Frank Owen Read online

  6

  Yueh Nu was pleased at the ridiculous way in which Yoon Ge’s pilgrimage of love had ended. She had made no opposition to his presence in the garden. One glance at his countenance sufficed. She was not worried. Now he had gone and it was well.

  Kutani gave no further thought to Yoon Ge. She had smiled when he had fallen into the lake. He had received his just deserts. His water bedraggled appearance had been ludicrous. But she had never considered him as a lover, and she would have been astounded had anyone told her that was the reason for his being there.

  Tsiang Ling alone in the house regretted Yoon Ge’s abandonment. He had been a jovial companion. They had often drunk together and recounted many ribald tales. Yoon Ge was a voracious eater. He liked to linger over his meals. Tsiang Ling had considered he would make an ideal son-in-law. They could stride around in their cups together. Kutani was a complete disappointment. Even though she was exquisite in appearance, like all women she lacked good sense. Far better would it have been for him to have arranged for her marriage in the traditional Chinese manner than to have acceded to the whims of his wife.

  Kutani never tired of reading, nor did the queer questions she asked Kya Koen ever end. What was the first fruit on earth? How was it produced? Who created the first flower? Whence came its perfume? From what strange source did the sun get its heat and light, and why was it never consumed by its own intensity? Was it recharged with energy from some unknown source? Which was the natural state of the universe, darkness or light, night or day? Why did people wear clothes? Were they ashamed of their own bodies?

  Kutani herself hated clothes except those that were soft-clinging and silken. Sometimes at night she cast aside her clothes and danced in the moonlight. Utter silence reigned in the garden, silence and perfume and the blue night sky. It was as though nature had paused to watch her dancing, hushed to awe by her grace. Her body was poetry; a flower dancing in the wind. The fronds of the trees etched in black silhouette against the azure sky, the shadows of the trees and shrubs, an occasional firefly bent on some hidden quest—all served to complete the harmony of lyric night. And the moon once more came down the stairs of the sky and bathed the body of Kutani even as it had done at her birth. But now the touch of the moon was a caress. The moon was her lover come down to enjoy her body. Tears rose in her eyes. So beautiful the moment was, she trembled.

  In an attitude of complete surrender, she flung out her arms. “Take me, O Moon!” she cried. “Make me immortal with the imprint of your arms.”

  Now it so happened, at that moment, there was a figure perched upon the wall of the garden, a youth of meagre wealth who dared to dream of this wondrous maiden of whom he had once caught a fleeting glimpse, and there-after could not forget. From his hiding-place he watched her dancing, the sweet contour of her body, the flower-like profile of her face, the glory-mist that fell about her shoulders, a veil of moonrise. His name was Phen Hsu. He was the son of a rice farmer. Young he was, and of pleasing appearance. But he did not follow in the footsteps of his father. He had turned from the farm to become a poet and some of the poems he fashioned were like carved jewels. There were times when he had been so poor, he had been forced to beg by the roadside. There was rice enough for him to eat at the home of his father, but he was not always close enough to partake of it. He was a born wanderer, a minstrel, a clever lute-player, a charming singer. But he was not a good workman, nor did he stick to anything for long. He liked to idle away his time, to love, to smoke, to drink and occasionally to sell one of his verses.

  As he sat on the wall watching Kutani dancing, involuntarily he commenced to sing and his fingers crept slowly over the strings of his lute. His voice was so low it was scarcely louder than the rustling leaves. He was singing, “The Bamboo Love Song.”

  At the sound of his voice, Kutani paused. Like a slim porcelain statue she stood at the brink of the lotus pond. The poetry of her body was as potent as the poetry of the night or as the love-poetry of Phen Hsu. She listened intently so that she might not miss a note. Trembling, she closed her eyes, completely engulfed by the witchery of that garden. Within her body she was conscious of a great longing such as she had never known before in all her life. She imagined that the singing was the voice of the moon. It had always been her friend, the most important personage in her life.

