They applauded. Winter Cherry said: “You are not as hungry as that, I hope?”
Ah Lai mumbled with his mouth fulclass="underline" “It is I who shall have the eating of that particular cake.”
Winter Cherry, drinking from her hands at the spring, observed: “I have learned not to blush.” She went to bury her hair at the foot of a bank.
Then they all returned to the road and walked on, between the high trees, southwards. They went on their way up the now slowly-sloping path, between fir and forest trees increasingly unlike those of the plain which they were leaving, trees which forsook the seeming neatness of city gardens for the purposive aspiring of untrammelled growth; ahead of them the great coloured mass of the mountain hung imperially in the southern sky, a beacon, a goal, and an unattained desire. On the lower shoulder of the mountain a cluster of rough roofs, tile and straw impartially, showed where the road ran.
“That is the place,” Li Po told them.
“It may seem strange to you two younger ones,” Han Im said, “to find thus, on the shoulder of a mountain, an almost village devoted largely to the delight, entertainment and relaxation of poets. I have found in the past that poets are apt to take for granted the comforts and facilities which earlier rulers have provided for them. The place before us, for example, was built and furnished by the Empress Wu-chao, who seized the throne nine years before Li Po was born. During her reign and that of the two Emperors who preceded our present monarch, the collection of houses which you now see coming towards you out of their green foliage was built and enlarged as a place where the poets of the capital, exhausted by dissipation or even by making poems to order, could come for resting. The larger building is called ‘The Poet’s House’, and below it you can see the palm thatched farm house whose produce and (I add) cooks make life here a dream of laziness. Here Meng Hao-jen used to come, and of it he wrote his famous ‘On Returning to Chung-nan Hill’. You remember it, Li Po?”
“Why ask me to remember other men’s poems?” Li Po complained.
Winter Cherry said: “You tell us, Han Im.”
Han Im recited:—
“That is a very sad poem,” Ah Lai said. “Did he die here?”
Han Im answered: “I do not know. But the Emperor denied that Meng had been sent away, Li Po, did you not contribute to that?”
“Yes,” Li Po said. “I did, A most inadequate thing called ‘A Message to Meng Hao-jen’. Not only do I forget it, but I should be unwilling to tell it to you, even if I did remember. But it appears to me that we shall not find this place empty, as we had expected, for I see more than signs of life. And, unless my eyes are very faulty, that is Wang Wei himself, making preparations to welcome us.”
“But he is nearly as famous as yourself,” Ah Lai said.
“What is fame?” Li Po asked. “Of Wang Wei I can only tell you that he is first and foremost a fisherman, then that his powers as a doctor are in demand whenever he can be persuaded to exercise them, that he is a devotee of Buddha, and that his poetry is indescribable. He will tell you some, if you pretend that you have allowed it to escape your memory. But now, as we are near them, we must go in order.”
So they formed a procession, and at the gate which led in to the tended stone-pathed garden of the house Wang Wei stood to receive them, hands in his wide sleeves. On the left of but slightly behind Wang Wei another figure bowed—a man of perhaps thirty, slight and (so Winter Cherry felt) a little sinister.
“Greetings indeed!” Wang Wei cried when they had reached the prescribed distance. “I had not dreamed of your coming to visit us. This is Liu Shen-hsu, who also spoils paper with verse. You have not yet eaten your morning rice?”
“Your surprise at seeing us is nothing to our delight in seeing you,” Li Po replied. “We came here on the strength of a whim, ready to find the house empty, prepared to make do for ourselves. Now we find company such as no guess could have expected: we find friends and servants, warmth and welcome. Indeed, I can hardly bear to think of my own feelings if we had walked so far and not encountered you. This is Han Im,” he concluded.
They broke up into groups. Wang Wei and Li Po went to look at the flowers. Liu and Han Im discussed the weather.
Winter Cherry said to Ah Lai: “We had better put the things somewhere. I do not know what tale they will tell our hosts, and it would be as well to hide any evidence which might conflict with that tale.”
“I will show you,” Ah Lai answered. “I have been here before. But remember you are supposed to be a boy, and do not be too polite when they speak to you. Come.”
As they moved towards the building, Li Po called from the garden: “Ah Lai, you two can have the room which you occupied when we were here last time.” Then he turned to the flowers.
Ah Lai said: “My uncle, being a poet, is not what most men would call a practical man, but on this occasion I have no fault to find with his arrangements.”
When they reached the low-ceilinged room, they found that the long bed against the north wall was occupied by two girls who had removed their outer garments and were lying on their backs at opposite ends, eating melon-seeds.
Ah Lai put down the things which he was carrying. “You have made a mistake,” he said. “This room is ours.”
One of the girls turned to look at him, and laughed. “You can see for yourself that what you have said is untrue,” she told him. “This is our room. I am called Honeysuckle, and my sister, here, is Clear Rain. We have come to add sparkle to the verbal wisdom of the old men, and the honourable Wang Wei gave us this room. Nevertheless . . . .”
Clear Rain spoke without turning. “I imagine that you knew the room to be ours,” she said. “Your coming therefore bears another possible interpretation. But it is too early in the day. So go away.”
Ah Lai said: “You are both wrong. First, this is not your room, but ours. Secondly, we did not come to see you. I shall consult the honourable Li Po and tell him about you.”
Both the girls sat up at once. “Li Po is here?” Honeysuckle asked. “Then indeed it will be worth while having come. Wang Wei is old and knows it, Liu Shen-hsu is not old, but thinks that he is. Li Po, alone, possesses the wisdom of age and the abilities of youth. Come, Clear Rain, let us go and find him.”
They ran towards the door, then stopped and put on the rest of their clothes before disappearing with much chatter.
Ah Lai observed: “My uncle seems to have a reputation. Now that the girls have gone, we can leave our things here. We had better go and see him, and the honourable Wang Wei, since it seems the two of them are at cross purposes.”
But when they readied the garden, the difficulties seemed to have been resolved, for the girls were laughing and joking with Li Po, while Wang Wei looked on benevolently. The younger poet, Liu Shen-hsu, came towards them.
“It seems that there has been trouble over accommodation,” he said. “Though why two youths such as yourself should object to the presence of two such accomplished girls as Honeysuckle and Clear Rain, I cannot imagine. It must be the first time that those two have met with such an affront. But the honourable Wang Wei has said that you are to have the girls’ room and the girls can have the next room.” He looked enquiringly at Winter Cherry and Ah Lai, as if he held doubts which he did not voice. Then he added: “There will be a meal in a short time.”