CHAPTER 2

FIVE years were to pass before our wedding candles burned, at dusk, on the twenty-second day of the first month of the year of the rat—1780.As Yuen stepped from her bridal chair I saw at once that she had not changed, that hers was still the same delicate, sensitive figure I knew so well in my dreams.When, at last, she raised the wedding veil which had hidden her face, we looked at one another long and steadily; then Yuen smiled at me—and I found her as enchanting as before.

After drinking together from the ceremonial nuptial cup, we took our places side by side at the wedding banquet.I felt for Yuen’s wrist, under the table, then closed my hand over her slender fingers.The touch of her smooth skin, so warm and soft, made my head swim and my heart beat violently.

I begged her to begin eating but she whispered that she was keeping a vegetarian fast , and had eaten no meat for several years.When I questioned her, she told me shyly that she had begun her secret fast at the time when I had smallpox .

‘But Sister Shu,’I said teasingly, ‘now that my face is clear and smooth again, without a single scar, won’t you please break your fast?’Yuen’s eyes smiled into mine as she nodded her head.

One of my sisters was to be married on the twentyfourth, but, as the twenty-third was a day of national mourning when no music could be played, her wedding banquet, also, took place on my wedding night.While Yuen watched my sister’s entertainment in the banquet hall I was playing the guess-fingers game with the bride’s attendant in my bridal chamber.

As penalty for shouting a wrong number in this fast guessing game, the loser is required to drink a cup of wine.Being consistently defeated, drinking cup after cup of wine, I was soon so very drunk that I collapsed on the floor in a stupor .Before I was sober enough to open my eyes again, my wedding night had passed; dawn was whitening the window and Yuen was nearly dressed.

We spent the long day entertaining relatives and friends, who kept coming and going, in a continuous stream, until after the lamps had been lighted and the musicians were again permitted to play.Soon after midnight, on the morning of the twenty-fourth, in my ceremonial capacity as brother of the bride, I formally escorted my sister to her new husband’s home.Returning about three o’clock, I found the courtyards deserted and silent.The last guest had gone home.The last candles were flickering out.

Quietly, I entered my bridal chamber, where the bride’s attendant lay dozing on the floor.Yuen, who had taken off her wedding finery , was not yet in bed.She was sitting, in the light from a pair of tall silver candles, with her delicate white neck bent over a book, so completely absorbed in her reading that she was unaware I had come into the room.

I put my hand on her shoulder.

‘The past few days have been tiring and difficult for you, Sister,’I said.‘Why are you still reading? Aren’t you worn out ?’

Quickly raising her head, Yuen rose respectfully to her feet.

‘I was ready to go to bed when I went to the cupboard and picked out this book,’she explained.‘As soon as I started to read it I forgot how exhausted I was.For years I have been hearing about The West Chamber , but this is the first time I have ever really seen a copy.The author was certainly a genius—though I find his style a little too biting , too satirical .’

‘But only a writer who is really a genius can write good satire,’I answered.

The bride’s attendant interrupted, yawning , to suggest that it was time we went to bed.When I told her to leave us, she went out and closed the door behind her.Left alone for the first time, Yuen and I stood side by side, laughing softly, feeling as excited as two old friends who meet again after a long separation.Playfully, I put my hand on her breast and felt the wild beating of her heart.Bending close, I whispered softly,

‘Shu-chen, why does your heart beat like this?’Yuen’s eyes smiled into mine, and in that moment our souls were closely bound with the silken strands of love; our quivering bodies knew the intensity of desire.

So, at last, I led her to the bed, nor were we aware when dawn began to whiten the horizon.

Though she was at first reserved and silent, Yuen, as a young bride, was never angry nor sullen .She was respectful to her elders and treated her inferiors with gentle kindness, nor could the slightest fault be found with the work she did in the household .Every morning, as the sun sent its first rays through the window, Yuen would get out of bed, hastily putting on her clothes as if she heard someone ordering her to do so.

‘You are a married woman now,’I laughed at her.‘Your position is very different from the time when I ate your congee.Why are you still so afraid of being criticized?’

‘When I hid the rice-gruel for you, I really did give cause for gossip,’she answered.‘Now, although I am no longer afraid at being laughed at, I don’t want to give your parents any occasion to think I am lazy or careless.’

I wanted to make love to her again; to hold her in my arms a little longer; yet I had such respect for her strength of character that I made myself get out of bed as soon as she did, so that all through the day we were inseparable, heads together, as close as a man and his shadow.Words cannot describe the depth of our emotions, the joy we shared, the love and passion we felt for each other.But joy and pleasure make time fly all too swiftly and, in what seemed no more than a flutter of the eyelashes, the month of our honeymoon had passed.

