Explore Chapter 2 of 'late-blooming-osmanthus' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
Having spent barely a month in Beijing, I returned to Shanghai, and the very next day, the bookshop I frequent delivered this thick, registered letter forwarded to me. Taking it in hand, I at first thought it was a manuscript sent by some writer acquaintance, entrusted to me for sale. But turning it over, I saw it was dispatched by a certain Mr. Weng of Weng Family Mountain in Hangzhou. Instantly, I recalled that old classmate of mine-diligent, with delicate, pleasing features-from whom I had heard nothing for many years. His proper name was Wong Zesheng; Zesheng was his childhood appellation. He was slight of build and refined, his complexion fair and clear, so he always appeared five or six years younger than his actual age. In our class, he was the youngest; during calisthenics, he always stood at the very rear, though in truth he was but two years my junior. That winter holiday, I went with him to Boshu to escape the cold. The apex of his left lung was already badly ravaged by tuberculosis. Within days, a Japanese girl also convalescing there became fervently attached to him. In the end, the girl's excitement worsened her condition, and he, like a rudderless boat adrift, returned to China. For over a decade thereafter, though I had graduated university, I had heard not a single word concerning him. Opening this long letter, I went to my study, sat down, and read it meticulously from start to finish. Afterwards, I stared blankly into the distance, my mind dazed and flooded with emotion and memory. From afar, I seemed to see his gentle smile and hear his calm, limpid voice. Until the sky began to darken, I sat motionless, lost in thought, until my family downstairs summoned me to supper. During the meal, I spoke of this old classmate, summarising the letter's contents. My family urged me to seize the chance and journey to Hangzhou. On such a fine, crisp autumn day, it would be a pity to fritter it away in the soot-laden dust of Shanghai. This opportunity was not to be missed; I ought to go and partake of his wedding feast.
The next day was again fine, clear, and pleasant. By two in the afternoon I had arrived at Hangzhou's city station and was trying to hire a rickshaw for Weng Family Mountain. But that day seemed a holiday for the various foreign firms and offices in Shanghai; travellers from Shanghai to Hangzhou were unusually numerous. All the rickshaws waiting for fares before the station had been hired by passengers alighting from the train. Having no choice, I repaired to a nearby tavern for lunch. Over my drink, I asked the waiter the way to Weng Family Mountain. He instructed me in detail: 'Just take a rickshaw to the exhibition hall at Qixia, then board the public bus to Siyan Well. Alight there and walk up. You've no luggage, and the weather is so fine; it's not worth taking a rickshaw the whole way.'
Armed with these directions, I felt more at ease. Slowly finishing half a catty of wine and two large bowls of rice, I left the tavern, took a rickshaw to Qixia. It happened to be just around three o'clock; the bus for the sixth lake section had just filled with passengers and was about to depart. I alighted at Siyan Well and walked along a flagstone path through the paddy fields at the mountain's foot towards Manjuelong. The sun was already low in the west, its rays slanting at an angle of thirty or fifty degrees-the hour when cattle and sheep descend the hills and travellers return home. On the narrow path through Manjuelong, I indeed met many groups of middle school students, boys and girls, returning from their excursions. I went to the mouth of Shuile Cave, sat and drank a bowl of clear tea. Then I stopped a farmer, asked for Wong Zesheng by name. He seemed to know in detail and told me, 'It's the second house from the front, facing south. Their upstairs has the highest roof; you'll see it once you go up. Zesheng is about to take a bride; they've been busy with preparations these last days. Right now, Zesheng is probably still at the school near Yanweng Shrine.'
I thanked him for his kindness, paid for the tea, and followed the stone steps leading to Yanxia Cave, climbing step by step. As I ascended, human sounds and signs faded. Under the clear, waning sky, I saw only shadows of trees. I paused to rest at the Halfway Mountain Pavilion, turned to look southeast. All visible were verdant hills and cloud-like trees, and among these green clusters were scattered dots and patches of roof tiles and white walls.
'Ah,' I sighed inwardly, 'no wonder he could recover. So Weng Family Mountain lies in such a fine place.'
I had visited Yanxia Cave once in childhood. But on such a clear, bright autumn day, at this moment with the sun setting west and the moon rising east, to stand alone in an empty mountain pavilion and savour the scenery at leisure-this I had never before experienced. I saw the moon in the eastern sky, already more than half a bow full, and inwardly admired the secluded setting of Wong Zesheng's ancestral home. Then from behind came a faint breeze, carrying an indescribably enticing fragrance of osmanthus.
Lost in such private wonder, inhaling and appreciating, I know not how long I stood in that empty pavilion. Suddenly, from deep within the trees below, the faint, melancholic sound of an evening bell drifted over. Dong… dong… it came slowly, desolate and clear. I could bear it no longer. Lifting my heels, I climbed straight to the summit in one breath, reaching the vicinity of Wong Zesheng's house west of Yanxia Cave, as the farmer below had told me. When still about half an arrow's flight from his house, panting, I raised my voice and called towards the door: 'Hey, Old Wong! Old Wong! Zesheng! Wong Zesheng!'
