A Husband for Kutani

by Frank Owen

  So the day drifted toward evening. Once or twice they halted, and Tso-Lin brewed a pot of tea over an alcohol lamp. This, with rice cakes and almonds, was all they took throughout the day.

  “To fast occasionally,” he said, “gives food an added piquancy. When day ends, we will be supplied with food sufficient for our needs.”

  “I am too interested in everything else,” declared Pandro, “to be interested in food. This is all new to me.”

  “Every moment we live is new. We are blinded by the glory of tomorrow’s minutes until we overlook the joy of the present hour. ‘Yesterday is a wind gone down.’ Last night’s sunset is as far away as Creation. Unless one grasps the now, one slips into oblivion and is soon forgotten.”

  Tso-Lin paused for a moment and extended a thin hand. “Yonder are the mountains. And the mountains are our destination. Whenever I behold them I think of the words of Li Po:

  “‘And I sit alone with the

  Chingting Peak towering beyond.

  We never get tired of each other, the

  mountains and I.’”

  Now the mountains were more distinct. Strangely aloof, they reared their heads in the purpling mists of evening.

  Soon they met a man. He bowed profusely. He, too, rode horseback. He was one of the servants of Chang Kien.

  “I have come to bid you welcome,” he said, “and to care for your bags.”

  “We have none,” Tso-Lin told him, “and it is well. Man comes into the world without possessions and that is how he should leave it.”

  Pandro Sharp laughed shortly. “Your words suggest that you were taking me to my doom.”

  “All that I meant was that each step we take is a step toward the Great Release. As a matter of fact I see no reason for you to worry about the cares of this world....Let me present Geng Wu, a faithful servitor of Chang Kien.”

  “And by his orders,” broke in Geng Wu, “I am to be Mr. Sharp’s personal servant while he is in the Gobi Desert.”

  “I hate to put anyone to inconvenience,” remonstrated Pandro. “Besides I do not expect to be here long.”

  “To guard the comfort of a friend is a gracious task,” said Geng Wu. “As for the length of time you will remain with us, who shall say? Is time something that can be encompassed in words?”

  Now they had reached a hidden entrance into the mountains, a black yawning hole that led into the earth’s depths.

  “I assure you that the domains within are much more inviting than their rather ominous façade suggests,” said Tso-Lin.

  “You mean Chang Kien lives within the mountains?” gasped Pandro Sharp.

  “Yes,” was the reply, “but the caverns are of boundless extent and extremely pleasurable to explore. The air is good for they are fed by wind currents which come from whence no man may know. And surrounded by the mountain fastness there is a vast open space beneath the sky, a tranquil spot unflayed by discordant noises. The entrance to this magic garden is through the caverns. It is the backdoor yard of our citadel of stone.”

  Now as they dismounted from their horses, three men appeared and took hold of the bridles. But Tso-Lin paid them no heed, as he led the way forward afoot. For perhaps fifty feet they walked in darkness. Then the damp narrow passage turned. It widened into a spacious road, high-vaulted and sufficiently well lighted by lanterns so that it was easy to walk. Pandro was amazed to note that the bulbs in the lanterns were electric. Tso-Lin noticed his expression.

  “The explanation is simple,” said he. “We have our own generating plant, the source of which is a hidden river that rushes with terrific force a hundred feet underground. It was not a great engineering feat to harness its power.”

  “Why do you use the plural form in speaking?” asked Pandro bluntly. “Surely you do not live here.”

  “For the most part, I do. Now I am old and I retire to this sanctuary when the need of solitude is upon me.”

  As he spoke he stopped before a door, a large mahogany door such as one might have found in any wealthy man’s home. Although Tso-Lin did not knock, the door was opened.

  With awe, Pandro Sharp gazed into a room of surpassing loveliness, furnished with large comfortable chairs, teakwood tables, bookcases, curio cabinets and a variety of lamps. Large tapestries, hanging from the walls, gave the room a tent-like appearance.

  Geng Wu stepped forward. “I will lead you to my master.”

