by Frank Owen
“And the Emperor sighed contentedly. Now that wondrous skin covered a sequence of songs and sonnets. No longer did it adorn a woman accursed. And though many years have passed, the skin is still warm and soft to the touch and it still glows as though it is alive.”
Chang Kien paused and lighted a perfumed cigarette. He offered one to Pandro Sharp but Pandro paid no heed to him. He sat gazing at the white jade book as though he imagined that the lovely face of Lee Nai would suddenly appear before him.
“The book cost me a fortune,” went on Chang Kien, “but I consider it money well spent. Though always I have thought how wonderful it would be if I could secure a companion volume to it. Since none existed, to attain my desire I would have to order one made. But where to get a skin of such peach-bloom glory was a problem. Then one day in the slave mart of a forbidden city, I discovered Jasmine Flower. Her skin is identical in texture to that of Lee Nai. At last my quest was ended. So I purchased her.”
Pandro leaned forward in his chair and gazed at his host in horror. “Surely you do not mean—”
But Chang Kien interrupted him. “Be not concerned, my friend. After all, since when has the place of a Chinese woman been a cause for anxiety? Have not thousands of girl babies been destroyed in infancy? What more beautiful ending than to achieve immortality through a book of love lyrics? The plan appealed to me though I have hesitated to put it into execution. Jasmine Flower intrigues me. I can put off possessing the second book until my interest in her wanes.”
“You are mad!” cried Pandro.
“Who then is completely sane? After all, permit me to point out that you are my guest and as such are not privileged to interfere in the running of my household.”
“If I had a gun I would shoot you!”
Chang Kien smiled affably and tapped a tiny gong with a wooden hammer. When his personal servant, Shung Kung, entered the room, he said softly, “Mr. Sharp desires to shoot me. Therefore please bring him a gun suitable for the purpose. I believe we have one that wrote finis to the career of a mandarin. Perhaps that will do. It is a pity that you could not have devised a more colorful death for me.”
Shung Kung listened to his instructions without visible change in expression. His master might have been ordering wine for all the interest he seemed to take in the matter.
Chang Kien lighted another cigarette. “No use offering you one, I suppose.”
Pandro did not reply. And so they sat until Shung Kung returned with a revolver. This he placed on the table beside Pandro Sharp.
“The wishes of a guest are sacred,” declared Chang Kien. “If your better judgment does not exert itself, you may use it.”
“Will that save Jasmine Flower?”
“That I do not know. If I have only a few moments to live, you must pardon me for being concerned solely with my own affairs. I should, I suppose, point out that I will wait for you over the threshold of eternity so that we can traverse the great grim mystery on the other side together. For I imagine that after my death, my friends will not be willing for you to enjoy the pleasure of breathing.”
“And what will become of Jasmine Flower?”
“Who knows? Perhaps she will be sold again.”
Pandro put his hands before his eyes. “Take the gun away,” he said. “I can’t use it.”
“You couldn’t in any case,” smiled Chang Kien. “It is woefully lacking in cartridges. And now, if you do not mind, I think I shall leave you. Certain matters need my attention, a small sheaf of verses that were brought to me last evening.”
Pandro returned to his room. He felt weak, exhausted, unnerved. He threw himself at full length on the bed and closed his eyes. If only that pounding in his temples would cease. He must save Jasmine Flower. For the greater part of the day he remained in seclusion. Not till Geng Wu summoned him to the evening meal, did he open his eyes.
Dinner that evening was an elaborate affair. But this time it was a Chinese meal. Each plate that was set before them contained only a mouthful of food. And there was almost a hundred courses. Never had Chang Kien been in a better mood; and Jasmine Flower, all in blue, was ravishing. She smiled as Pandro joined them. He found it hard to believe what had happened only a few hours before. At once, Chang Kien plunged into a discourse on religion. Without preamble, he said, “Are you aware that in many instances the words of Christ are almost identical with those of Confucius? Yet Confucius lived more than five hundred years before Christ. Many theories have been advanced to account for this similarity of expression. The one I give credence to is that at some time or other, Christ, during his interlude on earth, studied and became enthralled with the words of our most learned teacher. What more natural than that he should have infused them into his own doctrines? And now almost two thousand years later hundreds of Christian missionaries from civilized nations are being dumped upon us until we are in more danger of being engulfed by their platitudes than by the Hangchow Bore. Is it not ironical that your noble adherents of the cloth should be journeying to far-off China to teach us doctrines which were expounded originally by Confucius? At the risk of incurring your everlasting enmity and of seriously snarling up diplomatic relations between our honored and respected countries, I say with all humility that I believe many of your missionaries who come to us are in the nature of mental cases.”
