A Husband for Kutani

by Frank Owen

  3

  Tsiang Ling had shown no interest whatever in Kutani during her formative years. Seldom had he seen her. Usually when he did his thoughts were so engrossed in contemplated foods or jewels that he was not cognizant of the fact that she was near him.

  With the years, his body had grown more rotund. His cheeks were like yellow apples. His mouth was large. So often and well had he feasted, he now found it difficult to walk. His life had been like a bounteous meal, filled with endless delectable courses. His eventual death would be the dessert. Now he was in a rare mood for that afternoon; for the first time in his life he was to eat a durian. He had long put off that moment of rapture that he might muse pleasurably over it. He looked forward to it with as much enthusiasm as though it were the arms of a lovely woman. Good food made him sensuous. It aroused his passions, his desires. But usually his desires were for more good food.

  And now Kutani passed through that part of the garden where he rested beneath a willow tree. For the moment he was arrested by her beauty.

  “Kutani,” he meditated. “She is indeed beautiful. But why was she not named Durian? It would be far more sweet. One cannot eat a bit of porcelain.”

  He noticed the slender grace of her figure, the sweet peach-bloom of her cheeks, the gentle curve of her breasts.

  “Yes,” he murmured, “she should have been named Durian.”

  That night he summoned Yueh Nu to his sleeping-room. She was much distressed, for she had imagined she was free of his couch forever. She shuddered at the mere thought of the entanglements of his arms. She dressed as unbecomingly as possible, so that she would present so little allure he might change his mind. However, her dismay was wasted, for when she arrived in his presence he was eating mangosteens and kachange seeds.

  “I sent for you,” he told her, “because I wished to talk to you about Kutani. Today has been one of keen disappointment for me. For years I have longed to eat a durian. I have kept putting off the precious day, gloating over its enormous possibilities. I imagined it would be the sweetest fruit that ever passed my lips. And now today I broke my period of waiting. The divine moment had arrived. I tasted a durian and I was nauseated. The disappointment was acute. In despair I have turned to mangosteens, which are always exquisite.”

  He crunched a bit of the juicy fruit noisily between his teeth.

  “But you mentioned Kutani,” Yueh Nu hazarded.

  “Ah, yes,” he sighed. “Today I noticed her in the garden. She is slim and beautiful. Were she not my own daughter, I might take her to wife. Seldom have I been more stirred. While it is deplorable that she is not a boy, it is well that she is so magnificent. Therefore I have decided that the time has come to plan her future. How old is she?”

  “Fourteen,” replied Yueh Nu, striving to suppress her anger. “As for her future, Kutani belongs to the moon. No mortal can direct her footsteps. One might as well plan new sunsets as to plan anything for Kutani that is not appealing to the Moon God.”

  “Give over these senseless mouthings,” he spat out irritably. That bit of mangosteen had been spoiled. It was almost as bad as the durian. Was the day to end in complete disenchantment?

  “I have thought much about Kutani,” Yueh Nu said, “and I know that of which I speak.”

  “Now I will take over the ponderous job,” he said with biting sarcasm. “Thinking ill befits women. They were created for man’s enjoyment, not to confuse him by the power of their eloquence. I shall choose a husband for Kutani and she shall have a wedding worthy of the daughter of a wealthy mandarin.”

  “Kutani is too young to marry,” protested Yueh Nu.

  “Do not irritate me,” said Tsiang Ling. “Irritation is far worse than extreme exertion. Nor am I aware that I have ever granted you the privilege of opposing my wishes.”

  “Kutani belongs to me,” declared Yueh Nu tensely.

  “Had I not some slight part in her development?”

  “Up till this moment you have never bothered with her.”

  Placidly he ate a few kachange seeds. “Then it is about time I meddled in her affairs. She should have a husband. She is ripe for marriage. Surely you do not oppose it.”

  “Marriage,” said she, “is the lot of women, in order that they may breed sons and daughters over whom they have no control.”

  “Men are more capable thinkers.”

  “They do not think so in Japan. Many of Japan’s greatest poets have been women, while for centuries the minds of the women of China have been bound more abjectly than their crippled feet. I thank the spirits of my ancestors that my feet are not bound, nor has my mind been stultified. Kutani must marry for love. She alone must pass on the fitness of a prospective husband. The monstrous customs of the ages must not sweep down to spoil her life.”

