Chapter 8: Miss Chang, Longing as a Woman, Sorrowfully Sings One Tune; Young Master Duan, Longing as a Man, Weeps Bitterly for a Long While

A lyric goes:

Meeting face to face — the sweetest ache of all,

Yet tasting yearning turns it bitter gall.

Why not speak the heart and let the feeling pour?

To pour it out proves harder than before.

Long song and bitter weeping wear the grief away —

Or so one hopes, but nothing mends the day.

If joy and gladness are what you would win,

Wait till the Two Stars meet and look within.

(To the tune "Hǎo Shì Jìn")

Now the story tells: Chāng Quán had rescued Fèngyí's daughter from amid the chaos of war, bade her bow and acknowledge him as adoptive father, and brought her back to the yamen, where he had her pay her respects to Madame Dù. He recounted the whole affair in detail. Madame Dù was overwhelmed with astonished delight. Although the girl was young, she had been born with natural grace and beauty and spoke with gentleness; moreover she was attentive and respectful — exactly as if she were a child of the house. Madame Dù cherished and adored her no differently than her own. Knowing too that the girl had been raised as a young lady and was accustomed to comfort and luxury, she assigned two maidservants to wait upon her: one named Chūnhuā, the other Qiūhuā.

Chāng Quán also had the row of rooms in the rear garden tidied and fitted out as his daughter's private quarters, and the books he had collected were all arranged in the room below to serve as a study — shelves full of books and paintings, a gleaming array wherever one looked. Whenever Zhōu Chóngwén sent documents for the brush, Chāng Quán would review and write in that study. The young lady sat and rested there as she pleased, browsing freely, and was well pleased with it. She also found the maids' names rather common, so she changed Chūnhuā to Chūnhuī and Qiūhuā to Qiūsù. Both girls were about thirteen or fourteen — nearly the same age as the young lady. Of the two, Chūnhuī proved the more clever and capable, and so she best suited the young lady's tastes. The young lady often taught her to read a little and to practise a few characters, and through this Chūnhuī gained some understanding of learning and conduct, and thus stood apart from ordinary maids. Whenever the young lady had a moment's respite from needlework, she would read from the histories to pass the solitary hours.

As for Miss Fèng — she had fled for her life through circumstances that nearly cost it nine times over. Now that she had peace and ease, it might be supposed she ought to put every trouble behind her. Yet the human heart is the most restless of things and cannot be treated as one piece. Suffering has its own world, and happiness has its own world. When one is in the world of suffering, one is too pressed with saving one's own life to think of anyone else; and that cannot be called heartlessness or ingratitude. But if, placed in a world of happiness, one were to discard without a thought all the kindness and loyalty one had received before — then such a person would be worse than a beast.

And so, after Miss Cǎiwén had bowed to Chāng Quán and Madame Dù as her father and mother and settled into her place, with her body at ease and her years gradually lengthening, how could she not look backward and forward in her mind? At times she would think of her own birth parents: separated for several years, and after the raid — what suffering must they have endured? How they must have longed for her! They surely believed her crushed and dead, with no hope of meeting again in this life, not knowing that she still wandered alive under distant skies. Pitiful — they were old now, with no brothers to care for them in her stead, and years had passed without word of life or death. How could one not pace about in anguished grief? Then she would think of Fèngyí's parents: their nurturing kindness had truly surpassed even that of her birth parents. They had only hoped that an adopted daughter would bring joy to their old age; they had not expected to be sent into exile and scattered by rebel troops. Thanks to her youth she had not perished, but those two, travelling the road as manifest officials yet secretly penniless — if they fell among rebels with no gold or silver to offer, they might have been killed by soldiers or died of starvation in a ditch. Even if they survived, she had no idea where they now were — and they had no idea she had found safe haven under new parents.

Thinking to this point, tears would trickle down. Again and again she wished to tell her present parents about her birth parents, but at the very first meeting she had been received under the Fèng family name and addressed throughout as "young lady." To explain now might only seem like a clever concealment. And whenever she thought of Fèngyí's parents' kindness, she longed to open her mouth and ask her present parents to send inquiries about their whereabouts — yet she feared they would suspect a child who longed for one family while dwelling in another, and then not only would nothing be achieved, but the goodwill between them might be harmed. So she kept it all within her heart. Then she would think: "Heaven gave me this much talent, yet also made every circle go incomplete — west falls short when east is full. Why is my fate so unkind?"