  Once more she extended her arms in supplication. “Take me, O Moon!”

  Phen Hsu hesitated for a moment only, then quietly he climbed down the vine-draped wall into the garden. In utter reverence he took Kutani in his arms. She sighed softly, but she did not open her eyes. She was drugged with beauty. Phen Hsu bent forward and kissed her lips. Her mouth was moist with dew. Her breath was perfume. The mist of moonrise seemed to have texture. It had become a garment softer than white velvet to clothe her wondrous body. Once more he kissed her and their lips seemed loath to separate. She sighed softly as she gently relaxed. The moon was her lover, the moon was holding her in its arms.

  Softly he chanted words of love, fragments of the songs of many poets, of Hitomaro, of Hung-So-Fan and Li Po. “The water of the Mirror Lake is clear like the moon. My girl of silken dreams has a face white as a heron’s wing. Her glowing image trembles in the silvery ripple....Soft night, clear moon, perfume of plum trees, give to my beloved a delicious dream....In the ocean of the sky wave-clouds are rising, and the ship of the moon seems to be rowing along through a forest of stars.”

  Even as Phen Hsu spoke, Kutani drifted into slumber. Such intense beauty had depleted her strength. For a moment, he held her to him; then very gently he laid her on a natural carpet of moss beside the flowers.

  When Kutani awakened, Kya Koen sat dozing patiently beside her.

  “I have been sleeping,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” said he.

  “But before I slept, the moon came down from the sky and took me in his arms. I shall never forget the way he held me. Always I shall be haunted by the wooing of his lips. At last I have been caressed by the moon.”

  “You have been caressed by love,” said Kya Koen.

  7

  Phen Hsu was born to be a troubadour. He joyed to wander along the unfrequented roads of Asia singing songs to the peonies and making love to Oriental women. There was nothing solid or settled about him. The house of his life was without foundation. He had few possessions, chief of which were his lute and a bowl for his rice. He was clever, handsome, a graceful conversationalist, putting off the work of the minute to plan a colorful tomorrow. His parents were saddened that he had no love for the soil other than as a setting for his imagery. The soil was created to produce rice, not to produce verses.

  Even though Phen Hsu worshipped Kutani, he believed she was beyond his reach. Absurd would it have been for him to persist in his wooing. He was little more than a beggar, a minstrel singing by the roadside while Kutani was the daughter of a wealthy mandarin, brought up to wear only the finest of jewels and the softest of silks.

  Phen Hsu was not vain. He considered himself one of the humblest men of China. What right had he to aspire to the embraces of a woman so high above him in station? His judgment told him that he was a fool, but his heart was a tyrant. It refused to permit him to forget. That night he had climbed upon the high wall merely that he might view the garden in which Kutani walked. Not for a moment had he expected to see her. Now his life had reached fulfillment. For one brief moment he had been in Jade City. He had no regrets. But it was better to go away before his proximity wrecked her life. She could not marry a poor man. He could still feel the warmth of her lips.

  In despair he journeyed far off into the Gobi Desert and slept alone underneath the stars. The sky was a great blue inverted bowl, sweeping down on all sides to touch the horizon. The moon was a mirror flying across the sky. As he lay staring at it, he wondered if, somewhere far off, Kutani, too, were gazing at it. Perhaps if he stared hard enough he would behold her face reflected in the mirror beside his own.

  Phen Hsu rose to his fee
t and commenced walking back and forth in the sand, and as he walked his sadness increased. He was a fool when he came to the desert, for the desert is a place of death. He wanted life, life, the soft arms of women, many women. Through an endless procession of women, he would forget Kutani. In the morning, after a sleepless night, he left the desert. In a gray town that gasped for breath at the desert’s edge, he went to a tea-house that dealt in tea and love. He chose a woman not unpleasing to look at in the dim light. For a while they sat at a table and sipped tea.

  Later, when they were alone together in one of the private rooms, he said abruptly, “Do not light a lamp. The room is illuminated enough. Do you dance?”

