this book of P’eng-tsu’s magic. If you learn its contents, although you may not attain immortality, nevertheless you will live to a great age and never be ill.’
Shao-yu stood up again, bowed and received the book: ‘You say that I shall enjoy riches and honor. Please let me ask about another matter. I have just been discussing marriage with the daughter of the Ch’in family in Hua-yin, but I was put off by the revolt and found my way here. I have no idea what will happen next. Tell me, will this wedding take place?’
The old man roared with laughter and said: ‘Marriage is as mysterious as night, and it would not do to talk lightly of heaven’s dispensations. Still, your karma is excellent, so you have no need to set your heart on the Ch’in girl.’
Shao-yu knelt to receive his final instructions, and then went to the guest-room with the teacher and spent the night with him. The old man woke him before it was light: ‘The road is now open for you, and the examination has been deferred until next Spring. Your mother will be waiting for you. Go back home quickly and relieve her mind for her.’ And he gave him some money for the road. Shao-yu, bowing repeatedly, picked up his lute, his flute, and his magic book. As he left the valley he could not suppress the sadness in his heart, but when he looked back once more where he had come from, the house and the old man had already disappeared. He could only see clouds passing over the mountain in the sunlight. When he had entered the hills the flowers had still been on the willow trees, and now only a day later there were chrysanthemums everywhere. Autumn had come. He was amazed, but he returned to the inn, where he soon learned that it had taken five months to get troops together from all the provinces and restore peace. The emperor had returned to the capital, and the examination was deferred till the following spring.
Shao-yu went back to the house of Inspector Ch’in. The shady willows in the garden were faded and broken in the cold wind, and the painted pavilion had been burned down. The place was strewn with ashes, scorched stones and broken tiles. The village was in ruins and there was no sound there, not even of dogs or fowls. Shao-yu thought sadly how easily men’s affairs are overthrown. He was heartbroken that his marriage plan should have been so bitterly destroyed. He grasped a willow branch in his hands, and turning away from the evening sun sang over the willow song that the Ch’in girl had composed. Tears rolled down his face.
Back at the inn he asked the keeper of the place: ‘Where has Inspector Ch’in’s family gone to now?’
The man frowned as he replied: ‘Haven’t you heard? The inspector went up to the capital on government business and left only his daughter and the servants to look after the house. When the government troops retook the capital, it was discovered that he had accepted office from the rebels and so he was executed. The girl was taken to the capital. Some people think that she was executed too, and others say she became a government slave. But only this morning the guards were taking a group of criminals’ relatives past the door, and when I asked about them, I heard that they were all to be slaves in Ying-nan, and somebody said that the Ch’in girl was among them.’
This made Shao-yu burst into tears again: ‘The old man of Lan-t’ien said that betrothal to her was as mysterious as night. He must have meant that she is dead.’
He was miserable all that day and could not sleep that night so in the morning he packed up his things and returned to Hsiu-chou. He found that his mother had heard about the fighting in the capital, and was afraid he might have been killed. She had exhausted herself in prayer and worry for him. Her body was gaunt and her face was thin and pale. She could not have endured much longer. But when her son came in they embraced each other with happy tears as though he had come back from the dead.
All too soon the year ended and spring came near again. Shao-yu was ready to go up for the examination a second time. His mother said: ‘Last year you went to the capital and came through great dangers. It terrifies me to think of it. You are still young with your whole life before you, and plenty of time to do things slowly. But I must not try to stop you from doing what you want. Hsiu-chou is a very shut-off part of the world, and you have no intellectual equals here, nor is there a suitable bride for you. You are fifteen years old and it is high time that you thought of getting married, or it may be too late. The priestess Tu at the Chu-ch’ing Temple in the capital is my cousin. She has been a Taoist priestess for many, many years, but I think that she is still alive. She is a great woman, and very wise, and she knows all the best families in town. Don’t forget about her, because she will treat you like a son and help you to find a good woman for your bride.’
She wrote a letter and sealed it. Shao-yu was so worried by all this that he told his mother about the Ch’in girl at Hua-yin. It made him sad to think of her. His mother sighed: ‘She may have been very beautiful, but evidently her karma did not match yours. Even if she is not dead, it would be very difficult to find the daughter of a disgraced and destroyed family. Please forget about her and look for a wife somewhere else. For my sake, please!’
Shao-yu said goodbye to her and set off once more.
When he arrived in Lo-yang he was caught in a shower of rain and took shelter in a wineshop outside the South Gate of the town. When the shopkeeper asked him what he wanted, he asked for good quality wine. The man brought him some, and while he was drinking it, Shao-yu said: ‘I do not think much of this wine. I have tasted better.’
The shopkeeper said: ‘It is the best I have. If you want something better you will find it by the T’ien-chin bridge. They sell the best wine in town. It is called Lo-yang-ch’un—but it costs a small fortune a bottle.’
Shao-yu thought to himself: ‘Lo-yang has been a royal city for centuries. It is the finest city in China. Last year I went by another road and missed seeing it. This time I will stay here for a while and enjoy it.’
He made the little boy pay for the wine and lead the donkey, and set off toward T’ien-chin, ‘the bridge of the Milky Way’. As he went through the city he noticed that it was as prosperous and beautiful as he had heard. The Lo river flowed through the middle of it like a white silk ribbon. The T’ien-chin bridge was like a rainbow arched over the river with both ends firmly anchored. Its vermilion pillars and the blue-tiled roofing of its pavilion rose in the sky to reflect the sunshine and were themselves reflected upside down in the water below. The sunlight and shadows of its colonnade slanted across the path on the bridge. It was a magnificent place.
