Part 11

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But now perturbed, engulfed, distressed, worn out, I move about the river and lake at my leisure. I have been out of office for two years, but the effect of this man's words is such as to produce a peaceful influence within me.

This evening I feel that I have dismissed all the reproachful thoughts I harboured, and in consequence have made a long poem which I intend to present to the court.

By night, beside the river, underneath The flower-like maple leaves that bloom alone In autumn's silent revels of decay, We said farewell. The host, dismounting, sped The parting guest whose boat rocked under him, And when the circling stirrup-cup went round, No light guitar, no lute, was heard again; But on the heart aglow with wine there fell Beneath the cold bright moon the cold adieu Of fading friends -- when suddenly beyond The cradled waters stole the lullaby Of some faint lute; then host forgot to go, Guest lingered on: all, wondering at the spell, Besought the dim enchantress to reveal Her presence; but the music died and gave No answer, dying. Then a boat shot forth To bring the shy musician to the shore. Cups were refilled and lanterns trimmed again, And so the festival went on. At last, Slow yielding to their prayers, the stranger came, Hiding her burning face behind her lute; And twice her hand essayed the strings, and twice She faltered in her task; then tenderly, As for an old sad tale of hopeless years, With drooping head and fingers deft she poured Her soul forth into melodies. Now slow The plectrum led to prayer the cloistered chords, Now loudly with the crash of falling rain, Now soft as the leaf whispering of words, Now loud and soft together as the long Patter of pearls and seed-pearls on a dish Of marble; liquid now as from the bush Warbles the mango bird; meandering Now as the streamlet seawards; voiceless now As the wild torrent in the strangling arms Of her ice-lover, lying motionless, Lulled in a passion far too deep for sound. Then as the water from the broken vase Gushes, or on the mailed horseman falls The anvil din of steel, as on the silk The slash of rending, so upon the strings Her plectrum fell. . . . Then silence over us. No sound broke the charmed air. The autumn moon Swam silver o'er the tide, as with a sigh The stranger stirred to go. "I passed," said she, "My childhood in the capital; my home Was near the hills. A girl of twelve, I learnt The magic of the lute, the passionate Blending of lute and voice that drew the souls Of the great masters to acknowledgment; And lovely women, envious of my face, Bowed at the shrine in secret. The young lords Vied for a look's approval. One brief song Brought many costly bales. Gold ornaments And silver pins were smashed and trodden down, And blood-red silken skirts were stained with wine In oft-times echoing applause. And so I laughed my life away from year to year While the spring breezes and the autumn moon Caressed my careless head. Then on a day My brother sought the battles in Kansuh; My mother died: nights passed and mornings came, And with them waned my beauty. Now no more My doors were thronged; few were the cavaliers That lingered by my side; so I became A trader's wife, the chattel of a slave Whose lord was gold, who, parting, little recked Of separation and the unhonoured bride. Since the tenth moon was full my husband went To where the tea-fields ripen. I remained, To wander in my little lonely boat Over the cold bright wave o' nights, and dream Of the dead days, the haze of happy days, And see them set again in dreams and tears."

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Already the sweet sorrows of her lute Had moved my soul to pity; now these words Pierced me the heart. "O lady fair," I cried, "We are the vagrants of the world, and need No ceremony to be friends. Last year I left the Imperial City, banished far To this plague-stricken spot, where desolation Broods on from year to heavy year, nor lute Nor love's guitar is heard. By marshy bank Girt with tall yellow reeds and dwarf bamboos I dwell. Night long and day no stir, no sound, Only the lurking cuckoo's blood-stained note, The gibbon's mournful wail. Hill songs I have, And village pipes with their discordant twang. But now I listen to thy lute methinks The gods were parents to thy music. Sit And sing to us again, while I engrave Thy story on my tablets!" Gratefully (For long she had been standing) the lute girl Sat down and passed into another song, Sad and so soft, a dream, unlike the song Of now ago. Then all her hearers wept In sorrow unrestrained; and I the more, Weeping until the pale chrysanthemums Upon my darkened robe were starred with dew.