  Chang Kien rose to his feet at their approach, his hand extended graciously.

  “Welcome,” he said in a softly modulated voice. “This is indeed a rare pleasure. I trust you will accept my hospitality without suspicion. While we have formulated many delightful analects, one among them I do not wish you to take too seriously. ‘Beware the man who has a smiling face.’ I am smiling and my pleasure is genuine. On behalf of the sages of old China let me welcome you to this quiet retreat. I know you must be tired and hungry. Geng Wu will lead you to your room that you may bathe and dress before sitting down to a slight repast. You will find clothes supplied for you that I am sure will be to your exact measure. They were tailored for you in London.”

  “But how did you know I was coming?”

  “It was inevitable. You had no control over your motivation. You are gripped by the charm of our old philosophers. Unfortunately you are unable to understand the reason for this seizure. It is a pity.”

  “Why do you use the word seizure? Is it then a disease?”

  “Yes, beauty itself is a disease. So too is love. Anything that subjects a man’s will, that holds him in as close a grip as opium, is in the nature of a malady....But may I once more suggest that Geng Wu take you to your room so that you may obliterate the stains of travel?”

  2

  It was a large room. In the center was a bed piled high with silken cushions and coverlets. The green carpet was as soft as moss. On the walls were paintings on silk, “Sea and Sky at Sunrise” by Chao Po-Chu, Chen Jung’s “Dragon in the Clouds” and Chi Chen’s “Horse and Willow Tree in the Moonlight.”

  Opening off the bedroom was a private bath. Geng Wu was filling the tub with warm water as Pandro walked to the doorway.

  “We are barbarians,” he said curtly, “but we have heard filtering remnants of the progress that has been made in your country. Though I daresay the court of Kublai Khan would have proved equally startling if you had visited it many centuries ago. So, too, have I read that the Romans at the time of Christ had steam heat in their houses, the steam passing through the railing of the stair balustrades. And in ancient Crete they have dug up the remains of bathrooms two thousand years old wherein were shower baths and costly plumbing fixtures.”

  Pandro looked at Geng Wu shrewdly.

  “You are not a servant,” he said impulsively.

  “We are all servants,” was the calm reply, “though not all servants of obsession. Be not confused by my semblance of education. That is due to my being one of the humbler descendants of Confucius. Perchance there is some chemical in my blood that owes its existence to his. It might be well for you to know that all the dwellers in these mountains are descendants of Master K’ung who is venerated the world over as Confucius. And we are thankful for our ancestry.”

  Pandro was elated. “Then for my researches, I could not have found a more fertile spot.”

  Geng Wu looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “That is true,” he said.

  Pandro bathed and dried his body with towels of gossamer texture. Then he slipped on a silken robe. When he re-entered the bedroom, he found a complete outfit of evening clothes laid out for him.

  “Chang Kien believed you would like to dress for dinner this evening,” said Geng Wu, “to celebrate your safe arrival. Besides, Jasmine Flower will dine with you both tonight, contrary to what is considered the usual custom of China. When you behold her, you will be glad you are well groomed. In yonder cabinet you will find a complete wardrobe of clothes suitable for other occasions.”

  “But I can’t possibly remain long en
ough to wear them all!” gasped Pandro.

  “After all, who knows? Perhaps when you behold Jasmine Flower you will not be so anxious to depart, nor would it surprise me if you put in an order for a few more suits.”

  Pandro talked little as he dressed. He felt as though he had suddenly become lost in a dream. Each article of clothing fitted him perfectly.

  “I can’t understand it,” he murmured.

  “It was simple enough. Is it not true that you have planned this pilgrimage for more than a year?”

  “Quite, but even so, I’m puzzled.”

  “We have your measurements. And the reason is not hard to fathom. In New York you talked a great deal and interviewed many people. Among them was one of my countrymen. He, too, is a descendant of Master K’ung and is constantly saddened by the fact that business and state affairs force him to dwell in your esteemed country. He has been well treated but the pull of his homeland is upon him. So he talked with your tailor, in fact I believe he worked with him for awhile pressing suits, even though his wealth is staggering. Thus he learned all that he wished to know. But the clothes were not made in New York. They were made in London. If you wish to know the reason for this, you must consult Chang Kien, since they were made under his direction.”