Every time such thoughts arose, she felt truly heartbroken. Then she would think of that first encounter with her cousin Táng Chāng — the warmth of his devoted regard, a tenderness she could not forget, and the quiet meanings hidden in their exchanged poems, the unspoken affections that had grown into mutual love, a betrothal, a vow of lifelong devotion. At parting they had lingered, exchanging earnest words of counsel and promise, each heart at peace in the trust of a lifelong bond. Yet barely had they parted when this sudden catastrophe fell upon her: driven from her home, drifting to a foreign place. He would be sitting quietly at his books, surely unaware of any of this. If the news ever reached him, he would certainly believe her pearls had sunk, her jade had shattered — moon waned, flower gone. And he, whose feeling and loyalty ran so deep, must surely lie wakeful through dark nights, staring at a guttering lamp, overwhelmed with grief; must surely find daylight meaningless, unable to read or write for the weight of his sorrow. Yet here she sat, oddly safe. The world shifts without warning. She had suffered her disaster — but what of her cousin at this very moment? Now, wishing to seek word of him, she found herself cut off by a thousand li of sky and earth, her gaze lost before it could reach its mark. What comfort could she offer to one who knew her heart? Truly it was cause for grief. And so she spent her days in longing, months in quiet yearning, never daring to pour it all out, having only to set down her needle in silence and pace alone with bowed head. When bitter rain and chill wind came, when flowers opened and flowers fell, the melancholy deepened all the more. And so she often borrowed the scenes around her to ease her heart, giving feeling its shape in verse.

One day Chūnhuī said: "The flowers in the garden are all in bloom. Why does the young lady not pause her embroidery and take a stroll? It would be a shame to let the spring light mock us."

The young lady, having no other way to pass the time, went with Chūnhuī for a walk through the garden. Chūnhuī led her east and west to admire the sights. Though there were winding flower paths and curved pavilions, when she looked carefully it all seemed somehow faint and joyless — the fragrance thin, the colours empty. Even where red bloomed thick on the branches, there was none of the vivid, enchanting brightness one might expect. The young lady felt displeased. She asked Chūnhuī: "I have heard that when plants meet their proper season, they bloom with dazzling beauty and a fragrance that draws one in until one cannot bear to leave. Yet the flowers here in this garden, though they should be lovely, are somehow not; though they should be bright, they are somehow not; though they should be fragrant, they somehow are not. What is the reason?"

Chūnhuī smiled and said: "The young lady simply does not know. The difference between south and north is no empty name — the soil and water differ between them. Southern soil and water are moist, the earth's breath mild and gentle, and so plants grown there are also gentle and full; northern soil and water are dry and harsh, the earth's breath parched, and so plants grown there are likewise parched. Hence the old saying: ice breaks on the river's edge when the flowers of Chang'an have already fallen — not because the seasons differ, but because the places differ. This garden never had flowers to begin with. These were all transplanted at great expense because Lord Zhōu is a southerner and would not be without them. So though they bear the name of peach and apricot, their colour is in the end quite ordinary."

The young lady nodded quietly at this and felt even more dispirited. A sudden memory touched her — the words she and Táng Chāng had once exchanged beneath the flowers — and a few tears fell unbidden. Afraid Chūnhuī would notice, she quickly bowed her head and wiped them away. But Chūnhuī had already seen, and said at once: "The young lady should be lifting her spirits — why does sorrow only deepen? If there is something on your mind, you may speak of it to Chūnhuī; it would do no harm."

Pressed by the question, the young lady could only hedge: "A chance sight moved me unexpectedly — even I do not know why. There is truly nothing to it."

Seeing the young lady's mood utterly gone, Chūnhuī walked back with her to the embroidery room. Truly:

The peach grows greedy bearing fruit — then sheds its blooms;

The willow waits for shade before it casts its down.

Do not mistake those falling tears for nothing —

The broken heart knows well its own sorrow's ground.

Miss Chang returned from the garden with Chūnhuī and felt even more listless and joyless, unable to find comfort in anything. She composed a suite of song-lyrics — lyrics of a woman's longing — setting them to the palace tones and threading them onto silk strings to ease her long-pent grief:

Shí Èr Hóng

(Twelve Reds)

[Shān Pō Yáng]

Leaning by the silver screen, I pace and think deep thoughts —

then all at once the two of us are standing close, side by side.

How was I to know who he was?

He, startled into gladness, bowed and stepped aside.

[Wǔ Gēng Zhuǎn]

In quiet I studied him, looked carefully to know him —

no prior acquaintance, no coming and going between us.

Yet how did he one day descend as if from heaven

and take on the borrowed name of kin,

turning a smiling face like flowers toward me?

[Yuán Lín Hǎo]

Young and slight,

hair trailing down over his shoulders.

His manner graceful,

his face fair, powdered fragrant.

[Jiāng Ér Shuǐ]

With no scruple for suspicion or reproach of solitude,

he called me younger sister, called me brother — only

as if we were still children, without a care.

[Yù Jiāo Zhī]

Deceiving father, coaxing mother —

the clever heart hid its mischief within.

Flirtatious feelings pressed straight to the core;

who gave a thought to eyes that looked askance, to brows that ached?

[Wǔ Gòng Yǎng]

I laugh at myself — heart swayed in an instant,

already I had marked them as mandarin ducks, a pair,

two and two.

I had already taken up the qin and the se,

carefully sorting their palace tones and notes.

Even if the luan bird were driven apart,

I would not wish them to be divided.

[Hǎo Jiě Jiě]

Fondly hoped we had pledged to travel and sing together —

but in one brief moment flower fled and willow rushed away.

[Yù Shān Tuí]

One household sent into exile to the east,

and soon the other shouldering hardship to the west.

Drifting with no fixed place,

like willow-down spinning wild.

Who knows where his footsteps now follow?

[Bào Zhě Cuī]

I remember his surname is Táng —

how many times have I longed for his name to carry fragrance.

I trust that learning and books have not betrayed his going and staying.

[Chuān Bō Zhuō]

Though word of him has failed,

how can I bear to forget this bond of feeling?

I need only hold firm the resolve within me —

I need only hold firm the resolve within me.

[Jiā Qìng Zǐ]

Even to disappoint this life, it does not matter —

I shall take the poet of "Flying Flowers" as my intended,

I shall take the "Song of Flying Flowers" as my intended.

Though alone one whole lifetime, looking on in solitude,

I will count only a pair.

[Jiǎo Jiǎo Lìng]

Flowers in my hair, and only tears for them;

before the mirror I cannot make myself up.

Fine winds and moonlit nights — who goes out to enjoy them?

I am resolved to pass this life in cold and lonely stillness.

[Wěi Shēng]

This body once held up like a pearl in cupped palms —

why then send another soul to the grave?

In the end, Heaven's intent remains beyond all asking.

Miss Chang, having composed the suite in one sitting, wrote it out on fine paper and read it through several times. Then she thought: "Written on a whim, these words lay the feeling far too bare — this is not how a young woman ought to conduct herself. If they were to fall into another's hands, would it not be a blemish on an otherwise spotless name?" She was about to destroy the paper, but then thought again: "Even if useless now, should the day of reunion ever come, this may serve as proof that the yearning was always there." So she folded the paper into a double-lozenge shape, put it away in her keepsake box, and there let the matter rest.

Now the story turns: Fèngyí and Madame Wáng had fled for their lives when the soldiers swept through, and in the confusion had lost track of the young lady. Madame Wáng wept bitterly several times and sent people to search, but without result. When it was learned that General Zhōu had led troops to suppress the rebels and peace was restored to all quarters, Fèngyí at last set out once more with Madame Wáng toward Yúlín Station. The road was desolate and lonely, and their hearts were heavy.

In a few days they arrived at Yúlín Station, which had only two thatched rooms with crumbling walls. Fèngyí and his wife waited half a day and saw no one come to meet them. After a further while, three or four men who looked like beggars shuffled out. Seeing Fèngyí, they knocked their heads to the ground and said: "We did not know that your lordship had come from afar; no word reached us and we failed to come and welcome you. But may we ask why your lordship has come to this barren and bitter place? And this station has not been repaired — how will your lordship bear such hardship?"

Fèngyí said: "I, Fèngyí, hold the post of Censor. Because I offended powerful ministers, I resigned myself to death. Now by the Emperor's boundless grace I am sent here as Station Master, and I count it ten thousand blessings. Though the station is not fit to live in, it is my duty as a subject to be here — how can I speak of hardship and thereby fail the Emperor's goodness? I ask only that you all help me find a little thatch and timber to keep out wind and rain — that would be more than kindness enough."

