by Cao Xueqin
‘I only ate a small amount of crab,’ she said, ‘but it has given me a slight heart-burn. What I really need is some very hot samshoo.’
‘We have some,’ said Bao-yu, and quickly ordered a kettle of special mimosa-flavoured samshoo to be heated for her. Dai-yu took only a sip of it before putting the winecup down again.
Presently Bao-chai strolled up and helped herself to the samshoo. She, too, put her cup down after taking only a tiny mouthful of it. Then she moistened a brush with ink, and going over to the list of titles, put a tick over the first one, ‘Remembering the Chrysanthemums’, and wrote the word ‘Allspice’ underneath it.
‘Please leave Number Two for me, Chai,’ said Bao-yu anxiously. ‘I’ve already thought of four lines for it.’
Bao-chai laughed.
‘I’ve had a hard enough job thinking of lines for this first one. You’ve nothing to worry about as far as I’m concerned.’
Dai-yu, without saying a word, quietly relieved Bao-chai of the brush, ticked first ‘Questioning the Chrysanthemums’ and then the eleventh title, ‘The Dream of the Chrysanthemums’, and wrote ‘River’ underneath each of them.
After her, Bao-yu took up the brush and ticked ‘Seeking the Chrysanthemums’. He signed himself ‘Green’.
Tan-chun now drifted over and looked at the list.
‘Oh, hasn’t anyone chosen “Wearing the Chrysanthemums” yet?’ she said. ‘Let me do that one.’
She turned, smilingly, to Bao-yu and pointed a warning finger at him.
‘We’ve just made a new rule, by the way. No naked ladies this time, please. You have been warned!’
Xiang-yun strolled up while she was saying this and ticked Numbers Four and Five – ‘Admiring the Chrysanthemums’ and ‘Arranging the Chrysanthemums’ – in rapid succession. She signed herself ‘Xiang’ underneath them.
‘You ought to have a pen-name like the rest of us,’ said Tan-chun.
‘There are various pavilions and studios at home, of course,’ said Xiang-yun, ‘but I don’t live in any of them. It would be rather pointless to call myself after a building like the rest of you.’
‘What about that water pavilion “Above the Clouds” that Lady Jia was telling us about?’ said Bao-chai. ‘You could call that yours. Even if it doesn’t exist any more, you can pretend that it would have been yours. You should call yourself “Cloud Maiden”.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the others; and before Xiang-yun herself could do anything, Bao-yu had crossed out the ‘Xiang’ and substituted the word ‘Cloud’ beneath it.
In less time than it would take to eat a meal, poems had been completed for each of the twelve titles. The young poets then wrote out their poems and handed them in to Ying-chun, who copied them out, each with the full pen-name of its author, on to the finest Snow Wave notepaper.
Li Wan then read them all through, the others overlooking her.
Remembering the Chrysanthemums
by Lady Allspice
The autumn wind that through the knotgrass blows
Blurs the sad gazer’s eye with unshed tears;
But autumn’s guest, who last year graced this plot,
Only, as yet, in dreams of night appears.
The wild geese from the North are now returning;
The dhobi’s thump at evening fills my ears.
Those golden flowers for which you see me pine
I’ll meet once more at this year’s Double Nine.
Seeking the Chrysanthemums
by Green Boy
The crisp day bids us go on an excursion –
Resistant to the wineshop door’s temptation –
Some garden, where, before the frosts, was planted
The glory of autumn, being our destination:
Which after weary walk having found, we’ll sing
An autumn song with unsubdued elation.
And you, gold flowers, if all the poet told
You understood, would not refuse his gold!
Planting the Chrysanthemums
by Green Boy
Brought from their nursery and, with loving hands,
Planted along the fence and by the door –
A shower last night their wilting leaves revived,
Opening the morning-buds all silver-hoar.
Sweet flowers! a thousand autumn songs I’ll sing
To praise your beauty, and libations pour,
And water you, and ridge with earth around.
No dust on my wet well-path shall be found!
Admiring the Chrysanthemums
by Cloud Maiden
Transplanted treasures, dear to me as gold –
Both the pale clumps and those of darker hue!
Bare-headed by your wintry bed I sit
And, musing, hug my knees and sing to you.
None more than you the villain world disdains;
None understands your proud heart as I do.
The precious hours of autumn I’ll not waste,
But bide with you and savour their full taste.
Arranging the Chrysanthemums
by Cloud Maiden
What greater pleasure than the lute to strum
Or sip wine by your delicate display?
To hold the garden’s fragrance in one vase,
And see all autumn in a single spray?
On frosty nights I’ll dream you back again,
Brave in your garden bed at close of day.
Since with your shy disdain I sympathize,
’Tis you, not summer’s gaudy blooms I prize.
Celebrating the Chrysanthemums
by River Queen
Down garden walks, in search of inspiration,
A restless demon drives me all the time;
Then brush blooms into praises, and the mouth
Grows acrid-sweet, hymning those scents sublime.