My father, who was then secretary to a high official at Kueich’i, now sent a yamen constable to fetch me back with him, as I was still, at that time, a pupil of the tutor Mr.Chao Sheng-chai of Wu-lin.（It is entirely due to the efforts of this Mr.Chao, a talented and conscientious teacher, that I am literate at all today.） Although I had known all along that after the wedding I should have to return to my studies, the arrival of my father’s message disturbed and depressed me and my heart sank at the thought that Yuen might break into tears at the news of my going.

But Yuen, to my surprise, presented a cheerful face.She tried to encourage me in my plans and started at once to pack my boxes for the journey to Kuei-ch’i.It was not until evening that I became aware of her unnatural, set expression and realized that she was not her usual self.As I was about to leave she came close to me and whispered:

‘Now you will have no one to take care of you; please try to be careful, and look after yourself.’

The hawser was cast off as soon as I boarded the boat.Along the banks of the canal the peach and plum trees were in full bloom, the sight of their fragile beauty filling my heart with loneliness and desolation.Confused as a forest bird that has lost the flock , I felt that Heaven and earth alike were menacing and strange.

Immediately after arriving at Kuei-ch’i, I had to say goodbye to my father who was about to cross the river on an official journey to an eastern part of the country.The next three months, as I dragged my way through them, felt like ten years of unendurable separation.Letters from Yuen arrived regularly enough, although for two of mine I received only one in reply; but of these, half were filled with words of caution or encouragement, the rest with mere frivolous conventionalities.

Sadness and dejection filled my heart.Every time the wind rustled the bamboos in my courtyard or the moon silvered the leaves of the banana trees beside my window, I remembered other moons and other nights until my soul became entranced with an unreal world of dreams and fancies.My tutor, becoming aware of my condition, wrote at once to my father, saying that he intended to assign me ten themes for composition before sending me back to my wife for the time being.

Happy as a pardoned prisoner of war I boarded the boat again, but now, to my sorrow, it seemed to me that time had begun to run backwards; that every quarter of an hour took a year to go by.

Reaching home at last, I hurriedly paid my respects to my mother before rushing to my own room, where Yuen waited to greet me.We clung to each other, beyond words; wildly excited, one soul in one body; dizzy with happiness in a world of mist and clouds.

It was then the sixth month; the weather was very sultry and the whole house was hot and damp.Fortunately, we were living next door to the Lotus Lover’s Retreat of the Ts’ang-lang Pavilion Gardens, which lay to the west of our courtyards.Across a wooden foot-bridge, overlooking the canal, stood a small open pavilion called ‘My Choice’; the allusion referring to the ‘choices’in the ancient lines:

‘If the water is clear—wash your cap strings；

If it is muddy—wash your feet.’

Beyond the eaves of ‘My Choice’an old tree raised its gnarled trunk; its branches throwing a dense shade across the windows, dyeing our faces green.People, in an endless line, passed back and forth along the opposite bank of the canal, so that my father, when he was entertaining friends in the pavilion, always lowered the blinds on that side.After asking my mother’s permission, I now moved with Yuen to ‘My Choice’, intending to stay there for the rest of the summer.

Because of the extreme heat, Yuen had put her embroidery aside.We spent the long, hot, summer days together; doing nothing but reading, discussing the classics, enjoying the moonlight, or idly admiring the flowers.

Yuen was not used to drinking, though she could take two or three cups if she had to, and I would often amuse myself by teaching her to play various literary games in which the loser must empty a cup of wine.

In all the world, we thought, no life could be happier than this!

Yuen was very quiet in those first days at the pavilion but she soon overcame her shyness and learned to express herself clearly and with ease.One day, while resting in the shade of the ancient tree, we began exchanging ideas on the literature of classic times.

‘An appreciation of classical literature,’Yuen said,‘requires a breadth of knowledge and a nobility of thought that are, I am afraid, too difficult for a woman to attain.I think, though, that I do have some slight understanding and awareness of poetry.’

‘Poetry was used in the selection of scholars for official posts, in the T’ang dynasty,’I told her.‘And of all the T’ang poets, everyone agrees that Tu Fu and Li Po are the greatest masters.Which do you prefer, darling?’

‘Tu Fu, I think, is first of all a master of style,’she answered.‘His work is admired as much for its refinement of form as for its grandeur of conception.Li’s poems, on the other hand, are free and unconventional, filled with freshness and vigour.I admire the dignity and majesty of Master Tu,’she smiled, ‘But I prefer the freedom and liveliness of Master Li’.

‘Nevertheless, Tu Fu is acknowledged to be the greatest of all poets,’I argued.‘His verses are still used as models of form by most students of poetry.Listen to this poem on autumn in the gorges of the Yang-tze River.’

