The Nine Cloud Dream Read online

  They stopped in front of one of the pavilions, where white horses with finely decorated saddles were tied up outside and grooms and servants rushed about. Shao-yu looked up—from the second story of the pavilion came sounds of music and the perfume of rich silk brocades wafting through the air. Thinking that it must be a feast for the local prefect, he sent the boy to inquire.

  “All the young noblemen of the city are here,” the boy said when he returned. “They are having a party with famous courtesans.”

  When he heard this, Shao-yu felt inspired to write poetry. He dismounted and went up the steps of the pavilion to the second floor, where he saw a dozen young men—wealthy and powerful, from the looks of their clothes—with a score of pretty girls sitting on silk cushions, laughing and chatting among tables laden with fine food and wine.

  When Shao-yu stepped into their midst, they noticed his appearance and bearing. They rose to introduce themselves and made a place for him to sit.

  “I am Yang Shao-yu, a humble scholar from the country on my way to take the civil examination,” said Shao-yu. “As I was passing by I heard the sound of sweet music. I could not restrain myself, and so I have come in uninvited. Please forgive me.”

  One of the young men, whose name was Lu, said, “If you are a scholar on your way to take the examination, you are welcome to take part in today’s feast even if you were not invited. We are delighted to have a visitor, and your presence makes the party all the more interesting. You have no need to apologize.”

  “I see that this is not just a gathering for food and drink, but an occasion for composing poetry. Would it be presumptuous of me to join you?” he replied.

  Seeing that he was young and naive, they condescended to him. “Brother Yang, since you are the last to arrive, you are not obliged to compose a poem. Just have a drink and enjoy yourself,” they said. They passed him a cup and called on the women to sing and play music.

  Shao-yu looked at the courtesans, his vision quickly blurred by the wine, and saw that they were all extraordinary. But there was one among them who sat there not talking, not singing, not playing. Her face was exquisite and her bearing graceful—she was beyond compare—and Shao-yu was so distracted that he forgot to pass the wine cup. She looked at him, and as their eyes met, there was a moment of recognition.

  Now Shao-yu noticed that there was a pile of compositions in front of her. “I presume these are your poems,” he said to the men. “May I see them?” But before they could answer, the girl rose and brought them to Shao-yu herself.

  He read them one by one, some better than others, but all mediocre in the end. Not one struck him as remarkable. He thought to himself, “I have heard that the men of Lo-yang are gifted poets, but now I see that it is not true.” He handed the poems back to the girl and, bowing to the men, he said, “I hail from Ch’u, and have never had the honor of reading poetry from the capital, but now that I have had the good fortune to see your beautiful compositions, I am enlightened and edified.”

  The party of guests had by this time become quite intoxicated, and they replied, “Brother Yang, you’re only appreciating the beauty of the poems! You aren’t appreciating the other beauty that goes with them!”

  Shao-yu answered, “You have been so kind in your hospitality, I am sure you would not hold anything back from me. What is this other beauty of which you speak?”

  One of the men, Wang, laughed and said, “Why not tell? There’s a saying here that if a candidate from Lo-yang does not place first in the civil exam, then a Lo-yang man will place second. We are all great poets here, and so we cannot be our own judges. That we leave to the girl—Kuei Ch’an-yüeh. She is an unrivaled beauty, classically trained, and also an excellent critic. That is why everyone in Lo-yang submits his poems for her expert opinion. She never errs in her judgment. We ask her to choose the best and sing it for us, set to music, and then comment on the good and bad points. The Kuei of her name is the same kuei as the cinnamon tree in the moon, so to be picked by her is a good omen for taking first place in the civil exam. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “There’s even more,” added a youth named Tu. “And it is far better. The one whose poem she chooses and sings will spend the night in her company, and we will all jealously congratulate him. Now, how about it? You are a man, too, Brother Yang. Why don’t you compete with us by writing a poem?”

  “It has already been some time since you all finished your poems,” said Shao-yu. “Hasn’t Ch’an-yüeh chosen one to sing?”