  “You grieve me,” said Tsiang Ling. He sighed wearily. “To be true to tradition, I should cast you from my house. Or else I should have your fingernails drawn or your body flogged. Instead I think I shall make you eat a durian. That would be penalty enough. It is a pity that I am so tender-hearted. You have made a jester of me. Glad am I that no one is near to behold the manner in which I am losing face. A great mandarin with enterprises reaching throughout Asia; a thousand men do my bidding, yet I cannot control my wife. It is a pity. Perhaps I should offer you a perfumed death, followed by an elaborate funeral. Does that appeal to you?”

  “Why should one fear death,” she said, “who lives so seldomly?”

  Tsiang Ling yawned. “That is very pretty, though I do not know what it means. But then I do not know what life means either, nor do I know why the durian was created. However, since you are my honored wife, I shall accede to your wishes in one respect. Kutani shall be wooed in Occidental manner. She shall be permitted to meet the man I choose for her to marry. If she does not like him she shall not be urged. Perhaps you are right. A girl should be permitted to select her own husband, though at best it is but a foolish whim seasoned by impudence.”

  “I am thankful for your kindness,” said Yueh Nu. A great load had been lifted from her mind. “And now may I go?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I had intended for you to remain this night,” he said. “But you have opposed me so much already, I tremble to anticipate further opposition. Besides, somehow, you do not look appealing.”

  As Yueh Nu left the apartment, she smiled. “The art of make-up,” she reflected, “may be either a lure or a shield.”

  4

  Tsiang Ling reviewed the list of his acquaintances. Surely among such a vast number of men of such varied interests there must be one who would suit as a husband for Kutani. Countless numbers were rich, and rich this husband must be. If he possessed other noble traits it would be well, but wealth, as any man of sense knew, was the noblest attribute of all.

  The Mandarin in his meditations required many days of musing and he consumed vast quantities of tasty foods to stimulate his mind. The problem was of great importance. In the end he decided that Yoon Ge would make an excellent husband for Kutani. He was young, rich, and of an amiable disposition. He was also ugly, uncouth and boisterous in his manner. Occasionally he brought beautiful singsong girls to his friend’s house and the morning found them all maudlin drunk with the girls still singing though slightly off key.

  Yoon Ge was a jade merchant. He culled the Orient for specimens of this jewel which the Chinese term “The Key of Heaven.” Tsiang Ling smacked his lips with anticipation as he thought about the jade-master. Here was a husband of whom any woman might be proud. Perhaps in appreciation of Kutani’s hand, he would bestow upon the Mandarin an elaborate trinket of jade. Tsiang Ling usually carried a bit of jade in his pocket, for of all jewels it is the most pleasurable to the touch, the only one that gives comfort to the wearer, for jade is alive.

  Tsiang Ling wasted no time in summoning Yoon Ge to his house. He gave no explanation for the invitation other than that he wished to converse with him on numerous engaging matters. They spent several hours in feasting, for
Yoon Ge, too, loved the products of the kitchen. Then when they were appeased with food almost to the bursting-point, Tsiang Ling led the way into the garden. He had recently purchased some gold and silver pheasants, among which was a rare Reeves’, with magnificent tail feathers fully six feet long.

  But Yoon Ge paid scant attention to the pompous birds that strutted about in an offensive manner, for his attention was arrested by a slender girl standing near a flame-tipped peony. She was dressed in garments of soft blue silk, and the blue sheen of her hair was bewitching.

  Yoon Ge seized Tsiang Ling’s arm. “Who is yon gorgeous maiden?”

  Tsiang Ling was gratified, but his expression did not change as he replied simply, “The daughter of my house. Her name is Kutani.”

  Yoon Ge was surprised. “She is quite beautiful,” he said carelessly. “I was not aware that you had fathered so exquisite a child.” As Yoon Ge spoke he turned to examine the carvings on a small moon-bridge, arching over the lotus pond. His effort at unconcern was slightly over-done. He was vexed that he had spoken so hastily. The words had fallen thoughtlessly from his lips.