So Chang Kien rambled on but Pandro paid no attention to him whatsoever. He could not turn his eyes away from Jasmine Flower. Her beauty held him. Before destruction overtook them, they must go away. Perhaps they could make their escape easily, for surely Jasmine Flower must know the way to the cavern’s entrance.
Chang Kien gazed upon him and smiled. But it was a smile that was mirthless. That night, to Chang Kien the food seemed tasteless.
5
Some time later as Pandro wandered with Jasmine Flower in the moonlit paths of the garden, a great peace seemed to creep over him in spite of himself. What matter what the morrow might bring forth? Tonight they were together. His arm was about her waist; he could breathe the fragrance of her hair.
“Jasmine,” he said tensely, “I love you. In all the world you are the one woman for whom I have been ages searching. Will you go away with me?”
As he spoke, he kissed her lips and marvelled at the coldness of them, for she seemed afraid.
“Yes,” she murmured. “When do you wish to start?”
“As soon as possible. Do you know the way out?”
“No. I have never gone out except when accompanied by guides but that does not matter, for Tso-Lin is my friend. He is related to me. He watches over me. He will do whatever I wish. Let us go back. If I can locate him, we will leave within the hour.”
So at once they returned to the rooms of Chang Kien. In the library, Pandro encountered Shung Kung. When questioned, he said, “My master has retired. He does not wish to be disturbed until morning.”
Pandro was elated. He decided he would take nothing with him but the clothes he wore, for everything belonged to Chang Kien. Soon he was joined by Jasmine Flower.
“Shall we go?” she asked softly. “Tso-Lin is waiting.”
Old Tso-Lin bowed as Pandro and Jasmine Flower joined him in the corridor. And so they set out for the cavern’s mouth. None of them spoke, but at the same time they made no effort to hide themselves. In one spot they met one of the guards, but he stepped aside for them to pass. Evidently he saw nothing odd in their pilgrimage.
At last they reached the open air. Three horses were saddled and bridled, waiting, but there was no sign of anyone about. Five minutes later they were riding out into the desert, which is nobody knows how old. The night was clear, the air fresh, and there was little wind to disturb the sand dunes. The stars were as bright as little moons. For several hours they rode along in silence. Tso-Lin was in charge and they did not question his actions. When he suggested camping for the night, Pandro acquiesced.
“Sleep will do us all good,” he said. “Besides, Jasmine Flower is very tired.”
&
nbsp; “I feel exhausted,” she admitted.
Pandro kissed her softly as he helped her from the saddle. Meanwhile Tso-Lin spread several rugs for her to recline upon. Then they left her and went to a spot some distance away.
“How can I ever thank you?” said Pandro gratefully.
Tso-Lin looked at him and smiled bitterly. “Please don’t thank me for being untrue to my own people.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are an enemy of Confucius and since I am one of his direct descendants you are also my enemy. Yet I hold out my hand to you in friendship. I give unto you Jasmine Flower, the most appealing girl in all of China.”
“But we saved her from a terrible fate at the hands of Chang Kien.”
It was some moments before Tso-Lin spoke and when he did his voice faltered.
“I am an old man. I have lived almost two hundred years and sometimes I grow weary of this world and long for the Great Peace. Especially is this true when I meet a man of extreme youth who is bent on rearranging the universe. It has been aptly said that man cannot make a flea and yet he goes onward making gods by the dozen. You who stand at the beginning of wisdom, have had the insolence to attempt to pull the wisdom of the ages down about you. The pitiful part of it all is, that through you, Chang Kien must suffer. I would not be true to my illustrious ancestors if I permitted this great wrong to continue without lifting my voice in protest.”