  “She hasn’t yet struck a note or opened her red lips. Nor has she parted her pearly teeth since we began,” said Wang. “She is evidently saving her voice for the best.”

  “I have written some poems,” said Shao-yu, “but I am from far away in Ch’u and I am afraid I may not do well in your company.”

  Wang said loudly, so everyone could hear, “Master Yang is prettier than a girl! I wonder if that is why he has no manly spirit! In The Analects, it is said, ‘In virtue step not aside even for your teacher; it is the duty of the superior man to do his best.’ So stop with your false modesty and show us whether or not you can write a poem!”

  Shao-yu had decided he would humbly decline, but then he looked at Ch’an-yüeh and he was filled with such excitement that he could not resist. He took a sheet of paper from the pile and wrote three stanzas in what seemed like a single stroke. His brush moved like a ship gliding over the sea in a fair wind, or a thirsty horse galloping to water. The young men gathered there went pale as they watched.

  Finally, Shao-yu put down the brush and said to the men, “I should be showing this to you to criticize first, but the judge today is Ch’an-yüeh and I am anxious not to be late in submitting my entry.”

  His verses read:

  The traveler from Ch’u comes westward to Ch’in;

  he comes to Lo-yang to get drunk on its wine.

  Who shall be first to pluck the moon’s cinnamon

  but the one who can prove he is master of verse?

  Willow catkins float beneath T’ien-chin Bridge

  like jeweled curtains reflecting the twilight;

  Ears prick up, listening for her song

  as her silken skirts pause upon the cushions.

  The flowers droop in shame before her beauty,

  her lips perfumed, though she has yet to sing;

  When all the ridgepole’s dust has fallen,

  her room is candlelit to greet the bridegroom.

  Ch’an-yüeh read the poem with shining eyes, and then she burst into clear song, accompanying herself on a ch’in. Her voice was like cranes calling in the sky or the song of the phoenix in the bamboo grove. The flutes went silent and the pipas2 lost their melody.

  The men in the audience were intoxicated by the music, their faces pale. They had looked upon Shao-yu with contempt, but now that Ch’an-yüeh had chosen his poem their spirits fell and they looked at each other, speechless with dismay. They resented having to give Ch’an-yüeh to this boy, but they could not go back on their promise.

  Shao-yu sensed their displeasure and quickly got up. “I have enjoyed your hospitality,” he said. “I have eaten my fill and I have overindulged in drink. I thank you with utmost sincerity, but I have yet a long way to go and I cannot stay. I shall look forward to your company once again at the celebration for the winners of the civil examination.”

  When he bid them farewell and left the pavilion, they did not try to detain him.

  Shao-yu was mounting his donkey outside the pavilion when Ch’an-yüeh came running down after him. “As you go along the road you will come to a painted garden wall with a cherry tree blooming outside. That is my house. Go inside and wait for me there. I will come soon.”

  He nodded and rode off, whereupon Ch’an-yüeh went back up into the pavilion and said to the men, “You gentlemen have indulged me and allowed me to decide tonigh
t’s winner by singing just one song. What is your verdict?”

  “Yang is an outsider,” they said. “He is not one of us, and you are not obliged to concern yourself with him.” Then they argued among themselves, some saying this and some saying that, but they could not arrive at an agreement.

  “I have no affection for men who break a promise,” said Ch’an-yüeh. “You must excuse me. I am feeling unwell and I must leave now, but do not let that spoil your good time.”

  The men were unhappy about her departure, but because of their agreement with her and seeing her cold smile, they dared not say a word.

  Meanwhile, Shao-yu had returned to the inn for a while. Later, when he made his way to Ch’an-yüeh’s house, she was already there waiting for him. He tied the donkey to the cherry tree and knocked at the gate. Ch’an-yüeh ran out so swiftly to welcome him that she did not even put on her shoes.

  “You left before I did,” she said. “How is it that I was here first?”