  “I shall certainly mention the subject to him.”

  At last Pandro Sharp was ready and Geng Wu led him back into the presence of Chang Kien. His host was lounging in a chair reading a book of fragile poems. At Pandro’s approach he rose to his feet. He was in full dress, as a mark of respect to his guest. For the most part he cared more for Chinese costume.

  “I have just been reading ‘A Lute of Jade’ by L. Cranmer-Byng,” he said. “I never tire of reading it. Surely that person who defined poetry as perfumed prose must have been thinking of a poet such as he. Here is one foreigner who is in sympathy with our beliefs. Many of his translations are haunting, especially that poem by Kao-Shih which I can recite from memory:

  “‘There was a King of Liang—a king of

  wondrous might—

  Who kept an open palace, where music

  charmed the night—

  Since he was Lord of Liang a thousand

  years have flown,

  And of the towers he builded yon ruin

  stands alone.

  There reigns a heavy silence; gaunt weeds

  through windows pry,

  And down the streets of Liang old echoes,

  wailing, die.’”

  They were interrupted by the tinkling of a gong.

  “That means that the table has been set for us and I know that you are hungry. Tso-Lin will not eat with us tonight. As you know he is very old. He always likes to spend the evening of his arrival in fasting and profound thought.”

  Chang Kien escorted Pandro into the dining room where covers had been set for three people.

  “Tonight we will eat in the manner of Londoners,” he explained, “since I did not know whether you would care to experiment with Chinese viands such as birds’ nest soup, sharks’ fins or egg jelly which like a woman is at its best when it is fourteen years old. Tonight the main props of our meal will be roast beef, roast duckling and roast lamb with many side excursions into interesting condiments.”

  The room was green, soft green in many different shades; green carpet, green draperies, green chairs, a restful green that suggested a forest retreat. Over the table hung a yellow lantern. But the corners of the room were in shadow.

  Chang Kien paused for a moment beside his chair, a moment of waiting fraught with romance, such as might precede the first notes of a symphony, or before the curtains were drawn aside to unveil a magnificent painting. And then she came to them, Jasmine Flower, with glowing eyes and fragrant lips.

  As Chang Kien introduced her, she bowed her head and smiled faintly. Whether or not she spoke, Pandro did not know. All that he was aware of was the glory of her. Her features were clear cut. There was nothing Asiatic about her nose. Her mouth was like crushed cherries with the cool dew of morning upon them. Never had Pandro beheld lips so moist and alluring. Her eyes had an exotic slant, and her eyebrows were so thin they seemed to have been drawn by a single sweep of a kohl pencil in the hand of an artist such as rare Wang Wei. Her skin was olive white, a pallor like that of prime ivory emphasizing the blackness of her eyes and the vivid coloring of her lips. Intensely black was her hair, worn plainly, though not in the manner of Chinese women. Her costume was of yellow silk, so soft that it seemed without texture. It was severely plain, for the silk was of such elegance it needed not the enhancement of artificial ornamentation.

  The meal was excellent, yet Jasmine scarcely ate anything. For the most part she seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.

  Chang Kien kept up a stream of conversation. He spoke English fluently without a trace of guttural accent.

  “Your mission is interesting,” he declared. “It would be stimulating to know how you discovered you were qualified for such a task. Chinese culture goes back four thousand years; the writings of Confucius twenty four hundred years. And Chinese legendary history goes back fifty-thousand years, yet you who have lived on this earth less than thirty five imagine your mentality sufficient to sift the philosophy of the centuries and separate the true from the false. If you can achieve that, you will prove yourself greater than any philosopher of which we have record.”

  “If you are endeavoring to make me feel infinitely small,” said Pandro meekly, “you have accomplished your purpose. In justification, let me say that ever since I left college this idea has been a fetish with me.”

