A WOMAN OVERHEARS A SECRET:
A WARRIOR LEAPS A STREAM.
The story says that the diggers at the spot whence the golden light
proceeded presently unearthed a bronze bird. Looking at it, Tsʻao
turned to his companion, saying, “What is the portent?”
“You will remember that Shun’s mother dreamed of a jade bird before his
birth, so certainly it is a felicitous omen,” said Hsün Yü.
Tsʻao was very pleased and he ordered forthwith the building of a lofty
tower to celebrate the find, and they began to dig foundations and cut
timber, to burn tiles and to smooth bricks for the Bronze Bird Tower on
the banks of the Chang River. Tsʻao set a year for the building.
His younger son, Chih, said, “If you build a terraced tower you should
add two others, one on each side. The centre tower and the tallest
should be called The Bronze Bird Tower; the side towers named Jade
Dragon Tower and Golden Phœnix Tower. Then connect these by flying
bridges and the effect will be noble.”
“My son, your words are very good and by and bye when the building is
complete I can solace my old age therein.”
Tsʻao Tsʻao had five sons, but this one Chih was the most clever and
his essays were particularly elegant. His father was very fond of him
and, seeing that the young man took an interest in the building, Tsʻao
left him with his brother Pʻei at Yehchün to superintend the work,
while he led the army that had recently conquered the Yüans back to the
capital. When he arrived he distributed rewards liberally and
memorialised the throne obtaining the title of “The Pure Marquis” for
the late Kuo Chia. And he took Kuo’s son to be brought up in his own
family.
Next he began to consider the reduction of Liu Piao’s power. Hsün Yü
said, “The Grand Army has only just returned from the north and needs
rest. Wait half a year that the men may recover from the fatigue of the
campaign and both Liu Piao and Sun Chʻüan will fall at the first roll
of the drums.”
Presently Tsʻao approved of this plan and to rest his men he assigned
certain lands to them to till while they rested.
Liu Piao had been very generous to Liu Pei ever since he had come, a
fugitive seeking shelter. One day at a banquet there came news that two
captains, who had tendered their submission, had suddenly begun
plundering the people in Chianghsia. They evidently meant rebellion.
“If they really rebel it will cause a lot of trouble,” said Piao,
rather dismayed.
“Do not let that trouble you, I will go and settle it,” said Pʻei.
Pleased with this proposal, Piao told off three legions and placed them
under his friend, and the army marched as soon as the orders were
issued. In a short time it reached the scene and the two malcontents
came out to fight. Yüan-tê and his two brothers took their stand
beneath the great banner and looked over at the enemy. The two leaders
were riding handsome prancing horses and Yüan-tê said, “They certainly
have fine steeds.”
As he spoke Chao Yün galloped out with his spear set and dashed toward
the enemy. Chang Wu, one of the leaders, came out to meet him, but the
combat was very brief for Chang was soon killed. Thereupon Chao Yün
laid a hand upon the bridle of the fallen man’s horse to lead him back
to his own side. The slain rebel’s companion Chʻên Sun at once rode
after him, whereupon Chang Fei uttered a loud shout and rode out to
meet him. With one thrust he slew the rebel. Their followers now
scattered and Yüan-tê speedily restored order and returned.
Liu Piao, grateful for this service, rode out to the boundary to
welcome the victors. They re-entered the city and grand banquets were
instituted, at which they emptied great goblets in congratulations over
the victory. At one of these banquets the Prefect said, “With such
heroism as my brother has shown Chingchou has one upon whom to rely.
But a source of sorrow is the south country Yueh, from which a raid may
come at any time. Chang Lu and Sun Chʻüan are to be feared.”
“But I have three bold captains,” said Yüan-tê, “quite equal to any
task you can set them. Send Chang Fei to keep ward on the southern
marches, Kuan Yü to guard the city against Chang Lu and Chao Yün will
protect you from Sun Chʻüan. Why need you grieve?”
The scheme appealed strongly to the Prefect, but Tsʻai Mao did not
approve. So he spoke to his sister, Liu Piao’s wife, and insisted on
the danger of putting these men in such commanding positions all round
the prefecture. The lady Tsʻai, thus influenced by her brother,
undertook to remonstrate and that night began by saying, “The Chingchou
men seem to have a great liking for Liu Pei; they are always coming and
going. You ought to take precautions. I do not think you should let
them stay in the city. Why not send them on some mission?”
“Yüan-tê is a good man,” replied the Prefect.
“I think others differ from you,” said the lady.
The Prefect said nothing but muttered to himself. Soon after he went
out of the city to see Yüan-tê and noticed he was riding a very
handsome horse. They told him it was a prize taken from the recently
conquered rebels, and as he praised it very warmly, the horse was
presented to him. Liu Piao was delighted and rode it back to the city.
Kʻuai Yüeh saw it and asked where it had come from. The Prefect told
him it was a gift from Liu Pʻei and Yüeh said, “My brother knew horses
very well and I am not a bad judge. This horse has tear-tracks running
down from his eyes and a white blaze on his forehead. He is called a
tilu and he is a danger to his master. That is why Chang Wu was killed.
I advise you not to ride him.”
The Prefect began to think. Soon after he asked Yüan-tê to a banquet
and in the course of it said, “You kindly presented me with a horse
lately and I am most grateful, but you may need him on some of your
expeditions and, if you do not mind, I would like to return him.”
Yüan-tê rose and thanked him. The Prefect continued, “You have been
here a long time and I fear I am spoiling your career as a warrior. Now
Hsinyeh in Hsiangjang is no poverty-stricken town; how would you like
to garrison it with your own men?”
Yüan-tê naturally took the offer as a command and set out as soon as he
could, taking leave of the Prefect the next day. And so he took up his
quarters in Hsinyeh. When he left the city he noticed in the gate a
person making him emphatic salutations and the man presently said, “You
should not ride that horse.”
Yüan-tê looked at the man and recognised in the speaker one of the
secretaries named I Chi, a native of Shanyang. So he hastily dismounted
and asked why. I Chi replied, “Yesterday I heard that Kʻuai Yüeh told
the Prefect that that horse was a tilu and brought disaster to its
owner. That is why it was returned to you. How can you mount it again?”
“I am deeply touched by your affection,” replied Yüan-tê, “but a man’s
life is governed by fate and what horse can interfere with that?”
I Chi admitted his superior view, but thereafter he followed Yüan-tê
wherever he went.
The arrival of Liu Pʻei in Hsinyeh was a matter of rejoicing to all the
inhabitants and the whole administration was reformed.
In the spring of the twelfth year the Lady Kan gave birth to a son who
was named Chʻan. The night of his birth a crane settled on the roof of
the house, screeched some forty times and then flew away westward.
Just at the time of birth a miraculous incense filled the chamber. Lady
Kan one night had dreamed that she was looking up at the sky and the
constellation of the Great Bear, Peitou, had fallen down her throat. As
she conceived soon after she gave her son the milk-name of O-tou.
While Tsʻao Tsʻao was absent from the capital on his northern
expedition, Liu Pʻei went to Liu Piao and said to him, “Why do you not
take this opportunity to march against the capital? An empire might
follow from that.”
“I am well placed here,” was the reply, “Why should I attempt other
things?”
Yüan-tê said no more. Then the Prefect invited him into the private
apartments to drink and while they were so engaged he suddenly began to
sigh despondently.
“O brother, why do you sigh thus?” asked Yüan-tê.
“I have a secret sorrow that is difficult to speak about,” said Piao.
Yüan-tê was on the point of asking what it was when the Lady Tsʻai came
and stood behind the screen, whereat Piao hung his head and became
silent. Before long host and guest bade each other farewell and Liu
Pʻei went back to his own place.
That winter they heard that Tsʻao Tsʻao had returned from Liuchʻêng and
Liu Pʻei sighed when he reflected that his friend had paid no heed to
his advice.
Unexpectedly a messenger came from the principal city with a request
that Liu Pʻei would go thither to consult with the Prefect. So he
started at once with the messenger. He was received very kindly, and
when the salutations were over, the two men went into the private
quarters at the rear to dine. Presently the host said, “Tsʻao has
returned and he is stronger than ever. I am afraid he means to absorb
this district. I am sorry I did not follow your advice for I have
missed an opportunity.”
“In this period of disruption, with strife on every side, one cannot
pretend that there will be no more opportunities. If you only take that
what offers there will be nothing to regret.”
“What you say, brother, is quite to the point,” replied Liu Piao.
They drank on for a time till presently Liu Pʻei noticed that his host
was weeping, and when he asked the cause of these tears, Piao replied,
“It is that secret sorrow I spoke of to you before; I wished to tell
you, but there was no opportunity that day.”
“O brother, what difficulty have you, and can I assist you? I am
entirely at your service.”
“My wife, of the Chʻên family, bore me a son Chʻi, my eldest. He grew
up virtuous but weakly and unfitted to succeed me in my office. Later I
took a wife of the Tsʻai family, who bore me a son named Tsʻung, fairly
intelligent. If I pass over the elder in favour of the younger there is
the breach of the rule of primogeniture, and if I follow law and custom
there are the intrigues of the mother’s family and clan to be reckoned
with. Further, the army is in the hollow of their hands. There will be
trouble and I cannot decide what to do.”
Liu Pʻei said, “All experience proves that to set aside the elder for
the younger is to take the way of confusion. If you fear the power of
the Tsʻai faction, then gradually reduce its power and influence, but
do not let doting affection lead you into making the younger your
heir.”
Piao agreed. But the Lady Tsʻai had had a suspicion why her lord had
summoned Liu Pʻei and what was the subject of discussion, so she had
determined to listen secretly. She was behind the screen when the
matter was talked over and she conceived deep resentment against Liu
Pʻei for what he had said. On his side he felt that his advice had
fallen upon deaf ears and he arose and walked across the room. As he
did so he noticed that he was getting heavy and stiff and a furtive
tear stole down his cheek as he thought of the past. When he returned
and sat down his host noticed the traces of weeping and asked the cause
of his sorrow.
“In the past I was always in the saddle and I was slender and lithe.
Now it is so long since I rode that I am getting stout and the days and
months are slipping by, wasted; I shall have old age on me in no time
and I have accomplished nothing. So I am sad.”
“I have heard a story that when you were at Hsucheng at the season of
green plums you and Tsʻao Tsʻao were discussing heroes. You mentioned
this name and that to him as men of parts and he rejected every one of
them. Finally he said that you and he were the only two men of real
worth in the whole country. If he with all his power and authority did
not dare to place himself in front of you, I do not think you need
grieve about having accomplished nothing.”
At this flattering speech Liu Pʻei pretended that the wine was getting
the better of him and in a half maudlin manner he replied, “If I only
had a starting point then I would not trouble about any one in a
worldful of fools.”
His host said no more and the guest, feeling that he had slipped up in
speech, rose as if drunk, took leave and staggered out saying he must
return to his lodging to recover.
The episode has been celebrated in a poem:—
When with crooking fingers counting,
Tsʻao Tsʻao reckoned up the forceful
Men of real determination,
Only two he found; and one was
Yüan-tê. But by inaction
He had grown both fat and slothful;
Yet the months and years in passing
Fretted him with nought accomplished.
Though Liu Piao kept silence when he heard the words of Yüan-tê, yet he
felt the more uneasy. After the departure of his guest he retired into
the inner quarters where he met his wife. The Lady Tsʻai said, “I
happened to be behind the screen just now and so heard the words of Liu
Pʻei. They betray scant regard for other people and mean that he would
take your country if he could. If you do not remove him it will go ill
with you.”
Her husband made no reply, but only shook his head. Then the Lady Tsʻai
took counsel with her kinsman Tsʻai Mao, who said, “Let me go to the
guest-house and slay him forthwith, and we can report what we have
done.”
His sister consented and he went out, and that night told off a party
of soldiers to do the foul deed.
Now Yüan-tê sat in his lodging by the light of a single candle till
about the third watch, when he prepared to retire to bed. He was
startled by a knock at his door and in came I Chi, who had heard of the
plot against his new master and had come in the darkness to warn him.
He related the details of the plot and urged speedy departure.
“I have not said farewell to my host; how can I go away?” said Liu
Pʻei.
“If you go to bid him farewell you will fall a victim to the Tsʻai
faction,” said I Chi.
So Yüan-tê said a hasty good-bye to his friend, called up his escort
and they all mounted and rode away by the light of the stars toward
Hsinyeh. Soon after they had left the soldiers arrived at the
guest-house, but their intended victim was already well on his way.
Naturally the failure of the plot chagrined the treacherous Tsʻai Mao,
but he took the occasion to scribble some calumnious verses on one of
the partitions. Then he went to see Liu Piao to whom he said, “Liu Pʻei
has treacherous intentions, as can be seen from some lines written on
the wall. And his hurried departure is suspicious.”
Liu Piao felt doubtful, but he went to the guest-house and there on the
wall he read this poem:
Too long, far too long I have dreamed life away,
Gazing at scenery day after day.
A dragon can never be kept in a pond,
He should ride on the thunder to heaven and beyond.
Greatly angered by what he read, Liu Piao drew his sword and swore to
slay the writer. But before he had gone many paces his anger had
already died down and he said to himself, “I have seen much of the man,
but have never known him write verses. This is the handiwork of some
one who wishes to sow discord between us.”
So saying he turned back and with the point of his sword scraped away
the poem. Then, putting up his sword, he mounted and rode home. By and
bye Tsʻai Mao reminded him that the soldiers were awaiting orders and
asked whether they could go to Hsinyeh and arrest Liu Pʻei.
“There is no hurry,” he replied.
Tsʻai Mao saw his brother-in-law’s hesitation and again sought his
sister. She said, “Soon there is to be the great gathering at
Hsiangyang and we can arrange something for that day.”
Next day Tsʻai Mao petitioned the Prefect, saying, “I pray you, Sir, to
attend the Full Harvest Festival at Hsiangyang; it would be an
encouragement to the people.”
“I have been feeling my old trouble lately; I certainly cannot go,”
replied he, “but my two sons can go to represent me and receive the
guests.”
“They are full young,” replied Mao, “They may make some mistakes.”
“Then go to Hsinyeh and request Liu Pʻei to receive the guests,” said
Piao.
Nothing could have pleased Tsʻai Mao more, for this would bring Liu
Pʻei within reach of his plot. Without loss of time he sent to Yüan-tê
requesting him to go to preside at the Festival.
It has been said that Yüan-tê made the best of his way home to Hsinyeh.
He felt that he had offended by that slip in speech, but determined to
keep silence about it and attempt no explanation. So he discussed it
with nobody. Then came the message asking him to preside at the
Festival, and he needed counsel.
Sun Chʻien said, “You have seemed worried and preoccupied lately and I
think something untoward happened at Chingchou. You should consider
well before you accept this invitation.”
Thereupon Yüan-tê told his confidants the whole story.
Kuan Yü said, “You yourself think your speech offended the Prefect, but
he said nothing to show displeasure. You need pay no attention to the
babble of outsiders. Hsiangyang is quite near and, if you do not go,
Liu Chinchou will begin to suspect something really is wrong.”
“You speak well,” said Yüan-tê.
Said Chang Fei, “Banquets are no good; gatherings are no better; it is
best not to go.”
“Let me take three hundred horse and foot as escort; there will be no
trouble then,” said Chao Yün.
“That is the best course,” said Yüan-tê.
They soon set out for the gathering place and Tsʻai Mao met them at the
boundary and was most affable and courteous. Soon arrived the Prefect’s
sons at the head of a great company of officers, civil and military.
Their appearance put Yüan-tê more at ease. He was conducted to the
guest-house and Chao Yün posted his men so as to guard it completely,
while he himself, armed, remained close to his chief.
Liu Chʻi said to Yüan-tê, “My father is feeling unwell and could not
come, wherefore he begs you, Uncle Liu, to preside at the various
ceremonies and conduct the inspections.”
“Really I am unfit for such responsibilities,” said Yüan-tê, “But my
brother’s command must be obeyed.”
Next day it was reported that the officials from the forty-one
departments of the nine districts had all arrived.
Then Tsʻai Mao said to Kʻuai Yüeh, “This Liu Pʻei is the villain of the
age and if left alive will certainly work harm to us. He must be got
rid of now.”
“I fear you would forfeit everybody’s favour if you harmed him,”
replied Kʻuai.
“I have already secretly spoken in these terms to Prefect Liu,” said
Tsʻai, “and I have his word here.”
“So it may be regarded as settled; then we can prepare.”
Tsʻai Mao said, “One of my brothers is posted on the road to the Hsien
Hills from the east gate and the others are on the north and south
roads. No guard is needed on the west as the Tʻan Torrent is quite
safeguard enough. Even with legions he could not get over that.”
Kʻuai replied, “I notice that Chao Yün never leaves him. I feel sure he
expects some attack.”
“I have placed five hundred men in ambush in the city.”
“We will tell Wên Pʻing and Wang Wei to invite all the military
officers to a banquet at one of the pavilions outside the city, and
Chao Yün will be among them. Then will be our opportunity.”
Tsʻai Mao thought this a good device for getting Chao Yün out of the
way.
Now oxen and horses had been slaughtered and a grand banquet prepared.
Yüan-tê rode to the residence on the horse of ill omen and when he
arrived the steed was led into the back part of the enclosure and
tethered there. Soon the guests arrived and Yüan-tê took his place as
master of the feast, with the two sons of the Prefect, one on each
side. The guests were all arranged in order of rank. Chao Yün stood
near his lord sword in hand as a faithful henchman should do.
Then Wên and Wang came to invite Chao Yün to the banquet they had
prepared for the military officers. But he declined. However, Yüan-tê
told him to go, and, after some demur, he went. Then Tsʻai Mao
perfected his final arrangements, placing his men surrounding the place
like a ring of iron. The three hundred guards that formed the escort of
Yüan-tê were sent away to the guest-house.
All were ready and awaiting the signal. At the third course, I Chi took
a goblet of wine in his hands and approached Yüan-tê, at the same time
giving him a meaning look. Then in a low voice he said, “Make an excuse
to get away.”
Yüan-tê understood and presently rose as if stiff with long sitting and
went outside. There he found I Chi, who had gone thither after
presenting the cup of wine. I Chi then told him more of the plot and
that all the roads were guarded except that to the west. And he advised
him to lose no time.
Yüan-tê was quite taken aback. However, he got hold of the horse of ill
omen, opened the door of the garden and led him out. Then he took a
flying leap into the saddle and galloped off without waiting for the
escort. He made for the west gate. At the gate the wardens wanted to
question him, but he only whipped up his steed and rode through. The
guards at the gate ran off to report to Tsʻai Mao, who quickly went in
pursuit with a half company of soldiers.
As has been said Yüan-tê burst out at the west gate. Before he had gone
far there rolled before him a great river barring the way. It was the
Tʻan, many score feet in width, which pours its waters into the Hsiang.
Its current was very swift.
Yüan-tê reached the bank and saw the river was unfordable. So he turned
his horse and rode back. Then, not far off, he saw a cloud of dust and
knew that his pursuers were therein. He thought that it was all over.
However, he turned again toward the swift river, and seeing the
soldiers now quite near, plunged into the stream. A few paces, and he
felt the horse’s fore legs floundering in front while the water rose
over the skirt of his robe. Then he plied the whip furiously, crying,
“Tilu, Tilu, I trust to you.”
Whereupon the good steed suddenly reared up out of the water and, with
one tremendous leap, was on the western bank. Yüan-tê felt as if he had
come out of the clouds.
In after years the famous court official, Su Tʻung-pʻo, wrote a poem on
this leap over the Tʻan Torrent:—
I’m growing old, the leaves are sere,
My sun slopes westward, soon will sink,
And I recall that yester year
I wandered by Tʻan River brink.
Irresolute, anon I paused,
Anon advanced, and gazed around,
I marked the autumn’s reddened leaves,
And watched them eddying to the ground
I thought of all the mighty deeds
Of him who set the House of Han
On high, and all the struggles since,
The battlefields, the blood that ran.
I saw the nobles gathered round
The board, set in the Banquet Hall;
Amid them, one, above whose head
There hung a sword about to fall.
I saw him quit that festive throng
And westward ride, a lonely way;
I saw a squadron follow swift,
Intent the fugitive to slay.
I saw him reach the River Tʻan,
Whose swirling current rushes by;
Adown the bank he galloped fast,
“Now leap, my steed!” I heard him cry.
His steed’s hoofs churn the swollen stream;
What recks he that the waves run high?
He hears the sound of clashing steel,
Of thundering squadrons coming nigh.
And upward from the foaming waves
I saw two peerless beings soar;
One was a destined western king,
And him another dragon bore.
The Tʻan still rolls from east to west,
Its roaring torrent ne’er dry.
Those dragons twain, Ah! where are they?
Yes, where? But there is no reply.
The setting sun, in dark relief
Against the glowing western sky,
Throws out the everlasting hills
While, saddened, here I stand and sigh.
Men died to found the kingdoms three,
Which now as misty dreams remain.
Of greatest deeds the traces oft
Are faint that fleeting years retain.
Thus Liu Pʻei crossed the rolling river. Then he turned and looked back
at the other bank which his pursuers had just gained.
“Why did you run away from the feast?” called out Tsʻai Mao.
“Why did you wish to harm one who has done you no injury?” replied
Yüan-tê.
“I have never thought of such a thing; do not listen to what people say
to you.”
But Yüan-tê saw that his enemy was fitting an arrow to his bowstring,
so he whipped up his steed and rode away south-west.
“What spirits aided him?” said Tsʻai Mao to his followers.
Then he turned to go back to the city, but in the gate he saw Chao Yün
coming out at the head of his company of guards.
By wondrous leap the dragon steed his rider’s life could save.
Now follows him, on vengeance bent, his master’s henchman brave.
The next chapters will tell what fate befell the traitor.