  Shao-yu replied, “As it says in The Analects, ‘It was not my intention to come late—it was that my horse was slow.’”

  They embraced eagerly and went into the house. Ch’an-yüeh sang “The Gold-Embroidered Robe” as she poured him wine and offered it to him in a jade cup. Her voice was sweet and her face was like a moonlit flower. Shao-yu was enchanted. He took her by the hand and led her to the silk bedding, where they made ecstatic love.

  Afterward, as they lay together, Ch’an-yüeh spoke to him. “Today I have betrothed myself to you,” she said. “Let me tell you about my life, and when you hear, perhaps you will care for me.

  “I come from Shao-chou. My father was a minor official in the prefecture, but he fell ill and died far away from home. We were poor and had no money for a funeral, so to bury him properly my mother sold me to be a courtesan for one hundred pieces of gold. I swallowed my pride and accepted the shame and sorrow of a life of servitude.

  “But Heaven has favored me and sent you to me, the sun and moon of my life. The road to Ch’ang-an goes in front of this house, but watching all the people come and go from the capital for the past five years, I have never seen a man who is your equal. Tonight my lifelong wish has been granted. I would gladly be your servingmaid and cook your food if you think I would do. Will you have me?”

  Shao-yu consoled her. “My heart is with you,” he said. “But I am only a poor scholar with an elderly mother who depends on me. I would like nothing better than to marry you and grow old together, but I am not sure what she would think of it. Suppose she chose another wife and had me take you as a concubine? Even if you had no objection to it, I know I would find no one better than you. I do not know what more to say.”

  “You will take the top place in the examination. There is no one in the world equal to you,” said Ch’an-yüeh. “You will win the ribbon seal of a minister or the insignia of a general and the most beautiful women in all the land will chase after you. How could I expect to have you only to myself? Please, when you are married to a girl from a high family and your mother is living with you, do not abandon me. I will be chaste from this day on, saving my body for you alone, and I will wait for you to come for me.”

  “Last year, when I went through Hua-chou, I happened to see a girl of the Ch’in family,” said Shao-yu. “Her beauty and talent were like yours, but now she is gone. Where would I ever find another girl of such caliber?”

  “The girl you speak of can only be Ts’ai-feng, the daughter of Inspector Ch’in,” said Ch’an-yüeh. “We were best friends when her father was in charge of this province. She was a wonderful musician, with the skill of Cho Wen-chün. It is no wonder you fell in love with her. How could you not love her the way Szu-ma Hsiang-ju loved Cho Wen-chün?3 But there is no point in thinking about her now. You must find a bride in another family.”

  “But truly beautiful women are rare. With you and Ts’ai-feng both living in the same age, how could I hope to meet another woman so lovely?”

  Ch’an-yüeh laughed. “You talk like you are the frog in the well.4 I will tell you about courtesans. There are three of us who are said to be of exceptional beauty: Wan Yü-yen, the Jade Swallow of Chiang-nan; Ti Ching-hung, the shy Wild Goose of Ho-pei; and myself, Kuei Ch’an-yüeh, the Moonlight of Lo-yang. I am not equal to my reputation, but Wan Yü-yen and Ti Ching-hung are the greatest beauties alive. So how can you say there is no other beauty besides T’sai-feng?

  “I have never met Wan Yü-yen because she lives far away, but everyone who comes from the south sings her praises, and I am sure that what they say is true. As for Ching-hung, she is like a sister to me, so I can tell you about her. She was born to a good family in Po-chou, but she lost her parents when she was little and was sent to live with her aunt. From the time she was a teen, rumors of her beauty spread all through Ho-pei. Thousands in gold were offered for her as concubine and marriage brokers swarmed her house like bees until she asked her aunt to send them away.

  “They said, ‘Whom does she want that you chase us all away? Will you make her the wife of a minister or the concubine of a governor? Or will you give her to some famous scholar?’

