‘And very right that they should!’ said the literary gentlemen smilingly. ‘But what is most admirable of all about this story is the tireless benevolence of the present Court which led to the unearthing of this forgotten heroism. Surely this is a thing unparalleled in any former age? The Tang poet’s line
This holy age, when nothing good’s omitted,
might almost have been written in anticipation of the present reign.’
‘Indeed!’ Jia Zheng nodded gravely.
By this time Jia Huan and Jia Lan had also arrived. Jia Zheng allowed the three boys to look at the preface and then told them that he wanted a poem from each one of them. He would award a prize to whoever completed one first and another prize for the best poem.
Jia Huan and Jia Lan had several times recently been called upon to compose in company and so were not unduly nervous on this occasion. After reading the preface, all three boys went off into separate corners to think. Jia Lan was the first to finish a poem and Jia Huan, fearful of being outstripped by his young nephew, made haste to follow. The two of them had already written their poems out while Bao-yu was still thinking. Jia Zheng and the literary gentlemen decided to look first at what the two younger boys had written. Jia Lan’s contribution was in the form of a quatrain.
Fourth Sister Lin was the Winsome Colonel’s name:
She was beautiful and gentle, yet her valour none could tame.
In Qing-zhou where, her Prince to avenge, she threw her life away,
The very ground on which she fell is fragrant to this day.
The literary gentlemen praised the little poem enthusiastically.
‘For a young boy of his years to produce such a poem is proof of a highly cultured upbringing,’ they said.
‘Childish prattle! Childish prattle!’ Jia Zheng laughed deprecatingly. ‘Still, for one of his tender years it is quite a creditable effort.’
Next they read Jia Huan’s contribution. It was a Regulated Verse poem in pentameters.
The lovely lady would not sit and grieve;
For sterner thoughts her warlike breast did fill.
She dried her woman’s tears and fearless rode
Through Qing-zhou’s gates to be killed and to kill.
‘However great the odds,’ she said, ‘I can
‘My debt repay, if not avenge this ill.’
The inscription graved upon her tomb shall be:
‘Here buried lies the world’s fidelity.’
‘Ah yes!’ said the literary gentlemen. ‘What a difference those few years between them make! This is quite a different approach.’
‘I suppose it’s not too bad,’ said Jia Zheng, ‘but it doesn’t really do justice to the subject.’
‘Oh well, as to that –!’ said the literary gentlemen. ‘After all, our young friend is not so very much older than his nephew. Old heads are not to be expected on young shoulders! Give them a few more years and I don’t doubt we shall have a pair of poets in our midst to rival Ruan Ji and his nephew Ruan Xian!
‘Come, come, they are not as good as that!’ said Jia Zheng, smiling. ‘They don’t study hard enough, that’s their trouble.’
He asked Bao-yu how he was getting on.
‘After all this careful chiselling, Mr Bao’s poem is sure to be something of quite a different order from these two we have just heard,’ said the literary gentlemen‘– one, no doubt, in which the romantic and tragic aspects of the theme will both be fully exploited.’
Bao-yu smiled.
‘I don’t think Regulated Verse is quite the right medium for this subject. It calls for something longer – a song or ballad in the Old Style – to do it justice.’
‘You see!’ said the literary gentlemen, some jumping to their feet, some nodding or clapping in their enthusiasm. ‘We said that his contribution would be quite different! It is the sign of a good, experienced writer to be able to gauge immediately what form will be most appropriate to the subject. With a title like this and a preface, clearly what is called for is either a long narrative poem like Bo Ju-yi’s “The Everlasting Remorse” or an Old Style ode like Wen Ting-yun’s “On Hearing Guo Dao-yuan Play the Musical Glasses” or Li He’s “Return from Gui-ji”, in which narrative and lyrical elements combine. Only the greater freedom of the Old Style allows for the smoother, more flowing development that this subject calls for.’
Jia Zheng was of the same opinion. He took brush and paper and prepared to write.
‘So be it, then. Recite your lines, my boy, and I shall take them down for you. They had better be good after this boastful preliminary, or I shall beat your bottom!’
Bao-yu recited his first line:
Prince Heng was fond of a pretty face and of martial arts also –
Jia Zheng copied the words down and then shook his head over what he had written.
‘Vulgar and pedestrian!’
‘No, no, it isn’t vulgar,’ said one of the literary gentlemen. ‘That is what the Ballad Style is like. Wait and see how it goes on.’
‘All right, we’ll let it pass,’ said Jia Zheng.
Bao-yu continued.
So he trained the ladies of his court to ride and draw the bow.
In ravishing songs and beguiling dances the Prince took no delight,
But to watch the pike-drill he was fain of fair maids in a row.
He waited while Jia Zheng finished writing down the lines. The literary gentlemen professed themselves particularly impressed by the’ ravishing songs’ line, claiming to see a quality of ‘rugged strength’ in it which they deemed highly appropriate in a ballad. The fourth line, which they called ‘pure narrative’, was also, they thought, exactly as it should be.