When he had spoken, he took out some silver and gave it to the men. Seeing that Fèngyí's words were both principled and human, without any airs or bluster, they all respected and pitied him. They spread word to the others, who all came and set to work on the station. Within a few days it was made bright and proper, and Fèngyí took up residence. Because Fèngyí transformed these rough men through his virtue alone, things at the station were peaceful and without incident. Truly:

He dared to touch the dragon's scales, thinking he would die for rooting out corruption,

yet the holy sovereign's grace bestowed exile rather than the sword.

He grieves only that loyal devotion is suppressed and cannot speak —

no way to knock again upon Heaven's gate.

Fèngyí and Madame Wáng settled in to endure their hardship at the station. Let this thread rest awhile.

The story now turns to Duān Chāng. After accompanying his parents to their new post, he spent his days reading and composing in the schoolroom. His father Duān Jū would from time to time send in the monthly compositions of the students for Duān Chāng to review and mark. Duān Chāng selected five pieces he found excellent and annotated them, saying: "These five men will certainly pass in this examination." His father trusted his judgment and notified the five men accordingly. Those five heard it as no more than the customary praise of their tutor and did not take it to heart. But when the provincial examination results were announced, all five had indeed passed. The five new juren, grateful for the recognition his pen had shown them, all sincerely acknowledged Duān Jū as their teacher and said: "When your students go north to continue the examinations, should we succeed there too, we will not allow our teacher to remain in humble station for long. We will exert ourselves to assist you as recompense for your discernment." In time they indeed repaid him — but that is a later matter.

As for Duān Chāng himself: he was now sixteen years old and growing gradually into manhood. Living in the yamen under Duān Jū's care and teaching — no different, in that regard, from a birth son — still he could not help looking backward and forward in his heart and feeling secretly discontented. He often thought of his birth parents, far away at the frontier, with no way to see them. He thought too of the deep kindness the Táng family had shown him, which he had not been able to repay. His heart became more and more heavy; he could not get through his reading, and spent his days sunk in a dreary fog. He wanted to go out and divert himself but feared it might reflect poorly on his father's official reputation, so he only sat brooding in the study.

One day a yamen runner brought in a letter. Duān Jū opened it: it was several compositions by the son of Minister Wáng, sent for review and annotation. Duān Jū read through it and walked into the study to hand it to his son, saying: "These compositions were sent by young Master Wáng. You may annotate them carefully with a few words of praise, and I shall have someone deliver them back."

Duān Chāng took the papers and read slowly through them. When he reached the end, there was a passage essay set on a classical topic — two lines from the Book of Songs: "Having now seen the noble one, he does not cast me far away."

Duān Chāng started at the sight. The words touched the very thing the young lady of the Fèng family had once said to him. He could not help letting out a long, involuntary sigh: "This fine bond — I had trusted it to last as long as heaven and earth. The young lady showed such deep feeling in pledging herself; Aunt also gave her blessing to our union; when I grew up I could have aspired to be her husband. Yet my fate proved unkind. That sudden violent blow came upon me — I still cannot fathom what enmity drew it. If I had remained under the Táng family name, even with the young lady in the capital I might still have found some occasion to catch a glimpse of her. But instead I drifted here, changed my name and my appearance, separated by mountains and passes — the great house is now as vast as the sea. And she — news of the calamity that befell me will certainly have reached the capital. If it reached the young lady's ears, her clever, proud heart must have been thrown into endless torment. Should she believe me certainly dead, her spirited and valiant nature would surely lead her to weep for me morning and night until she wasted away. If that were so, would it not mean that I, still alive in hiding, had brought about the young lady's death while still living myself?" Then he thought: "Even so, there is our aunt — her love for the young lady is deep, and she would counsel and comfort her in every way so that she would not die. Yet the young lady's feelings are hard to speak of; her tender emotion, silent and unspoken, must surely be making her grow thinner for my sake."

At this thought, Duān Chāng's tears flowed down. He suddenly collapsed onto the couch and beat upon it, weeping without sound. A page boy saw him and hurried inside to report to the master: "The young master was reading through some compositions in the study and suddenly broke into loud weeping. I do not know the reason and came at once to inform you."