  Yoon Ge was profligate and promiscuous. He changed his women frequently, even as he changed his garments. But never had he succeeded in inspiring devotion in any one. Even his servants hated him. He was despised by his clerks. It was his belief that the world was a huge marketplace in which everything was for sale. Nevertheless he was niggardly in his spending unless it was for his personal benefit. Yoon Ge lived for himself alone. He believed that in his own world he was a god. What matter that he was also as ugly as a toad as long as he did not know it?

  And now Yoon Ge wanted this fragile girl to adorn his house as one might use a rich tapestry or a carved bronze. He wondered what price he would have to pay for her. Bits of amber, bits of jade, with a down-payment of diplomacy. Like all his countrymen he believed that the shortest way to a desired article was via a circuitous route, therefore he did not immediately make known to Tsiang Ling the momentous decision at which he had arrived. But the Mandarin was shrewd. He needed not the telling. Nevertheless his expressionless eyes did not reflect his inward chuckle. His efforts were beginning to bear fruit.

  For most of that day, Yoon Ge remained with the Mandarin, but it was not until late in the evening that he again referred to Kutani. Then he said abruptly, “How old is your daughter?”

  Tsiang Ling was amazed at such bluntness, though he was no more amazed than the jade-master himself, who had been pondering over her age and had spoken without meaning to. He hoped that no serious harm might follow such a glaring breach of etiquette. But Tsiang Ling smiled blandly, secretly pleased, as he answered, “Fourteen.” Not by even the fluttering of an eyelid did he suggest that he thought the question in bad taste.

  Thereupon Yoon Ge decided to follow up the advantage which the chance slip had given him. “She is quite young,” he said.

  “Not too young to think of lovers,” murmured the Mandarin.

  “You mean she has lovers?”

  “No, not that. I merely mean that she is old enough to enchant a lover. Have you not noticed how beautifully her body is developed?”

  “I have never beheld a maiden more inspiring. Fortunate indeed will be the man who leads her to his couch. Would that I might be that man!”

  Tsiang Ling smiled. From his pocket he drew a bit of preserved ginger and nibbled pensively upon it.

  “And why should you not,” he asked, “if she desires you? However, let me tell you that I am a modern father, advanced in ideas beyond most of my countrymen. Kutani shall never marry without love. She shall choose her own husband. I have promised her mother, Yueh Nu, that I shall not force the girl into a marriage that might be distasteful.”

  “What did you say was the name of her mother?”

  “Yueh Nu.”

  “I misunderstood you,” explained Yoon Ge. “I thought you said her mother’s name was, ‘Yü.’ And it seemed to me to be a good omen, for surely the daughter of Yü should find no more suitable husband than a jade-master.”

  In the Chinese language yü means jade.

  “You forget,” said the Mandarin drolly, “that the child’s name is Kutani. That is porcelain. Perhaps she belongs to some porcelain-maker in Kingtehchen.”

  Kya Koen, who was dozing in a corner of the room, shook his head thoughtfully. “Jade, porcelain?” he reflected. “What matter? Kutani belongs to neither of them. She belongs to the moon.”

  5

  In the following days, Yoon Ge strove to make himself appealing. He commenced to bathe frequently, a newly acquired habit. And in his bath he sprinkled sweet-smelling unguents. To perfect his breath, he sipped perfume. He spent hours having his hair arranged and his long nails manicured. Nevertheless, even though his clothes were expensive, an array reminiscent of a victorious general, he still remained no more appealing than a toad.

  He visited the house of the Mandarin frequently. He lingered long hours in the garden, gazing at Kutani and gloating over the moment when she would be his. At first he did not pursue her. He imagined that his personal magnetism would be sufficient to draw her to him. But he was wrong. Kutani scarcely was aware of his presence. She was more interested in the rocks and the trees. She paid no more attention to him than if he were one of the gardeners.

  Finally, waiting grew irksome. Yoon Ge decided to address her directly. As a rule, he was not a clever conversationalist. His voice was harsh, rasping. The words seemed to come out as though he were talking through a comb. But before he had risked addressing her he had paid a scholar to come to his house to teach him pretty speeches. By the hour he had memorized verses, words lovely in themselves but soiled by his tone. Therefore, in the present emergency, he was not at a loss for words.

