This is the story that Kung Lin tells, hour after hour, in the peaceful
shade of Bell that Rings Often Temple. The people have relish for Kung
Lin’s favorite story and give him much money. The tattered old fellow
sometimes receives as much as five cents—in a single day. So
outrageously fortunate is Kung Lin, the teller of tales. He does no work
of any kind whatsoever, merely sits in the shade and talks, and hears
the tinkle of coins in his bowl, and hears the people saying: “It is
well told, Kung Lin. Here is some money—and I hope you find it as good
as your story.” Not all makers of yarns find such sympathetic hearers.
As the story is given by Kung Lin, there once lived a maiden named
Radiant Blossom, and she was still more lovely than the loveliest
maiden. The face of Radiant Blossom was shaped like a seed of the melon.
It was regularly oval, wide at the brow, small as to chin. The maiden’s
eyebrows were like a leaf of the willow. Her eyes resembled the heart of
an apricot. Her lips in color made cherries seem pale. Her feet were
three-inch golden lilies. And when she walked she swayed as a poplar
sways in summer zephyrs.
Furthermore, she was skilled in embroidery. Her fingers coaxed sweetest
music from flute and lute. Her voice had its only rival in a fountain of
the palace, where water plashes on tuneful silver keys. A brief
description, this, but even so—where within the Province of Many
Rivers, journeying by boat of two sails, or three, could one look for a
maiden to surpass Radiant Blossom, daughter of Ming Chi, red-button
mandarin and proud?
Hear now of the reigning Emperor, Wong Sing. That illustrious monarch
was having a fine time in the ruling of his realm. He dined in heavy
armor and slept with a saddle for pillow. It was war here, and battle
there, and fighting in between. A dozen of his generals were in revolt.
No sooner was a rebellion put down than two new ones, and worse, took
its place. And there was trouble elsewhere—outside the empire. Fierce
Barbarians, led and inspired by their haughty chieftain, Wolf Heart,
grew every day more impudent and threatening. Wolf Heart openly boasted
that with the coming of pleasant weather he intended to leap his horse
over the Great Wall. Is it any wonder that Wong Sing’s noble beard soon
took on a hue like that of the lime which boys splash on fences?
But Wong Sing was no weakling monarch, to lose his crown and his head,
saying: “It was willed by the Fates. What else could I do?” He called in
a fearless old councillor known as Ching Who Speaks Only Enough. Said
the Emperor: “Good Ching, although you are ever up to your ears in a
book, perhaps you have heard of my numerous troubles—a new one, I
think, every day. What, wise Ching, is the cure?”
Ching Who Speaks Only Enough replied, “Marriage.”
The Emperor raised his eyebrows. “Marriage?” He could hardly believe it.
“Marriage to put down rebellion?” A pause. “Huh.”
Ching repeated, and a trifle louder, “Marriage.”
Still the Emperor doubted. “What? Marriage? Will marriage cause Wolf
Heart to sheathe his sword? Marriage to tame the Barbarian? It is
foolishness. But surely I misunderstand your words.”
But indeed he did not. And there was only one word. “Marriage.” That was
all the advice most mighty Wong Sing could get from word-stingy old
Ching Who Speaks Only Enough.
However, is not enough always enough? Is not a word to the wise like
melon seeds planted in fertile ground? A little study soon convinced the
puissant Wong Sing that old Ching had given good advice. Immediately he
acted upon it. He wrote to every mandarin of any consequence within the
bounds of his empire. The letters are too long to quote, but the sum of
them was this: “I, Wong Sing, Ruler of the Earth, and the Moon, and
three-fourths of the Sun, will consider it a favor to receive your
beauteous Thousand-pieces-of-gold in marriage.”
Every mandarin replied by sending to the palace a daughter. No magic
could have stopped the rebellions quicker. Revolt was at an end. Could a
rebel leader, no matter how determined, continue to rebel, when all of
his colonels and majors and half of his captains were fathers-in-law to
the Emperor? It was impossible. The fighting was over in a twinkling.
Marriage had done it.
For months came damsels to the royal palace. And what damsels they were.
Short and tall, lean and stout, young and old, perfect beauties and
perfectly horribles, they came and came and came. It is hard to number
them with exact figures. Some histories say that five thousand maids
came to Wong Sing, his wives to be. Others vow to ten thousand. But why
quarrel over a difference of a few thousand wives. The point is that
they were numerous. Wong Sing was out of pocket several tons of gold for
the construction of a wing to the palace for housing them all. Probably
fifteen thousand was the correct figure.
Surely, the worst guesser in the world would in time conclude that the
beautiful Radiant Blossom was among the Emperor Wong’s twenty thousand
wives. Of a certainty she was. Radiant Blossom came to the palace in the
month of Ripening Apricots. It was midwinter before she so much as
glimpsed her lord and master, the Emperor. And then she saw him only for
a moment, at a distance.
For Wong Sing was very like the old man—or was it a woman—who lived in
a sandal—or whatever it was. He had so many wives he scarce knew what
to do. And is it any wonder? Imagine a staid and settled old bachelor’s
sudden gain of five or thirty thousand—or more—wives. Poor Wong
admitted a few dozen of them to a reception, and in less time than it
takes to tell, all of the palace physicians were busily binding ice to
his fevered brow. They thought his mind was shattered.
After that experience the Emperor was more careful. He summoned the
court artist, one Loh Yang, and said: “Loh Yang, I desire you to paint
truthful portraits of all my wives. When the paintings are finished,
bring them to me, that I may decide which maid is most beautiful. Her I
shall take as my really truly bride.”