The Never-ending Wrong

I have already alluded to the story of the Emperor Ming Huang and the lady Yang Kwei-fei, or T`ai Chen, as she is called, in my introduction. In order that the events which led up to her tragic death may be understood, I have given in front of the poem a short extract from the old Chinese annals translated into French by the Jesuit Father Joseph de Mailla in 1778. The Emperor is fleeing with a small, ill-disciplined force before the rebellious general An Lu-shan into the province of Ssuch`uan. So the bald narrative resumes:

As the Emperor was followed by a numerous suite, and because time was lacking, the arrangements for so long a journey were found to be insufficient. On their arrival at Ma-wei both officers and men murmured loudly against Yang Kuo-chung*, accusing him of having brought all the present evils upon them. The ambassador of the King of Tibet, followed by twenty retainers, seeing the Prime Minister pass, stopped him, and asked for provisions. Then the soldiers cried out that Yang was conspiring with the strangers, and throwing themselves upon him, they cut off his head, which they exposed on a stake to the public gaze. The Emperor, becoming aware of this violence, did not, however, dare to exact punishment. He sent an officer to the chief of those who had slain the Prime Minister, to find out the reason for their deed; he replied that they had done so because Yang was on the point of rebellion. The leader of the revolt even demanded the instant execution of the lady T`ai Chen, as she was the sister of the supposed rebel, Yang. The Emperor, who loved her, desired to prove her innocence by showing that it was impossible for her, living always as she did within the Palace precincts, to be confederate to her brother's plot. His envoy, however, urged him that it was politic, after the events he had witnessed, to sacrifice her, innocent as she was, if he wished to escape from the dangers of (another) revolution. The Emperor, yielding to political necessity, gave her into the hands of the envoy with the order that she should be strangled.

-- * Minister of State, brother to T`ai Chen. --

Ennui

Tired of pale languors and the painted smile, His Majesty the Son of Heaven, long time A slave of beauty, ardently desired The glance that brings an Empire's overthrow.

Beauty

From the Yang family a maiden came, Glowing to womanhood a rose aflame, Reared in the inner sanctuary apart, Lost to the world, resistless to the heart; For beauty such as hers was hard to hide, And so, when summoned to the monarch's side, Her flashing eye and merry laugh had power To charm into pure gold the leaden hour; And through the paint and powder of the court All gathered to the sunshine that she brought. In spring, by the Imperial command, The pool of Hua`ch`ing beheld her stand, Laving her body in the crystal wave Whose dimpled fount a warmth perennial gave. Then when, her girls attending, forth she came, A reed in motion and a rose in flame, An empire passed into a maid's control, And with her eyes she won a monarch's soul.

Revelry

Hair of cloud o'er face of flower, Nodding plumes where she alights, In the white hibiscus bower She lingers through the soft spring nights -- Nights too short, though wearing late Till the mimosa days are born. Never more affairs of State Wake them in the early morn. Wine-stained moments on the wing, Moonlit hours go luting by, She who leads the flight of Spring Leads the midnight revelry. Flawless beauties, thousands three, Deck the Imperial harem,* Yet the monarch's eyes may see Only one, and one supreme. Goddess in a golden hall, Fairest maids around her gleam, Wine-fumes of the festival Daily waft her into dream. Smiles she, and her sires are lords, Noble rank her brothers win: Ah, the ominous awards Showered upon her kith and kin! For throughout the land there runs Thought of peril, thought of fire; Men rejoice not in their sons -- Daughters are their sole desire. In the gorgeous palaces, Piercing the grey skies above, Music on the languid breeze Draws the dreaming world to love. Song and dance and hands that sway The passion of a thousand lyres Ever through the live-long day, And the monarch never tires. Sudden comes the answer curt, Loud the fish-skin war-drums roar; Cease the plaintive "rainbow skirt": Death is drumming at the door.

-- * Pronounced `hareem'. --

Flight

Clouds upon clouds of dust enveloping The lofty gates of the proud capital. On, on, to the south-west, a living wall, Ten thousand battle-chariots on the wing.

Feathers and jewels flashing through the cloud Onwards, and then an halt. The legions wait A hundred li beyond the western gate; The great walls loom behind them wrapt in cloud.

No further stirs the sullen soldiery, Naught but the last dread office can avail, Till she of the dark moth-eyebrows, lily pale, Shines through tall avenues of spears to die.

Upon the ground lie ornaments of gold, One with the dust, and none to gather them, Hair-pins of jade and many a costly gem, Kingfishers' wings and golden birds scarce cold.

The king has sought the darkness of his hands, Veiling the eyes that looked for help in vain, And as he turns to gaze upon the slain, His tears, her blood, are mingled on the sands.

Exile

Across great plains of yellow sand, Where the whistling winds are blown, Over the cloud-topped mountain peaks, They wend their way alone.

Few are the pilgrims that attain Mount Omi's heights afar; And the bright gleam of their standard grows Faint as the last pale star.

Dark the Ssuch`uan waters loom, Dark the Ssuch`uan hills, And day and night the monarch's life An endless sorrow fills.

The brightness of the foreign moon Saddens his lonely heart; And a sound of a bell in the evening rain Doth rend his soul apart.