  Abruptly he began chanting a verse from the writings of Chen-Teuo-Tsan: “Thou art more beautiful than an apricot blossom bathed in the moonlight. Thou art all the flowers, all the perfumes; thou art all the splendours of the world.”

  Kutani clasped her hands together in rapture. “That is delightful,” she declared naively. “It is from ‘The Lost Flute’. I have read it many times.”

  Yoon Ge was as stunned as though he had received a blow in the face. He was about to add a few lines by Thon’ Han King: “Your hair is like a cloud. Your eyebrows have the curve of the moon in crescent. Your smiling mouth looks like a half-opened lily. The wildest birds rest in your arms.” But he could not very well quote a verse with which she was undoubtedly familiar. Artfully or artlessly she had rendered him verbally impotent. Inwardly he cursed, though his bland face smiled. He had wasted money on that old scholar-charlatan. It was humiliating. After believing that he was letter perfect in the language of love, he was forced to return to school.

  For a moment he remained beside Kutani. He did not wish to flee too quickly, dreading to lose face. When the Mandarin appeared in the garden, Yoon Ge withdrew to bore his host with dissertations on inconsequentials. He murmured an apology to Kutani which she did not hear. When she had ceased to converse with him, he had ceased to exist for her. She could not have told what he looked like if the reward had been “The Key of Heaven.” To her he was an uninteresting blur, part of the background of China. She never thought of him as a possible husband.

  Thereafter, for several days, Yoon Ge worked hard at his lessons. He choked the old teacher until he was breathless, in order to stir up his imagination. It was a futile gesture. One cannot learn the mysteries of love by causing the eyes of one’s teacher to bulge.

  When Yoon Ge returned to the home of the Mandarin, Tsiang Ling welcomed him royally. Yoon Ge smiled contentedly and displayed an alarming array of large teeth. For the Mandarin he had brought a carved likeness of Buddha, wrought from a single piece of green jade on a background of pink quartz. There is no color that brings out the beauty of green more effectively.

  Tsiang Ling appreciated the gift. He was more gracious to Yoon Ge than usual. He discussed archery in elaborate detail. He introduced a hu
ndred desultory subjects, including falcons, cormorants and the merits of hunting. Thus the hours slipped pleasantly away, hours of feasting and drinking, coupled with droll anecdotes. Not till night had dropped over the garden like a veil did Yoon Ge seek Kutani. Then as the moon rose, he went to her. He felt very important, very sure of himself and also slightly drunk.

  “The moon,” he quoted, “shines serenely as though hung on a necklace of coral.”

  “It is a fragment of jade-light,” she said wistfully, “that unfolds like a magnolia blossom.”

  There was no surer way to arouse Kutani’s interest, for the moon was her lover, beckoning to her from the soft blue velvet bed of the sky.

  As the moments slipped by, Yoon Ge became more passionately stirred. He attempted to place his arm about her silk-soft waist but she slipped from his grasp. It was easy for her to elude him for he was cumbersome in his movements. Because he could not clasp her to him, his desire intensified. He dropped the mask of poetry. He was pretending no longer. No place could be more ideal for love-making than this shadowy garden. With a strange, almost animal cry, he rushed toward her, but Kutani fled over the bridge that arched the lotus-pond. She made no more sound than a flower drifting in the wind. For a moment, Yoon Ge did not know where she had gone. In desperation, he called to her, begging, pleading. Then he discovered her a short distance away. The moon flung down a silver flood to illuminate the walk and it did more. It made the walk seem as though it continued onward across the pond, which was rippleless and in shadow.

  Yoon Ge, without a moment’s hesitation, rushed toward Kutani. Confounded by the moon he plunged headlong into the water. Choking, gasping, spluttering, he scrambled out, drenched to the skin, a sorry bedraggled figure, with half the contents of the lotus-pond within him. Cursing, raving, he returned to the house. His day of poetry had ended in blank, drab verse. He had lost face. And what was more, he had lost all interest in Kutani. No man could consider such a woman for a wife. Life with her would be too dangerous, too fraught with pitfalls. Besides he did not wish to see her again. Each meeting would only serve to remind him of his disgrace. It was the end. Perhaps after all it might be as well for him to choke his old teacher once again.