  “You are but stumbling in the footsteps of others, notably Herbert Allen who attempted to shatter the traditions of China some thirty years ago. It was his theory that because we have no monumental tombs such as the Egyptians left to be vandalized by cultured Occidental gentlemen, nothing of ours worthwhile ever existed. Because we had a depraved Emperor who ordered all the classics to be burned, Mr. Allen doubted that they ever existed. In other words he desired to destroy them again by the scorn of public opinion. The classic works were burned in the year 213 B.C. but copies were hidden away by old philosophers who believed that immortal works were more valuable than the bodies of mortals. Then in the year 100 A.D. a treatise was completed, called, ‘History of the Anterior Han’, which stated that King Hsein of Hochien offered rewards of money and silk for well-written copies of ancient works and among those secured by him were the ‘Book of Rites’, ‘The Book of Mencius’, Mao’s edition of the ‘Book of Poetry’ and the ‘Spring and Autumn Annuals’. It was Mr. Allen’s contention that cupidity forced the Chinese to forge old works. In order to collect prizes, ordinary mortals became immortals, truly a noteworthy achievement.”

  Chang Kien paused for a moment. “Will you have more tea?” he asked.

  “Perhaps water would be better,” commented Pandro, “to quench the fires of your wrath.”

  “Not angry but saddened by your efforts to cause our classics to totter. Has it not occurred to you that we may resent this intrusion?”

  “I am here as your guest.”

  “I mean your intrusion into China.”

  “Never till now,” confessed Pandro.

  At that moment, Jasmine rose to her feet. Slim, graceful, lovely, she stood before them. “I wonder if you would mind if I left you?”

  “I do not like to have you go,” said Chang Kien. “But after all there is little in our conversation to interest you.”

  Pandro Sharp had risen to his feet. Though his lips said nothing, his eyes spoke volumes. He wondered if he imagined it or was there the slightest flicker of her eyelids in acknowledgment? It was a studied exit. No play could have had a more appealing moment. For awhile, he remained standing.

  “The wine is growing cold,” Chang Kien said. “Shall we return to the toneless byways of philosophy?”

  As Pandro sat down he drew his hand across his eyes as though to collect his thoughts.

  “At this particular
moment,” Chang Kien went on, “does not all prospect of departure nauseate you?”

  “Frankly it does. I should like nothing better than to stay with you for a time in order that I might see that lovely girl again. I trust I am not plunging into diplomatic warfare by thus speaking.”

  “On the contrary, you make me very happy,” declared Chang Kien, “for now I know you will not mind what I am about to disclose to you.”

  “And that is?”

  “That you will never leave these mountains again.”

  “Why not?” asked Pandro, but he was still thinking of Jasmine and so he was not unduly alarmed. He did not believe that Chang Kien was speaking seriously, nevertheless he clutched at any opportunity that would keep him near Jasmine Flower.

  “For the good of China,” was the soft response. “We of China revere our ancestors. You are an enemy of Confucius, the most illustrious member of our family. We refuse to have our philosophers held up to ridicule. It is a question of ‘face’.”

  “But think how wonderful it would be if I could prove that the old classics were not forgeries.”

  “We are aware of your noble intent. But against your belief is the belief of the six hundred million of my countrymen. The scales are unevenly balanced. For that reason when the heads of my family heard of your intention to inflict your presence on China, they sat in conclave. After hours of deliberation it was decided to bring you here as a sort of permanent guest. Therefore we had an adequate supply of clothes made for you. Now as far as the rest of the world is concerned you have ceased to exist. Perhaps when you do not return to your people, you will gradually become a legend, until centuries later some scholar will proclaim the astounding theory that you never really existed, that you were but a figure in folklore, naught in truth but a garrulous forgery.”

  Pandro laughed in spite of himself, not at all alarmed at Chang Kien’s words, refusing to take them as seriously as they were intended. Adventure was in his blood. And this mountain retreat intrigued him. Besides he had beheld Jasmine and his world had tottered. What matter though the roof fell in, if in the end she were beside him?