“But Chang Kien is a fiend,” exclaimed Pandro. “We have saved Jasmine Flower from a terrible death. I wonder if she would have gone with him so willingly had she known the real reason for her purchase.”
“Vision comes with age. You are too easily influenced by legend. Jasmine is not a slave. Chang Kien did not purchase her as they have told you. The whole story was an intricate fabrication. Jasmine Flower is related to Confucius. She is of the same family. Chang Kien was deeply enamored of her. Eventually they were to be married. Then they heard of the mission upon which you were setting out. Together they endeavored to combat it. Ordinarily Chang Kien would not have been worried by your attack upon the classics. At other times men have attempted this without appreciable result. But today the whole world is in turmoil, like a surging restless sea. People everywhere are dissatisfied. Seeds of discontent are sown by a handful of powerful despots drunk with power and they fall on fertile soil. Chang Kien was afraid that your attack upon the classics at this time, might come at the psychological moment. Other great nations had suffered catastrophes in their religions and philosophies. Why should China escape, especially now that she is torn by so many discordant factions? Half the troubles of the world exist because too many men aspire to be dictators. Above all else, Chang Kien holds his ancestors in reverence. He could not look on quietly while you flayed them unmercifully. At any cost, the classics must be saved. Jasmine Flower agreed with him for she loved him with a love as beautiful as it was rare. So Chang Kien plotted to get you into his power. Having attained this end, he was faced with an awesome problem. How could he dispose of you without going against the teachings of Confucius? Confucius was a man of peace. His doctrine is summed up in one of his own analects, ‘In the book of poetry are three hundred pieces but the design of them all may be embraced in that one sentence, “Have no depraved thoughts.”‘ Thus the hands of Chang Kien were tied. He must rid his people of you without lifting his hand in anger. He talked the matter over with Jasmine Flower and they decided that only by sacrifice could the end be attained. If you fell in love with Jasmine Flower, you would most assuredly cease your attacks on our religion. She pretended to be a slave and he told that fantastic legend of ‘The Book of Love’ in order to stir your desire for Jasmine Flower. That is why you are now fleeing with her. It was all of Chang Kien’s planning.”
As Tso-Lin finished speaking, Pandro Sharp felt as though the world had ended for him. How can a man be comforted for the loss of all his hopes, his plans, his dreams? He rose to his feet and walked over to where Jasmine was sleeping. In the moonlight her face was wonderfully sweet. For her people she was willing to sacrifice all the years of her life. On these doctrines had she been reared, the eternal analects of Confucius.
Reverently he stooped and kissed her lips. As he did so, she stirred in her sleep and her arm crept about his neck. For a moment he remained thus and he knew that until the flame of his life flickered out, this moment would remain in his memory always. After all, he had had his hour; so few ever attain even that. And now the hour was over.
At last he rose to his feet and returned to Tso-Lin. “This is goodbye,” he whispered. “I am leaving China forever and I am going alone. Take Jasmine back to Chang Kien and tell them both that I am not an enemy of Confucius. No more will I trifle with the Chinese classics for I have been convinced that as long as the earth lasts, they will not perish. My researches are at an end. Let Jasmine Flower rest until morning. There is no reason to tell her of my departure.”
“I knew what your decision would be,” whispered Tso-Lin.
Without another word, Pandro Sharp rode off deeper into the desert. Before morning he would arrive at the city that fringed the desert. After that only a vast void loomed up before him. He shuddered as he faced the future for even though he returned to New York, some part of him would always remain in China.
As Tso-Lin watched him ride into the blue mists of night, he murmured, “‘The mistakes of a great and good man are like eclipses of the sun and moon: his failing is seen by all, and when he repairs it, all look up to him with awe.’”
FIVE MERCHANTS WHO MET IN A TEA-HOUSE
THIS IS THE STORY OF FIVE MERCHANTS WHO met in a tea-house on the road to Canton. From various sections of China they had come and their paths converged in the tea-house. They were not friends; they had never met until that auspicious occasion when they paused at the house of Lum Lee to sip of the beverage that makes all men brothers.