AUTUMN Jade dew of autumn pearls the grove of withered maples ；

Silence and desolation brood over mountain and gorge .

Wave after wave of the swiftly-flowing river rises to meet the sky as over the lofty passes clouds race before the wind to catch their shadows on the earth below.

Chrysanthemums grow rank, like twice-shed tears—a second time in bloom.

Here though my lonely boat is tied my heart looks back to its old home.

Everywhere, with scissors and measure they hurry the winter robes as sunset touches the soaring walls of Po-ti to the hurried pounding of the washing-stones.

‘Since you alone prefer Li Po, my darling,’I continued,‘will you tell me why?’

‘For perfection of form, beauty of phrase, and nobility of thought Tu’s poems are certainly unequalled,’Yuen admitted; ‘but Li’s poems have the lyric charm of fairy maidens .He seems to write as naturally as petals fall and waters flow.That is why I love him.

‘“Hearing the Flute on a Spring Night” has always been one of my favourites.

‘Tones of a jade flute—flying from whose hidden garden—Floating on the breeze—scattering over Lo City.

I listen in darkness to “Breaking of the Willow”—

And memories of home fill my heart.

‘It is not that I consider Tu Fu inferior to Li Po,’she continued; ‘I admire and appreciate Tu’s poems, but I love Li Pos’s.’

‘Who would have thought,’I laughed, ‘that you were so intimate with Li Po—I did not know that you were old friends!’

Yuen smiled.

‘I have still another favourite,’she said, ‘Po Chü-i; my childhood teacher, you might say.In my heart I shall always be grateful to him.’

‘What do you mean?’I asked.

‘Isn’t he the author of “The Song of the Lute”?’

‘How very strange!’I laughed.‘Li Po is your bosom friend; Po Chu-i, your first teacher, and I, with the literary name of San-po (Three Po’s), am your husband.Your destiny seems linked to the character “po”.’

‘If “po” characters are my fate,’Yuen smiled, ‘I’m afraid there will always be “po” characters in my poems.’（In Soochow we call incorrectly written characters, ‘po’characters.） Finding this very funny, we both burst out laughing.

I am naturally straightforward and easy-going, unhampered by convention; but Yuen, like a pedantic old Confucian scholar, firmly believed in propriety and ceremony, and insisted on observing many old-fashioned formalities in our daily life.Whenever I helped her into a robe or adjusted a sleeve for her she would murmur repeatedly, ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you.I’m so sorry to trouble you.’If I brought her a handkerchief or a fan she would insist on rising to receive it from me.At first, this bored me.I disliked it and one day I mentioned it to her.

‘Darling, must you entangle me in all this ceremony? You know the old saying, “He who is too polite must be deceitful”.’

Cheeks on fire, Yuen replied:

‘When I am trying to be properly respectful and courteous to you, isn’t it ironical that you should accuse me of being deceitful?’

‘Genuine respect is in the heart,’I retorted , ‘not in empty formalities.’

‘The closest of all relationships is that between parent and child,’Yuen countered; ‘should we then respect our parents in our hearts while behaving outwardly with bad manners and lack of consideration?’

‘Forget my words,’I begged her.‘I only spoke in fun.’

‘Most quarrels between husbands and wives start in fun,’she answered seriously.‘Please do not be angry with me again, or I shall die of grief.’

Taking her in my arms then, I held her closely, caressing her until she looked into my eyes and smiled again.Our conversation, after this, became full of terms of politeness; of ‘excuse me’s’, ‘so sorry’s’, and ‘I beg your pardon’s’.We lived the years of our short married life with a courtesy and harmony worthy of Liang Hung and Meng Kuang, whose story is told in the Records of the Han Dynasty .Here is the tale as I remember it.

Meng Kuang was a lady of strong mind, renowned virtue and regrettable lack of beauty, whose family home had been located by Fortune close to that of the wise scholar Liang Hung.Still unmarried, Liang Hung declared that no woman had so far been able to satisfy his ideal of wifely virtue.Meng Kuang also had refused to marry, telling her parents that the only man for whom she had sufficient respect to consider as a husband was the eminent Liang Hung.She persisted in this course until her thirtieth year, when the scholar, learning of her steadfast attachment, decided to make her his wife.

After the wedding, he was displeased to see that his plain-featured wife had decked herself out in traditional feminine finery; but Meng Kuang, sensing that she had offended her husband, immediately changed into rough, simple clothing, and from that moment served her lord with a fitting humility and obedience .Contented and happy in her poor surroundings, she insisted on showing the respect in which she held her husband by raising the rice bowl to the level of her eyebrows whenever they sat down to a meal.Or so the story goes! PcLcPeIC7rgjNmJDnJdYy+tLyqW/VT4KhK89QM7aV4IU6GnTE0lSxTuB/LwEu9PT