  “Naturally,” she replied, smiling.

  “Then dance,” he said, “that I may sing to you as the soft moon’s rays play about your body.”

  Desperately he was trying to visualize Kutani once again with this girl of shadows playing the part. As he took his lute and commenced to sing, she disrobed in one of the black corners. He was singing a verse from the writings of Li T’ai Po.

  “She will come forth from the innermost

  chamber,

  A mountain flower in her glossy hair,

  Robed in pink embroidered silk,

  To tint the flying clouds of life

  In happy colors.”

  And now the girl was dancing. Like gold was her slim body and her breasts were full. She danced well, though not with the grace of Kutani. Phen Hsu had succeeded in weaving texture from a dream. He ceased singing and leaned forward, his eyes fastened on that glowing body. Idly his fingers still wandered over the lute-strings, soft enchanting music, echoing from the sadness of his heart.

  “Kutani!” he whispered.

  The girl held out her hands and came toward him, but as she did so, the moonlight fell full upon her face as though the fingers of the moon were pointing to her imperfections and he noticed that her teeth protruded and her nose was far too flat. With an oath, he flung her from him. Thus insulted she spat at him in a blind, raging fury, but he paid no attention. Back to the alleys he went, caring not what direction he took as long as he got away from that travesty of love.

  8

  Meanwhile in the garden of the Mandarin, Kutani lived in a dream.

  “I have been kissed by the moon,” she repeated. “The moon is my lover. He came down into the garden and held me in his arms.”

  Kya Koen smiled wistfully. “Many of us think we find the moon,” said he, “but no one ever does. To compensate for the loss, however, one oft-times finds things equally worthwhile. That night when you danced, I was watching you. It was a picture of glory. Upon the high wall of the garden, a youth was playing softly on a lute. Then I saw this youth climb down into the garden and take you in his arms. The lips that were pressed against yours were not the lips of the moon but the lips of a man inspired by love.”

  “It was, oh, so beautiful,” she said. “I imagined that the adored moon had come to return my love.”

  “It is better to be loved by mortals than by gods. Don’t cry for the moon.”

  Kutani sighed. “And to think that I did not even once gaze into his face. Was he good looking?”

  “Handsome.”

  “And young?”

  “Not too old for you.”

  “And I do not even know his name.”

  “Are there then so many names to confound one?”

  “But I may never meet him again in this world.”

  “Is the world such a large place?”

  “Even if we did meet, how would I know him?”

  “Perhaps by his kiss.”

  “You mean I must kiss many men?”

  “Until your task is accomplished.”

  “If only he will come to me again.”

  And now once more Tsiang Ling had chosen a possible husband for Kutani. He hoped this time his plans would not miscarry. He was vastly annoyed. Why should a girl oppose the wishes of her father? Still, he had given his word that Kutani would not be forced into marriage, and to him an oral contract was as binding as though it were written.

  The name of the second suitor was Sam Kwauk, whose family had amassed a fortune in rice. For generations they had been frugal, saving, hoarding. And now all the accumulated wealth of his ancestors had fallen into the hands of Sam Kwauk, who was young and well-favored by the gods. He believed in living in luxury, in dressing with great elegance and in having numerous wives and slaves. He was not over-wise, but his conversation was witty. When Kutani beheld him, she was not dismayed. He was pleasing. His lips were not too large. His eyes twinkled with merriment. His nose was well-formed. Would it not be well if he should prove to be her garden lover? His voice was cultured, and while he said scarcely anything of value, he said it charmingly.

  In the evening, Kutani walked with him in the garden. She wished to have him caress her. Kya Koen walked about in the shadows, watching over his beloved mistress as she walked with Sam Kwauk beside the lotus pond. He was captivated by her beauty. The fragrance of her hair was more alluring than the fragrance of quince. His desire was so acute he could scarcely restrain himself. At last he took her into his arms and kissed her roughly. Her mouth was bruised, but she did not mind, for of one thing she was sure. Sam Kwauk was not the man of whom she was in quest. Her interest in him flickered out like the flame of a lamp that contains no oil. He was amazed as she broke from his grasp and stepped back into the shadows, smiling at his discomfiture. It was hard for him to locate her, for the moon shone in his eyes and dazzled him. For a while he searched for her in vain, then, utterly exasperated, he sought out the Mandarin who was nibbling preserved limes in the jade-room.