Madame Lǐ hurried in with Duān Jū and found Duān Chāng indeed lying on the couch with his face covered, weeping in grief. Madame Lǐ came to the couch and stroked him, saying: "Child, why are you so heartbroken? Tell me what is the matter."

When Duān Chāng suddenly saw both parents before him, he scrambled up from the couch, too frightened to make a sound. Duān Jū and Madame Lǐ pressed him again and again, but he only hedged and would not speak.

Duān Jū grew greatly angry and said: "You read the sages' books all day — how dare you conceal things from your parents in this manner? Can that be called filial? Even if you are thinking of your birth parents, there is no harm in saying so plainly so that proper steps may be taken. To hide things, to weep and wail like this — what kind of behaviour is that!"

Hearing this, Duān Chāng quickly knelt down and said: "How would I dare to keep anything from my parents? But the truth is there is a hidden matter that is difficult to put into words."

Madame Lǐ helped him up, wiped his tears, and said: "Child, speak plainly. Your parents will naturally see to what needs to be done. Why torture yourself by weeping until your health suffers?"

Left with no choice, Duān Chāng told them everything: the young lady of the Fèng family's pledge of lifelong devotion, and how today he had suddenly seen the very lines of poetry she had alluded to all those years ago, and how the sight had overwhelmed him with feeling. "I have no other intention," he said.

Duān Jū said: "I see. But I think about this match: since Madame Wáng and the young lady both showed such appreciation for your character and affection for you, the bond is not broken. However, the Fèng family holds a high position, and they may be reluctant to take a son-in-law of your current standing. If you wish to honour the pledge to Miss Fèng, you need only apply yourself diligently to your studies and seek to rise through merit. Should fortune smile and you gain a place in the examinations, you may then go in person to petition Lord Fèng, and with the private pledge already in place, he cannot refuse. What good does brooding do you now?"

Hearing his father's words, Duān Chāng found them entirely sound and his spirits lifted at once. He said: "Father's view is absolutely right. How could I dare not to follow it!" And so he returned cheerfully to his books. Let this thread rest awhile. Truly:

Silent and unspeaking, the matter lies at heart —

from the day of parting until this very now.

Reed flowers, bright moon — where are they to be found?

Only in the grief-tinged depths of dreams to seek them out.

The story now turns: among the border commanders there was a man surnamed Cháng, given name Yǒng — a General in command at Tiānxióng Pass, a colleague of Zhōu Chóngwén. The troops of the two posts covered each other, responding in need and each holding his own station. This Cháng Yǒng was a favourite of the palace eunuch Cáo Jíxiáng at court, who had placed him to co-guard the frontier so that whatever merit was won could be reported upward as Cáo's own achievement. With such a patron behind him, Cháng Yǒng carried himself with blazing authority, and all the military officers along the borders were careful to flatter and defer to him. Those who failed to do so were frequently scolded; those who did not accept the scolding were reported to Cáo Jíxiáng and either demoted or transferred. Military men were constantly under his grip. Only Zhōu Chóngwén, having repeatedly distinguished himself at the frontier and built some reputation, was difficult to intimidate — so Cháng Yǒng actually came seeking to befriend him. Zhōu Chóngwén received him with modest courtesy.

That year Cháng Yǒng learned that his patron Cáo Jíxiáng was turning fifty and wished to present him with tribute in celebration. He had been sending men in all directions since half a year before to seek and purchase gifts — rare treasures and fine curiosities of every kind, leaving nothing out. He truly hoped that this display of devotion would earn him a jade seal and a higher rank. After much preparation, all the gifts were ready — except that he still lacked a congratulatory essay praising Cáo's virtues and achievements for the occasion. Though there were clerks in the army camp, they all wrote with a soldier's hand and he feared they could not render the praise with full elegance. To seek someone from outside, there was no talent he could call upon at a moment's notice. Then it suddenly occurred to him: Chāng Quán, staff adviser in Zhōu Chóngwén's army, was broadly learned and gifted with the brush — why not send a man with his calling card to ask Zhōu Chóngwén to have Chāng Quán write it for him? Would that not be an excellent arrangement? So he dispatched a man with a letter to Zhōu Chóngwén. Zhōu Chóngwén received it and told Chāng Quán the purpose of the visit. How could Chāng Quán refuse? He took up the letter and headed to the study. Because of this one act of writing, it shall come to pass:

Talent reveals beauty; within beauty, talent shines forth.

What happens next? Listen to the following chapter for the telling.