Both sipped a nectar wine from cups of jade¬—
silks breathed their scents, the mirror glassed their selves.
"The breeze blows cool, the moon shines clear," he said, 455
"but in my heart still burns a thirst unquenched.
The pestle's yet to pound on the
I fear my bold request might give offense."
She said: "By the red leaf, the crimson thread,*
we're bound for life—our oath proves mutual faith. 460
Of love make not a sport, a dalliance,
and what would I begrudge you otherwise?"
He said: "You've won wide fame as lutanist:
like Chung Tzu ch'i I've longed to hear you play."
"It's no great art, my luting," answered she, 465
"but if you so command, I must submit."
In the back porch there hung his moon shaped lute:
he hastened to present it in both hands,
at eyebrow's height. "My petty skill," she cried,
"is causing you more bother than it's worth!" 470
By turns she touched the strings, both high and low,
to tune all four to five tones, then she played.
An air, The Battlefield of Han and Ch'u,*
made one hear bronze and iron clash and clang.
The Ssu ma tune, A Phoenix Seeks His Mate,* 475
sounded so sad, the moan of grief itself.
Here was Chi K'ang's famed masterpiece, Kuang ling—*
was it a stream that flowed, a cloud that roamed?
Crossing the Border gate—here was Chao chun,
half lonesome for her lord, half sick for home. * 480
Clear notes like cries of egrets flying past;
dark tones like torrents tumbling in mid course.
Andantes languid as a wafting breeze;
allegros rushing like a pouring rain.
The lamp now flared, now dimmed—and there he sat 485
hovering between sheer rapture and deep gloom.
He'd hug his knees or he'd hang down his head¬—
he'd feel his entrails wrenching, knit his brows.
"Indeed, a master's touch," he said at last,
"but it betrays such bitterness within! 490
Why do you choose to play those plaintive strains
which grieve your heart and sorrow other souls?"
"I'm settled in my nature," she replied.
"Who knows why Heaven makes one sad or gay?
But I shall mark your golden words, their truth, 495
and by degrees my temper may yet mend."
A fragrant rose, she sparkled in full bloom,
bemused his eyes, and kindled his desire.
When waves of lust had seemed to sweep him off,
his wooing turned to wanton liberties. 500
She said: "Treat not our love as just a game¬—
please stay away from me and let me speak.
What is a mere peach blossom that one should
fence off the garden, thwart the bluebird's quest?
But you've named me your bride—to serve her man,* 505
she must place chastity above all else.
They play in mulberry groves along the P'u,*
but who would care for wenches of that ilk?
Are we to snatch the moment, pluck the fruit,*
and in one sole day wreck a lifelong trust? 510
Let's ponder those love stories old and new¬—
what well matched pair could equal Ts'ui and Chang?*
Yet passion's storms did topple stone and bronze
she cloyed her lover humoring all his whims.
As wing to wing and limb to limb they lay,* 515
contempt already lurked beside their hearts.
Under the western roof the two burned out
the incense of their vow, and love turned shame.
If I don't cast the shuttle in defense,*
we'll later blush for it—who'll bear the guilt? 520
Why force your wish on your shy flower so soon?
While I'm alive, you'll sometime get your due."
The voice of sober reason gained his ear,
and tenfold his regard for her increased.
As silver paled along the eaves, they heard 525
an urgent call from outside his front gate.
She ran back toward her chamber while young Kim
rushed out and crossed the yard where peaches bloomed.
II
The brushwood gate unbolted, there came in
a houseboy with a missive fresh from home. 530
It said Kim's uncle while abroad had died,
whose poor remains were now to be brought back.
To far Liao yang, beyond the hills and streams,*
he'd go and lead the cortege, Father bade.*
What he'd just learned astounded Kim—at once 535
he hurried to her house and broke the news.
In full detail he told her how a death,
striking his clan, would send him far away:
"We've scarcely seen each other—now we part.
We've had no chance to tie the marriage tie. * 540
But it's still there, the moon that we swore by:
