“It was recommended as an authoritative work. But I find it, in certain
respects, quite unsatisfactory.”
I sat right up in my chair and stared at him. He continued, rather
apologetically--
“Of course, I am an utter amateur in these matters, Dr. Eckhart. But it
is disturbing to me to find this supposed authority referring to the
twelve _liis_ as giving the twelve equal semitones of the octave. Why,
that is Van Haalst's old error. I know better than that myself. I have
sounded the _liis_ in the Confucian temple, and they give out very
uneven intervals, ranging over an octave and a half, at least.”
I jumped to my feet and waved my cigar at him. And my voice rang
out shrilly. I could n't help this; my surprise was so sudden and so
complete.
“An octave and three quarters, very nearly,” I cried. “From about our
_a_ to the _f_ of the second octave above.” And I added, “von Westfall
is a faker--a cheap scoundrel masquerading in the robes of the
scholar--a man who rushes his guesses into print before the honestly
prepared work can be completed. He is not an authority. He never was. It
is I who am the authority. I, and perhaps von Stumbostel, of Berlin.
Ask Boag! Ask Ramel, Fourmont, de Musseau! Ask Sir Frederick Rhodes, of
Cambridge!” And I laughed.
The Minister was impressed. I will say that for him. He got up too, and
seized my hand.
“I am delighted,” he said. “You confirm my own rough conclusions. Come
with me. I have something here that will interest you. At least, I
should be glad to have your opinion of it.”
He led the way into a small room across the hall, unlocking the door
with a key from his pocket. I followed him in. He raised the window
shades, then turned with a gesture.
There, against the wall, stood an object the precise like of which I
had never expected to see outside of the Imperial palace and possibly a
temple or two at Peking or Nanking.
It was one of the old stone chimes. The very first glance assured me
that it was authentic. The stones were all of the same size, shaped
roughly like the letter L. They hung in a double row, in a carved
frame of wood, each separate stone suspended by a metal ring--gold, I
think--that pierced the stone at the angle. They were all the same size,
of course, for the difference of pitch is accounted for by the varying
thickness of the stones. I counted them; there were sixteen--the notes
of the twelve _liis_, and the first four notes of the grave series.
And each of these large stones was a perfect piece of green, translucent
jade!
“The Pien Ch'ing!” I cried.
He bowed.
I stepped forward and examined the stones. They were very old; hard as
jade is, the corners and edges were worn down here and there. I tapped
them softly. I simply could not believe my eyes.
The Minister handed me the little wooden mallet that lay at the base.
This too was very old, though of course a thing of this week as compared
with the stones. My mind was racing back into dim periods of Chinese
history. It would be interesting to know where those jade stones
have been--in what old royal palaces of Peking, Nanking, Hangchau,
Sian-fu--through what wars they have lain buried or have passed from one
conquering hand to another--in what stately caravans they may have been
transported across a swarming, prostrate land. From their appearance
they must have been in existence long before the destructive hand of
the old Emperor Che Huang-ti was raised against every book and every
instrument of art or music in the land.