Thinking this must be the place mentioned by the wineshop-keeper, he rode up to it. A number of fine white horses with silver-mounted saddles were tied up outside, with the grooms and attendants lounging about. He looked up: music was coming from the upper story of the pavilion, and the scent of silken clothes was wafting out on the air. Shao-yu wondered if it was a party for the prefect and sent the little lad to find out what was going on. The boy came back and said: ‘All the young men of the town’s best families are having a party with some famous singing girls.’
When Shao-yu heard this he was exceedingly curious, and felt like composing a few poems, so he got off the donkey at the foot of the pavilion steps and climbed to the upper story. A dozen or so young literati were sitting about on silken cushions with a score or more of pretty girls. They had excellent food and drink, they were chatting and laughing noisily and their dress and appearance were wealthy and confident.
Shao-yu made his way among them. Noticing his good looks, they all rose and bowed, introducing themselves and making room for him to take a seat. The leader, a youth named Lu, said: ‘You look as if you have come up for the examination.’
‘That’s right,’ replied Shao-yu. ‘As I was going by, I heard the sound of your music, and I could not resist it. I am young and bold enough to invite myself as a gatecrasher. I hope you will forgive me.’
‘Well, Yang,’ said another boy, named Wang, ‘if you are really a candidate for the examination, even though you were not invited, you are nonetheless welcome. Having such a guest makes the party twice as gay. There is no need to apologize.’
Shao-yu said: ‘I see this is not just a drinking bout; you are composing verses. It is very presumptuous of me to have gatecrashed this sort of party.’
They all thought he was so shy and young that they were quite prepared to treat him as a child: ‘You are the last guest to arrive, Yang, and you need not feel obliged to compose a poem. Have a cup of wine and enjoy yourself.’
So they all urged him, passing the cups round and telling the dancing girls to play music. Shao-yu looked round, a little bleary-eyed from the wine, and noticed that though all the girls were above the ordinary, there was one of them who sat quietly, neither singing nor playing and not joining in the chatter. She had a beautiful face which well became her beautiful manners. She was peerless. Shao-yu was thrown off balance by the sight of her and forgot to pass the wine. She looked at him and their minds made contact across the floor. He also noticed a pile of poems in front of her, so he said to the youths: ‘Those must be your poems. May I look at them?’
Before they could answer, the girl suddenly got up and carried the papers over to Shao-yu and put them down in front of him. He looked at them one by one. Some were better than others, but none of them was outstanding. He thought: ‘I had always heard that the people of Lo-yang were unusually good at poetry. Now I know it is not true.’
So he returned the papers to the place where the girl was sitting and bowed towards the young gentlemen, saying: ‘I live in Ch’u and we never have a chance to read verses from the capitals, but now I have seen your wonderful compositions and I feel enlightened and instructed.
By this time they were all drunk. They replied in drink-sodden tones: ‘You have thought only of the beauty of the poems. You don’t realize what other joys are involved.’
He answered: ‘You have been so kind to me, I am sure you will not hold anything back from me. What other joys are you talking about?’
Wang laughed loudly and said: ‘Why don’t we tell him? Lo-yang is famous for its poetry. If a Lo-yang man does not come out top in the national examinations then a Lo-yang man is sure to be second. All of us here have a reputation as writers, and we cannot judge between ourselves; but that girl is Kuei Ch’an-yüeh. She is the most beautiful and accomplished singer and dancer in Lo-yang. She knows all about poetry, both classical and modem, and is an excellent critic. Everybody in Lo-yang submits his poems to her inspection and she never makes a mistake in her estimate of them. So we gave our poems to her and asked her to choose the best and sing it for us and tell us its good and bad points. Her name of Kuei means the same as the cinnamon tree in the moon, so to win this contest will be a good omen for the man who is to pluck the cinnamon, as they say, by coming out top in the examination. Isn’t this a great opportunity?’
A youth named Tu said: ‘There is something even better than that. The man whose poem she chooses to sing is to spend the night with her, and we shall all envy him. What about that, now? Yang, you are a full-blooded male too. You have nothing to lose by it: why don’t you try your hand at a verse?’
Yang said: ‘You have all finished writing your poems some time ago. I don’t know whether I should now. In any case has the lady not sung any of your poems yet?’
Wang answered: ‘She has kept her cherry lips tight shut and not shown her snow-white teeth since the party started. We have not heard a note from her.’
Yang said: ‘It is true that I did compose some poems back home in Ch’u, but I am an outsider and I am afraid I shall not do very well.’
Wang shouted: ‘He has a face like a girl! I wonder if he is really a man at all? In the Analects it says, “In goodness one need not avoid competing with one’s teacher. A gentleman is bound to compete.” Stop pretending to be modest and let us see whether you can write verses or not.’
Although Shao-yu had pretended he did not want to try, when he saw the girl he was very excited, so he took a piece of paper from the pile and dashed off three stanzas of verse. The brush sped over the paper like a boat scudding over the sea in a fair wind, or a thirsty horse making for water. The young men were amazed and their faces turned pale.
Shao-yu threw down the brush and said: ‘I ought by rights to ask you all for criticism, but the lady is today’s examiner, and I am anxious in case I am late in submitting my entry.’
On the ornamental paper which he gave to the girl he had written:
A traveler from Ch’u roamed westward to Ch’in,