Yet easier ’twere a world of grief to tell
Than to lock autumn’s secret in one rhyme.
That miracle old Tao did once attain;
Since when a thousand bards have tried in vain.
Painting the Chrysanthemums
by Lady Allspice
The brush that praised them, eager for more tasks,
Would paint them now – for painting’s no great cost
When cunning black-ink blots the flowers’ leaves make,
And white the petals, silvered o’er with frost.
Fresh scents of autumn from the paper rise,
And shapes unmoving by the wind are tossed.
No need at Double Ninth live flowers to pluck:
These living seem, upon a fine screen stuck!
Questioning the Chrysanthemums
by River Queen
Since none else autumn’s mystery can explain,
I come with murmured questions to your gate:
Who, world-disdainer, shares your hiding-place?
Of all the flowers why do yours bloom so late?
The garden silent lies in frosty dew;
The geese return; the cricket mourns his fate.
Let not speech from your silent world be banned:
Converse with me, since me you understand!
Wearing the Chrysanthemums
by Plantain Lover
Just to admire and not for our adornment
Were these reared and arranged with so much care;
Yet young Sir Fop, with whom flowers are a passion,
And drunk old Tao both dote on flowers to wear.
One’s head-cloth reeks of autumn’s acrid perfume;
Chill dew of autumn pearls the other’s hair.
The vulgar crowd, which nothing understands,
Stops in the street and, jeering, claps its hands.
The Shadow of the Chrysanthemums
by Cloud Maiden
The autumn moonlight through the garden steals,
Filtered in patches variously bright.
Flowers by the house as silhouettes appear;
Flowers by the fence are fl
ecked with coins of light.
In the flowers’ wintry scent their souls reside,
Not in those frost-forms, than a dream more slight.
Even the gross vandal, squinting through drunken eyes,
Can, by their scents, the crushed flowers recognize.
The Dream of the Chrysanthemums
by River Queen
Light-headed in my autumn bed I lie
And seem to chase the moon across the sky.
Well, if immortal, I’ll go seek old Tao,
Not imitate Zhuang’s flittering butterfly!
Following the wild goose, into sleep I slid;
From which now, startled by the cricket’s cry,
Midst cold and fog and dying leaves I wake,
With no one by to tell of my heart’s ache.
The Death of the Chrysanthemums
by Plantain Lover
The feasting over and the first snow fallen,
The flowers frost-stricken lie or sideways lean,
Their perfume lingering, but their gold hue dimmed
And few poor, tattered leaves bereft of green.
Now under moonlit bench the cricket shrills,
And weary goose-files in the cold sky are seen.
Yet of your passing let me not complain:
Next autumn equinox we’ll meet again!
Each poem was praised in turn, and the reading of the whole twelve concluded amidst cries of mutual admiration.
‘Now just a moment!’ said Li Wan, interrupting their encomiums. ‘Let me first try to give you an impartial judgement. I think there were good lines in all of the poems, but comparing one with another, it seems to be that one is bound to place “Celebrating the Chrysanthemums” first, with “Questioning the Chrysanthemums” second and “The Dream of the Chrysanthemums” third. The titles themselves were original, and – particularly in their treatment of the subject – these are three highly original poems. So I think that today the first place must undoubtedly go to River Queen. After those first three I would place “Wearing the Chrysanthemums”, “Admiring the Chrysanthemums”, “Arranging the Chrysanthemums”, “Painting the Chrysanthemums” and “Remembering the Chrysanthemums” in that order.’
Bao-yu clapped his hands delightedly.
‘Absolutely right! A very fair judgement!’
‘I’m afraid mine aren’t really all that good,’ said Dai-yu. ‘They are a bit too contrived.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of contrivance,’ said Li Wan. ‘One doesn’t want the structure of a poem to stand out too ruggedly.’
‘I very much like that couplet of Cloud Maiden’s,’ said Dai-yu:
‘On frosty nights I’ll dream you back again,
Brave in your garden bed at close of day.
It’s a technique that painters call “white-backing”. That marvellous couplet that comes before it:
To hold the garden’s fragrance in a vase,
And see all autumn in a single spray
already sums up all there is to be said on the subject of flower-arrangement. You feel that she’s left herself nothing else to say. So what does she do? She goes back to the time before the flowers were arranged – before they were picked, even. That going back in her “frosty nights” couplet is a very subtle way of throwing the main theme into relief, just as the artist’s white-backing sharpens the highlights on the other side of the painting.’
Li Wan smiled.
‘That may be so; but your own “acrid-sweet” couplet is more than a match for it.’
‘I think Lady Allspice dealt with her subject most effectively,’ said Tan-chun. ‘That couplet of hers:
But autumn’s guest, who last year graced this plot,
Only as yet in dreams of night appears
seems to bring out the idea of remembering so vividly.’
‘Well, your “head-cloth reeking of autumn’s acrid perfume” and “chill dew of autumn pearling the hair” give a pretty vivid image of wearing chrysanthemums,’ said Bao-chai with a laugh.