‘You shouldn’t praise the boy so,’ said Jia Zheng. ‘You will turn his head. Let’s see how he manages to develop this in his second stanza.’
Bao-yu recited:
As he watched them drill, he scarcely saw the clouds of dust arise;
’Twas the lovely Colonel’s lamplit face that swam before his eyes.
‘Bravo!’ shouted the literary gentlemen. ‘“He scarcely saw the clouds of dust” leads us on to the “lamplit face” of the heroine. A most ingenious development! The way every word is used in these two lines is quite masterful!’
Bao-yu continued:
When the rosy lips framed their harsh commands he could smell the mouth’s sweet breath;
But the weapons oft shook in the fair white hands, too weak for such exercise.
The literary gentlemen laughed and clapped their hands.
‘What a wonderful picture! I think friend Bao must have been among those present at the time. He saw the white hand shake and smelt the perfume. How else could he describe it all so vividly?’
Bao-yu laughed.
‘Women drilling, however bold and fierce they might be, could never look quite the same as men. One can assume the occasional softness creeping in without having had any special experience.’
‘Oh, get on!’ said Jia Zheng. ‘We can do without the comment.’
Bao-yu thought a little before beginning the next stanza.
The lotus belt round the Colonel’s waist in a clove-shaped knot was tied –
‘The change of rhyme from “eyes” to “eyed” is one example of that smooth, flowing development we were just now talking about,’ said the literary gentlemen. ‘Also, this line has just that touch of charm and prettiness that the subject calls for.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Jia Zheng. ‘I don’t like this line at all. We have already heard about her “mouth’s sweet breath” and her “fair white hand” in the last stanza. Why does he need to go on in this strain? I think it is mere weakness of invention that leads to this piling up of descriptive bric-à-brac.’
‘A long ballad needs a few ornamental, descriptive passages,’ said Bao-yu, ‘otherwise it would seem too bare.’
‘You are continuing the same kind of description into a new stanza,’ said Jia Zheng. ‘When are you going to g
et on to her warlike side? If you have another two or three lines of this kind of stuff, it’s going to seem like drawing legs on a snake!’
‘All right,’ said Bao-yu. ‘I’ll try to make a quick change to the warlike side and then finish the whole description off in this one stanza.’
‘What a genius!’ said Jia Zheng sarcastically. ‘You begin with a line that looks like the first item in a long catalogue, and now you are talking about instant changes and abrupt conclusions. I think you may find that you have bitten off rather more than you can chew!’
Bao-yu hung his head and pondered a while before finally coming out with this line:
Yet it was not strung pearls that hung from it, but the good sword at her side.
‘Will that do?’ he asked anxiously.
The literary gentlemen banged on the table and cheered.
‘We’ll leave it,’ said Jia Zheng. ‘Carry on.’
‘If it will do, I’ll continue as I’ve planned,’ said Bao-yu. ‘If not, it would be better to cross it out and I’ll try to think of something completely different and develop in another direction.’
Jia Zheng shouted at him angrily.
‘Hold your tongue, sir! Do it again if it’s not good enough, indeed! How many times do you propose to go on trying? Ten times? A hundred? Save your energy and get on!’
Bao-yu resigned himself to developing from the line he had just recited. He thought for some moments before continuing.
When late at night the jousting ended, her courage was quite spent, And her handkerchief with carmine sweat from her streaming face was dyed.
‘That’s the end of another stanza,’ said Jia Zheng. ‘Now how are you going on?’
Bao-yu continued:
Next year the whole North-east land with rebels was a-run,
Like ravening beasts, or swarming bees after the queen has flown –
‘“A-run” is good,’ said the literary gentlemen. ‘It is little touches like that that show the master-hand at work. The narrative style in this stanza is good, too. Lively.’
Bao-yu continued:
The Prince led forth the Emperor’s men the rebel hordes to quell.
He fought them once and he fought them twice, but his army was overthrown.
A stench of blood upon the wind blighted the standing corn,
And on empty tents and an empty camp the setting sun went down.
*
‘Twas the rainy time, and sounding rills down the lone green hillsides sped
When Prince Heng, his fighting ended, on the battlefield lay dead.
Now rain has washed the white bones clean, but not the blood-soaked grass,
And as the moon rises, shivering ghosts stand at each corpse’s head.
‘Brilliant!’ cried the literary gentlemen. ‘The narrative style, the imagery, the choice of words are all quite perfect. But now what about Fourth Sister Lin? What ingenious new development will bring her back upon the scene?’
Bao-yu recited:
The officers refused to fight for fear they might be killed,
And with no defenders, Qing-zhou’s fate seemed already to be sealed.
But though the men were all afraid, the girls were loyal and true:
And among them Prince Heng’s favourite with especial zeal was filled.
‘Neatly turned!’ said the literary gentlemen.
‘It took four lines to do it, though,’ said Jia Zheng. ‘Too much! And I expect there is more useless verbiage to follow.’
Bao-yu continued:
Now who the Prince’s favourite was to you shall be revealed:
Fourth Sister Lin she was by name, the Winsome Colonel called.
She rallied her companions fair and issued a command,
And like a troop of lovely flowers they rode into the field.
*
Their heavy saddle-cloths are wet with tears of the spring sky’s woe,
And the iron of their armour chills them, as through the cold night they go.
Though the outcome may be uncertain, they have taken a solemn vow,
Whate’er befall, before they die, for the Prince to strike a blow.
*
But what chance against their savage foe had that gallant band?
Like gentle flowers they perished, crushed by a brutal hand.
The horses’ hooves are fragrant yet that trod them in the mud;
Near the city walls their poor ghosts flit, where they made their final stand.
*
A courier riding through the night to the Emperor’s city came,
And all who heard his heavy news with sadness did exclaim.
The Son of Heaven looked aghast when he learned of Qing-zhou’s fall,
And his captains and his counsellors all hung their heads for shame.
*
The captains and the counsellors and men of high degree
Were put to shame by Fourth Sister Lin’s fidelity.
For Fourth Sister Lin my heart with grief doth swell,
And though my song is ended now, my thoughts on her still dwell.
The literary gentlemen broke into loud acclaim as Bao-yu finished. It seemed at first as if they might go on indefinitely. Subsiding at last, they read the whole poem through again from the beginning.
‘It is certainly a very long poem,’ said Jia Zheng, smiling, ‘but for all that, I don’t think it really does justice to the subject.’
He turned to the three boys:
‘All right, off you go!’
The three of them went off, feeling like condemned prisoners who have suddenly been given a reprieve. For the two younger ones it was the end of their day: a blessed nothingness until bedtime. But Bao-yu was still grieving for Skybright. The sight of the hibiscus by the lake reminded him of what the little maid had told him about her. As he stood gazing sorrowfully at the bushes, an idea suddenly came to him.
‘Since I wasn’t able to see her in her coffin, why don’t I pay my last respects to her here, in the presence of her flowers?’
He was on the point of kneeling down in front of them when another thought occurred to him.
‘That’s all very well, but I can’t do it just anyhow. In order to show proper respect I must first make sure that I am dressed correctly. And I must prepare a little ceremony and make her some sort of offering.’
This led to further cogitation.
‘It says somewhere in the classics, “Where there is faith enough and goodwill, duckweed boiled in puddle-water is an offering acceptable to the gods and a dish fit to be set before princes.” Proper respect evidently has nothing to do with the value of the offering. And I could always write something to read out before I made it.’
He began to plan what he would write. ‘An elegy’ it would be called. It would be a bit like one of those long Chu poems – Li sao or The Summons of the Soul– but with elements of other things as well. And of course a lot of it would be original. He sat down and began writing it as soon as he got back to his apartment. As it was to please himself, he could be as wild and extravagant as he liked and compose as quickly as his imagination would let him. Soon the draft was finished, and he took a piece of white material of the kind they call ‘mermaid silk’, which he knew Skybright had been fond of, and after first writing the title on it in large characters:
THE SPIRIT OF THE HIBISCUS: AN ELEGY AND INVOCATION
he copied out the text in a neat kai-shu hand and carried it with him into the Garden. The little maid who had told him about Skybright’s transformation had to follow him with some things for the offering on a tray: a cup of tea, some autumn flowers in a vase of water, and some charcoal in a little burner for starting a fire with. When his solomn bowings and kneelings were over, he hung the silk up on the branches of a hibiscus and began tearfully to read out the words:
The year being one in the era of Immutable Peace, the month that in which the sweet odours of hibiscus and cassia compete, the day, a heavy and doleful day, I, most wretched a
nd disconsolate JADE of the House of Green Delights, having with due reverence prepared and got together buds of flowers, silk of mermaids, water of the Drenched Blossoms stream and Fung Loo tea (all things of little value in themselves, yet sufficient to attest the devotion of a true believer) do here offer them up in sacrifice to her that has now, in the Palace of the White God, become SPIRIT OF THE HIBISCUS, having power and dominion over the flowers of autumn.
It is now sixteen years since the BLEST SPIRIT descended into the world of men. As to her native place and the lineage in which she was born, they were long since forgotten; but for five years and eight months of that time she was, in my rising up and lying down, in my washings and combings, in my rest and play, my constant close companion and helpmate.
It is to be recorded of her that in estimation she was more precious than gold or jade, in nature more pure than ice or snow, in wit more brilliant than the sun or stars, in complexion more beautiful than the moon or than flowers. Who of the maidens did not admire her accomplishments? Who among the matrons did not marvel at her sagacity?
But if baleful scritch-owls that hate the heights can cause the kingly eagle to be taken in a net, and rank and stinking weeds, envious of another’s fragrance, can cause the sweet herb of grace to be uprooted, it is not to be thought that a shrinking flower could withstand the whirlwind’s blast, or a tender willow-tree be proof against the buffetings of the tempest. When the envenomed tongue of slander was wagged against her, she pined inwardly with a wasting sickness: the red of her cherry lips faded and only sad and plaintive sounds issued out of them; the bloom of her apricot cheeks withered and none but lean and haggard looks were to be seen upon them.