She opened the door and, at sight of me, stood still as if taken aback. Simultaneously, I saw a flush spread across her face. Her large eyes blinked several times; she drew a deep breath. Having seemingly composed herself, she smiled at me with shyness. In that gentle smile, I immediately recognised Wong Zesheng's features and expression. She was undoubtedly Zesheng's sister. Taking a step forward, I too smiled and asked:
Hearing my question, her face reddened again. Smiling gently, head slightly bowed, she softly replied:
'Yes, Elder Brother hasn't returned. You must be the guest from Shanghai? At lunch, Elder Brother was just speaking of you!'
'Is it Mr. Yu? Why no express letter to inform us? Zesheng said at noon that if you came, he intended to go to the city station to meet you. Please sit, please sit. Yanweng Temple is but a dozen steps away. Let me call him. I fear he'll be overjoyed.' Having said this, she turned to her daughter, instructed her to brew tea. She herself walked out with steady steps, descended the stairs to notify Zesheng.
While she went to brew tea, I was left alone in the main hall, chance to observe my surroundings carefully. Zesheng's dwelling was a two-storey house with three bays, a rear balcony and side rooms. Before the porch, outside the steps, was a large clearing, suitable for building a hall or extra rooms. Crossing this square clearing of several zhang, descending two more steps, lay the village path. Beyond the path, a few feet lower, stood another row of houses. But as these were single-storey, they did not obstruct the view from the Wongs' home. Standing in Wong Zesheng's clearing, the mountain scenery before and behind was clearly visible. On the slopes around the house grew various unknown trees. Among these, two or three trees with short, narrow leaves, their leaves and twigs sprinkled with golden specks like sawdust, were osmanthus trees. The source of the fragrance I had inhaled earlier in the half-mountain pavilion was indeed here. The sun seemed set. In the clear, fading light, the sun's golden arrows were gone; a band of evening mist already veiled the treetops below. The mountain air was profoundly still. From the far-off village below, children's calls were clearly heard. I stood in the clearing awhile, then with hands clasped behind, strolled back to the Wongs' main hall. Looking at the calligraphy and paintings on the walls reminded me of what Wong Zesheng had written. The array displayed was exquisite, unlike a common rural family's vulgar decor. Particularly captivating was a set of screen panels by Chen Hao inscribed with "Returning Home". The ink's vibrancy and the brushwork's graceful fullness somewhat resembled Dong Xiangguang's style, yet felt more delicate. The Wongs' generations of literary refinement were evident from a glance at this hall. I stood there, viewing not yet complete, when from far outside the door behind came several cries:
Wong Zesheng came running from the primary school. Usually so calm, he now seemed excited. Entering the hall, he seized both my hands, panting heavily, unable to speak for seconds. When his mother, following behind, arrived, the three of us burst into hearty laughter. By then his sister had brewed tea, brought out three bowls on a vermilion lacquer tray, placed them on the table.
'See this child Zesheng,' his mother said to me with a laugh. 'The moment he heard you'd arrived, he jumped back like a monkey.'
Zesheng turned the question to his mother. She looked me over carefully, then scolded him laughingly:
'Naturally Mr. Yu appears more mature and steady. Who is as childish as you, never shedding boyish ways?'
Saying this, she approached the table, lifted a teacup, offered me tea. I took it, drank a sip. In the tea, I caught an intoxicating osmanthus fragrance. Lifting the lid, I bent to look. Sure enough, scattered in the green-tinged tea were flecks of golden petals. Thinking I examined the leaves, Zesheng picked up a cup, drank, and said:
'Osmanthus? In the tea is from the first bloom, early osmanthus. The late osmanthus blooming now is more fragrant. Blooming late, it lasts longer.'
'Yes, yes. Walking here, in Manjuelong, famous for osmanthus, I smelled none. Looking at trees on either side, only clusters of pale green calyxes remained. But here, as if in a dream, all I breathe is this rich, heady scent. Old Wong, you're accustomed, notice nothing, right? I… I…'
Hearing this, Zesheng burst into uproarious laughter. Though his mother and sister did not clearly understand, they knew we jested. Mother and daughter, wearing faint smiles, went to the kitchen to prepare supper.
We two chatted and laughed in the hall, forgetting even to light the lamp. A flood of silvery moonlight streamed in through the doorway. Seeing the moon, Zesheng stood to fetch the kerosene lamp, but I stopped him, saying, 'Wouldn't conversing quietly under moonlight be lovely? Remember that night we wandered in Inokashira Park, that year?'