Ling Yoong who came from Peiping was a jade master, well known throughout all the provinces. Where jade was concerned his word was law and not infrequently he was called in by wealthy Manchus, war lords and even far-off Indian potentates to appraise odd bits of jade and nephrite carvings. Few there were in all of China to compare with him in choosing jewels or women. Although he was an expert in all jewels, most of his attention was given to jade, for jade like women is endless in variety, alluring, pleasant to the touch and comforting. On this particular day when he arrived at the tea-house he was in a most amiable mood. He was fat and bland and smiling. The world was good. That trip had been very satisfactory. He had picked up many gorgeous jewels and knickknacks which he was carrying to the lady of his heart. A collection of snuff boxes of fabulous worth, for Mai-da, the lady of his dreams, was a connoisseur, a collector of antiques, rich porcelains and jewels. What Ling Yoong did not know was that Mai-da found it very remunerative to be a collector. Many of her gifts she kept and displayed to advantage but not a few of her presents found their way into the hands of a shrewd shopkeeper who dwelt on Lantern Street.
Never had Ling Yoong come across so lovely a collection of snuff boxes as he now was carrying with him. Porcelain snuff boxes of great age, boxes of lacquer, malachite, bamboo, snake-crystal, coral, and aventurine. He was also taking to her jade seals, beautiful pendants of cloisonné enamel, an egg-shell porcelain tea set decorated with famille rose enamel. No wonder Ling Yoong was happy as he breathed the sweet aroma of tea.
Dien Lee, the second merchant, was handsome, young and very wealthy. His face was like the full moon and his nose was flat against his face. He had inherited his rug, silk and tapestry business from his father. From his father, too, he had inherited his love of women and silk. For fine silks are as soft and fragrant as the body of a beloved woman. Dien Lee traveled miles on end to secure rare silks and tapestries. He joyed to strip girls nude and then to clothe them in silks as soft as moonrise. At such times it seemed as though the silk and the skin of the adored woman blended and became one. For the love of a man can bring out the beauty in a
woman. It is almost as though from his love she draws a divine light that makes her body glow. Now Dien Lee was returning to Canton with silks from the far north, the softest silks he had ever beheld or touched. And with them he intended to drape the gorgeous body of his lady.
Chu Kai was a philosopher and a dreamer. Older than either Ling Yoong or Dien Lee. All his life he had devoted to the study and care of chrysanthemums. From the daisy, the Chinese developed this lushest of all flowers and it was the ambition of Chu Kai to develop it into something even more beautiful. It was his wish that some day he could imbue a chrysanthemum with a soul, a flower that would love, that would sway toward him as he approached, or lift up its head for his kiss, a flower that would tremble at his embrace even as did that lovely lady in Canton toward whose home he was hastening. And he was carrying a gift for her, the rarest gift in the floral world, a perfectly blue chrysanthemum, the only one of its kind in the world, not an ordinary blue but blue like the cool night sky in which the soft stars sleep. Perhaps some day he would be able to raise a chrysanthemum as beautiful as the lady of his dreams.
Chu Chen was a business man. He had spent his life in counting houses along the various wharves of China, and his thoughts were in the various warehouses of the world. He was a rice king. It was his boast that at one time one fourth of the population of China existed on his rice. Whether or not this was true no one could say, for Chu Chen was a master of exaggeration. Nevertheless he was wealthy beyond dispute. He considered rice the very blood of China. It represented life. He cared more for it than anything else beneath the sun except the lovely lady in Canton, the lady who was all his and who now waited for him in her Cantonese garden.
Voong Wo, the last of the merchants, dealt in tea. He was older and more complacent than any of the others. He liked to sip tea and think of the Canton lady of his dreams. She gladdened the pictures which he imagined existed in the perfume. Now he was hastening to her with a gift of tea that was as precious as jewels; tea from Ming Shan Mountain in Western Szechuan, the rarest of all known teas, cultivated by Buddhist priests. For tea is the soul of life.