  “Your daughter,” he cried, “is possessed by a devil.”

  “Is that your gentle way of telling me you wish to marry her?” murmured the Mandarin.

  “She has made me ridiculous.”

  “How so?”

  The blunt question was disconcerting to Sam Kwauk. He realised that the subject was a delicate one. He could not very well tell Kutani’s father that she had repulsed his embrace. Perhaps the Mandarin might be angered to an extent where he would insist that Sam Kwauk’s head be separated slightly from his body. At once he adopted a conciliatory attitude.

  “My sincere apologies,” he said. “My chagrin made me forget myself. Your daughter is a pearl, but I fear, alas, she is the one jewel I shall never possess. It has been said that a clever man builds a city; a clever woman lays one low. Your daughter is extremely clever. Already I am succumbing to her charm. It is as fruitless as beating with bare hands on stone walls. Therefore I am withdrawing gracefully.”

  Yueh Nu smiled once more. Ever she smiled when Kutani sent away a prospective husband. In time Kutani would understand how to choose well. In the meantime she must be further taught the verses of the art of love. She must be acquainted with the lure of perfumes, the enticements of cosmetics. Kutani must be worthy to marry an emperor. She must equal in beauty that mythical enchantress Yang Kuei-Fei.

  Other suitors came to the garden and there were none who did not at once succumb to the loveliness of Kutani. And most of them went away puzzled. Yueh Nu smiled. Fragrant indeed was the garden.

  9

  One morning as Kutani wandered down near the river that flowed past the foot of the garden, her attention was caught by the sound of a fisherman singing. His voice as not musical; nevertheless it affected her strangely as though it were a voice to which she must listen.

  “Let me hold you in my arms, Kutani,

  While the willow flowers fall like snow

  about us.

  Oh, Kutani, no wonder the moon is sad

  On nights when you fail to walk in the

  garden,

  For I, too, am sad

  When you fail to creep through the door

  of my heart.”

  She placed her hand to her breast. Here was a message, a message which she must heed. Without a moment’s hesitation, she called to the fisherman. T
wice did she call; then he ceased his singing and headed his small boat toward the shore. Although he was old, yet still he sang of spring. His hands were coarse and knotted from toil. His thin face was a net of wrinkles. His eyes, deep-set in their sockets, gleamed penetratingly. When he had tied his boat fast to a projecting branch, he leaped from his place at the oars and stood beside her.

  “Lady,” he said, “you called to me. I am the humblest of your servants, what do you wish?”

  “I was interested in the song you were singing,” she explained. “It appealed to me.”

  “I was singing ‘Songs to Kutani,’” he told her.

  “I am Kutani,” she whispered.

  “Then I was singing to you.”

  “But why?”

  “That I scarcely know. I am a poor fisherman with few friends. The fish stay away from my nets even as good food stays away from my mouth. Therefore when I chanced upon this minstrel in a wine-house, I was glad to enter into an arrangement with him whereby he pays me, merely to sing sweet songs as my boat drifts by this garden. It is rare for a man who has always toiled arduously, to be paid for so pleasant a task.”

  “It is well,” declared Kutani. “Let me sit here in the shadow of this tree while you sing me all the sweet songs. Then I will reward you.”

  So happy did her words make the fisherman, he straightened up until he no longer appeared old, and in a voice that to Kutani was sweetest music, sang all the songs that had been written for her, songs of fragrance and longing, songs of fragrance and love.

  “Your breasts are gentle pillows

  Against which my love lies sleeping.

  Oh, Kutani, when night is old