Now Loh Yang was an artist of ability, and no denying. But he was a
scamp and a half. The first portrait he painted was that of Ying Ning, a
monstrous ugly maiden. But Ying Ning was quite rich—and liberal. She
gladdened Loh Yang’s dishonest palm with gold. And he portrayed her as
marvelously beautiful. Of all Loh Yang’s paintings, the portrait of Ying
Ning is most sightly. Yet she was the very ugliest of Wong Sing’s many
wives.
By and by it came Radiant Blossom’s turn to sit for a portrait. Loh Yang
suggested that for a moderate weight of gold—say ten pounds—he could
make his brush fairly outdo itself. Radiant Blossom refused, with
indignation. “Bribe you? To paint me as I am not? Never.” Loh Yang
begged for pardon. He seemed extremely penitent. He vowed that he would
do his best work. But when the portrait was finished, it was enough to
frighten the blind. The shameless rascal had made of lovely Radiant
Blossom a gruesome crone, a witch, a slattern. Upon beholding it, the
Emperor covered his eyes with a sleeve. “Horrors. Horror of horrors.
Remove it instantly. Go. Go. Take it away. Such repulsive ugliness.”
It is a mere waste of words to add that Radiant Blossom was Not chosen
to be Wong Sing’s own, really truly, and well-beloved bride.
[Illustration: The first portrait he painted was that of Ying Ning, a
monstrous ugly maiden.]
The braggart Barbarian chief failed of his promise to leap over the
Great Wall. Knowing that Wong Sing’s armies were united and staunch,
Wolf Heart boasted no more, and his impudence was hushed. He thought it
just as well to keep the peace. And when Wong Sing doubled-doubled his
armies, the Barbarian sent thick letters in which every line told of his
long-felt love and respect for the Emperor. He had the audacity to ask
Wong for a wife—from the Imperial Palace. Of course, that was purest
impudence, in a way, though Wolf Heart probably thought that he was
being extremely nice.
The Emperor read in amaze. For a moment it seemed that his face would
burst into flame, so red it got. Then he smiled. “A wife? To be sure I
will send him a wife. Chancellor, what is the name of that maiden whose
picture is so terrible? Radiant Blossom? Bid Radiant Blossom prepare for
a long journey. I am sending her to the Barbarian to be his wife. Ho.
Ho. Ho. What a jest. I should like to hear Wolf Heart’s rage when he
views her. Ugh. I shudder when I think of that horrible crone.”
The maiden Radiant Blossom heard her sentence without the faintest stir
of emotion. There came no pallor to her cheeks. No tremble moved her
lips. Seemingly, it mattered not at all to her. And while the other
maidens wept for her fate, she smiled and brushed the string of her
lute, humming, “Butterfly that pleasured yesteryear.”
A few hours more and Radiant Blossom was seated in a gilt and lacquered
sedan chair, borne by poles on the shoulders of royal slaves traveling
in haste toward the setting sun. Poor Radiant Blossom, hastening into
exile, pressing toward her doom, to become the bride of a vandal. Not
dew, but tears from the darkness descended. The nightingale’s song was a
sobbing of pity. The very trees that lined the road soughed deep
despair. To the river. To the river, where on the farther shore waited
Wolf Heart, the slaves hurried through the night.
His Majesty, Wong Sing, dressed him in rough clothing, and by another
highway made even greater speed to the river. He wished to be near when
the Barbarian greeted his bride. He wished to gloat over Wolf Heart’s
surprise and furious resentment. Expecting a youthful and lotus-like
maiden, how the Barbarian would rave to behold a withered hag. His
Majesty, The Emperor, expected to receive more than a little pleasure to
pay him for the adventure.
The light sedan that bore Radiant Blossom sped down to the river. A
flower-hung sampan was waiting. The slaves put down their burden. Oars
splashed. The shore sprang back. The swifting current was deep
beneath. . . .
Did the curtains of the gilt sedan flutter aside?
Was it a spirit that glided so quickly from the royal sedan?
A slave shouted warning. His cry was taken up by the others. The oars
stopped short in stroke. Torches flared. The boat listed heavily on its
side as men swarmed to the railing. They talked in frightened squeaks.
“Where?” squeaked one. “There,” from another. And “I see nothing.” “She
is gone.” “Drowned.” “The river took her to be his bride.” “Drowned—and
our necks will pay.”
Wolf Heart uncovered his wrath in all its blackness. He spoke with such
fury that Wong Sing became frightened, and offered to send another
bride—a dozen brides. The Barbarian refused to accept brides. He
demanded gold—much of it. Gold, he said, could not leap into the river.
And even if it did leap from a boat it would not necessarily be lost.
For that matter, a maiden may leap from a boat and not necessarily be
lost. Radiant Blossom had passed her early days in the Province of Many
Divers. Her home had been a river. She knew the waters as a friend.
Having leaped from the boat, Radiant Blossom permitted the river to hide
her for long. Deeply she swam and the clouded current was a veil. At
last, when she knew that the torches were far behind, she arose. The
night was another veil.
To the hut of a fisherman went Radiant Blossom. She received coarse
clothing that made of her, in look, a different maiden. Thus clad, she
journeyed to the home of her father.
Some time later a portrait was brought to His Majesty, The Emperor Wong
Sing. The portrait was that of a beautiful maid. It bore no words. Wong
Sing offered much gold to any person who could tell him the name of one
so beautiful. The maiden would make him a superlative wife. He wished to
find her. But he never did.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]