  “Ching-hung answered for herself. She said, ‘If a man like Hsih An-shih, who married a courtesan of Tung-shan in the days of Ch’in, should want me, I will gladly be the wife of a minister. If someone who knows music as well as Chou Kung-chin of the Three Kingdoms comes along, I will marry a governor.

  “‘If there is someone who writes poetry as well as Li Po during the reign of Hsüan Tsung then I will marry a poet. And if someone as skillful as Szu-ma Hsiang-ju, who sang “The Phoenix Seeks a Mate” at the time of Han Wu-ti5 should appear, then I will marry him. I will go where my heart goes—how can I tell you where in advance?’

  “All the marriage brokers laughed derisively and went away. Ching-hung said to herself, ‘How can a country girl with no worldly experience, trapped like this, ever hope to find a good husband? But a courtesan can have her pick, since she can sit with men of renown and open her gates to receive nobles and princes. She learns to recognize the quality of Ch’u-an bamboo, or jade from Lan-t’ien. She has no trouble choosing the best.’ So she sold herself to be a courtesan, hoping to find a suitable man for a husband, and she was soon famous.

  “Last year, renowned scholars and poets from all twelve prefectures of Shan-tung and Ho-pei had a banquet at Yeh-tu. Ching-hung sang ‘The Rainbow-Feathered Robe’ for them. She danced, flying like a wild goose, and she was as beautiful as a phoenix. All the other girls hung their heads in shame, so you can imagine how wonderful she was.

  “After the banquet she went to the top of Bronze Bird Terrace and paced back and forth in the moonlight, recalling sad old stories and singing sentimental songs. It reminded people of the Wei emperor6 and his cruel treatment of the pretty second daughter of the Ch’iao family. Everyone was struck by her beauty and intelligence. Do you think there are no others like her among women?

  “When Ching-hung and I played together at the Hsiang-kuo Monastery on Pien-chou, we shared our hopes and dreams with each other. She said to me, ‘If either of us meets a man who would suit us both, let us recommend each other to him and both live with him as his wives.’

  “I agreed, and when I met you, I immediately thought of Ching-hung. But—alas!—she is at the palace of the governor of Shan-tung now. She has a life of wealth and luxury, but that is not what she truly wants. I wish I could see her again and tell her about you. I have made up my mind.”

  Shao-yu replied, “There are plenty of talented courtesans. Surely there must be girls of respectable families who are just as accomplished.”

  “Of all the ones I know, there is no one who compares with Ts’ai-feng,” said Ch’an-yüeh. “I would not dare recommend anyone who is inferior to her. But I have heard people in Ch’ang-an say that Minister Cheng’s daughter is superior in beauty and virtue. They say she is the best of all. I have never seen her mys
elf, but as they say, great fame is never undeserved. So please try to get a look at her when you reach the capital.”

  The east window had grown light while they were talking and they got up to wash and get dressed. “You must not stay long,” said Ch’an-yüeh. “The other men who were at the party are all angry with you. You must get away quickly. We shall meet again and have many happy days together, so I will not be sad.”

  “Your words are like gold and jewels to me, and I shall carry them in my heart,” said Shao-yu, and they parted, both in tears.

  4

  A MYSTERIOUS PRIESTESS

  Shao-yu left Lo-yang and made his way to Ch’ang-an. He found an inn where he could stay while he waited for the examinations, which were still a few days off. He asked the innkeeper where the Chu-ch’ing Temple was and, learning that it was outside the Ch’un-ming Gate, he took a gift of silks and went to call on his aunt Tu, the Taoist priestess who was the abbess of that temple. She was already older than sixty and highly regarded for her attainments.

  Shao-yu bowed to her and gave her the letter from his mother. The priestess received his greeting, but then she wept and said, “It’s been more than twenty years since I last saw your mother. And now here is her son, all grown up. Time flies, and I am an old woman tired of living in the noise and confusion of the capital. I was about to go off and retire to the Kung-tung Mountains to pursue immortality, but now that your mother’s letter has reached me with this request, I will stay a while longer to help you.