‘And River Queen’s “who shares your hiding place?” “why do you bloom so late?”,’ said Xiang-yun, smiling mischievously, ‘make so thorough a job of questioning them, that one feels the poor things must have been quite tongue-tied!’
‘For that matter,’ said Li Wan, entering into the spirit of the thing, ‘your persistent haunting of the chrysanthemums – “sitting bare-headed by their wintry bed” and “hugging your knees and singing to them” – makes one suspect that if the chrysanthemums really had consciousness, they might, in the end, have grown just a tiny bit tired of your company!’
The others all laughed.
‘I seem to be bottom again,’ said Bao-yu ruefully. ‘Though I must say I should have thought that
… to go on an excursion –
Some garden where … was planted
The glory of autumn being our destination
and so forth was a perfectly satisfactory exposition of “seeking the chrysanthemums”; and that
A shower last night the wilting leaves revived,
Opening the morning-buds all silver-hoar
dealt with the theme of transplanting chrysanthemums rather successfully. Heigh-ho! I suppose it’s just that I couldn’t produce anything quite as good as River Queen’s “acrid-sweet” line, or Cloud Maiden’s “bare-headed by your wintry bed”, or Plaintain Lover’s “reeking head-cloth” or “few poor, tattered leaves”, or Lady Allspice’s “autumn guest in dreams of night appears”.
‘Well, never mind,’ he went on, after a moment’s reflection. ‘Perhaps tomorrow or the day after, if I’ve got the time, I’ll try to do all twelve of them again on my own.’
‘Your poems were perfectly all right,’ said Li Wan consolingly. ‘It’s simply – as you yourself have just said – that they didn’t have anything quite as good as the lines you have mentioned.’
Discussion of the poems continued a little longer, after which they called for another lot of hot crabs and sat down at the large round table to eat them.
‘Eating crab and admiring the cassia like this is itself a good theme for a poem,’ said Bao-yu. ‘I’ve already thought of one. Is anyone else game to have a try?’
He quickly washed his hands and taking up a brush, wrote down the poem he had thought of. The others then read what he had written:
How delightful to sit and a crab’s claw to chew
In the cassia shade – with some ginger-sauce, too!
Old Grim-chops wants wine, though he’s got no inside,
And he walks never forwards, but all to one side.
The ‘yolks’ are so tasty, who cares if we’re ill!
Though our fingers we’ve washed, they are crab-scented still.
‘O crabs,’ Dong-po said (and his words I repeat)
‘You have not lived in vain if you’re so good to eat!’
‘One could churn out that sort of poem by the dozen,’ said Dai-yu.
‘You’ve used up all your inspiration,’ said Bao-yu; ‘but instead of admitting that you can’t write any more, you make rude remarks about my poem!’
Dai-yu made no reply, but tilted her head back, lifted up her eyes, and for some minutes could be observed muttering softly to herself; then, picking a brush up, she wrote out the following poem rapidly and without hesitation:
In arms and in armour they met their sad fate.
How tempting they look now, piled up on a plate!
The white flesh is tasty, the pink flesh as well –
Both the white in the claws and the pink in the shell;
And we’re glad he’s an eight- not a four-legged beast
When there’s plenty of wine to enliven the feast.
So with crab let us honour the Double Ninth Day,
While chrysanthemums bloom ’neath the cassia’s spray.
Bao-yu had read this and was just beginning to say how good he thought it was when Dai-yu impetuously tore it up and told one of the servants to take
away the pieces and burn them.
‘It’s not as good as yours,’ she said. ‘It deserves to be burnt. Actually yours is very good – better even than the chrysanthemum ones. You ought to keep it to show people.’
‘I’ve thought of one too,’ said Bao-chai. ‘It was rather a struggle, so I’m afraid it won’t be very good; but I’ll write it down anyway for a laugh.’
Then she wrote down her poem, and the others read it.
With winecups in hand, as the autumn day ends,
And with watering mouths, we await our small friends.
A straightforward breed you are certainly not,
And the goodness inside you has all gone to pot –
There were cries of admiration at this point.
‘That’s a very neat bit of invective!’ said Bao-yu. ‘I can see I shall have to burn my poem now!’
They read on.
For your cold humours, ginger; to cut out your smell
We’ve got wine and chrysanthemum petals as well.
As you hiss in your pot, crabs, d’ye look back with pain
On that calm moonlit cove and the fields of fat grain?
When they had finished reading, all agreed that this was the definitive poem on the subject of eating crabs.
‘It’s the sign of a real talent,’ they said, ‘to be able to see a deeper, allegorical meaning in a frivolous subject – though the social satire is a trifle on the harsh side!’
Just then Patience arrived back in the Garden.
But what then ensued will be told in the following chapter.
Chapter 39
An inventive old countrywoman tells a story of somewhat questionable veracity
And an impressionable young listener insists on getting to the bottom of the matter
PATIENCE, you will recall, had just returned to the party.
‘What’s happened to your mistress?’ the others asked her. ‘Why doesn’t she come back and join us?’