The year referred to was the autumn Wong Zesheng contracted tuberculosis. Having studied too intensely, he developed neurasthenia. One day, he did not attend class but spent the day alone in his boarding house in near madness. By evening, refusing food, he ran out. Alerted by the landlord, I returned from school and kept watch from a distance. Seeing him leave, I followed far behind to Inokashira Park. The elevated train from Tokyo to Inokashira Park had two cars, so we did not meet aboard. Only after alighting and leaving the station did I pretend chance encounter and greet him. Cheeks flushed, he asked why I came to this wilderness. I said to gaze at the moon. I remember that night was just like this, bathed in moonlight. We smiled, walked together through Inokashira Park's woods until midnight before returning. Later, from his confession, I learned he went that night intending to end his life. But meeting me and talking half the night, half the gloom dissipated, so he turned back with me. 'The infinite troubles in my breast-a night of quiet talk, and all is emptiness again!' Confessing, he recited these two lines, mocking himself. After, he caught a chill, which developed into pneumonia. Following recovery, he remained under tuberculosis's shadow.
'For me, it is neither here nor there. The one most enthusiastic is my elderly mother. All preparations and bother, she has busily handled for me. For a fortnight, she has gone into the city almost daily. Now all is completely ready. Tomorrow they hang lanterns and decorations; afternoon the bride's family delivers the dowry; the day after is the main event. But, Old Yu, one thing distresses me greatly. It is Lian'er-that is my sister's childhood name-lately she seems very downcast. Though she says nothing, being so guileless, I see it in her every attitude and expression. You have just met her, so wouldn't notice. Normally she is lively, almost as lively as fashionable modern girls, except her liveliness stems from innate purity, theirs from acquired stylishness. In truth, this low mood is natural. Though a pure-hearted soul, she is not wood or stone; she has feelings. Witnessing our wedding bustle, she cannot help but think of her own bleak circumstances. Another crucial reason: she seems to feel she has no place to belong henceforth. Though her maiden home, she is already a married-out daughter. With her brother taking a wife, what right has she to continue living off her natal family? So when this marriage was first discussed, I told her once, twice: no matter what, she will always be my sister. Unless she chooses to remarry, that is another matter. But if not, then she has the lifelong right to live with me and share family property. I begged her not to feel distressed. She understood perfectly. She knows my temperament. Yet somehow, lately she always seems somewhat unsettled. You have come just in time. You might gently advise her. And tomorrow, with dowry delivery and lantern hanging, I fear seeing it all will make her dwell on her own situation again. I thought to ask her first thing tomorrow morning to accompany you on an outing, so she won't be left to suffer alone in silence at home.'
'That won't do. If you accompany her, it will be more conspicuous and make her feel more awkward. You must pretend you want her company. As if you wish to go out, but I have no time, so you reluctantly ask her to go. Only then will she feel at ease.'
Just as we talked thus, his mother emerged from the side door behind the hall. Seeing us sitting and talking in dim, greyish light, she laughed again and said:
'Do you think you can settle over a decade's accounts in these few moments? What discuss so eagerly that you forgot to light the lamp? Zesheng, you child, you really seem to have taken leave of senses. Hurry, stand, light that safety lamp.'
'Because he is about to become a bridegroom, so in high spirits,' I said laughing to his mother. Then turning, I strolled out alone, wanting to gaze upon Weng Family Mountain's autumn moonlit night, leaving mother and son inside to attend wine.
Weng Family Mountain under moonlight was a different sight. Thousands of silver threads sifted through branches, like sunlit exterior scenes in motion picture. The chorus of many autumn insects, hidden who knows where, when heard suddenly, made one think hard rain falling. The day's heat had dissipated after sunset, and so on this mountaintop, thick with vegetation, a translucent veil of white mist had formed. Electricity seemed not yet installed; the few kerosene lamp lights visible from houses near and far resembled fishing boat lanterns or campfires on a vast bay. A feeling-the deep silence of an empty mountain on an autumn night-pressed down from all sides, evoking solemn, almost reverent awe. I stood alone in the moonlit courtyard but minutes before a creeping solitude made me uneasy. Turning, I walked back to the main hall, where wine, tea, cups and chopsticks were already laid, steaming, awaiting the guest.
During the meal, the four were entertained by many more of Zesheng's jests. After hearing his heartfelt confidences earlier, as I raised my wine cup, I stole glances at his sister. On her gentle, smiling face, there truly seemed to linger an indescribable sadness and loneliness. This dinner lasted a good while. Having walked fair distance during the day and feeling somewhat stirred after our talk, I was rather hungry, and ate and drank perhaps twice my usual portion. Just as nearing the end, I said to Zesheng:
Zesheng replied in his humorous tone: 'On wedding eve, how can the bridegroom get away? Let us go another day. After the bride arrives, let the newlyweds escort you to offer incense; that will not be late.'
Zesheng scratched his head, consternation on his face. After a minute or two, he raised his eyes and looked at his sister:
'Wuyun Mountain is truly not nearby. Can you walk that far? If tire halfway and I must carry you back, that will not do.'
Judging by her rosy cheeks, well-developed bust, and full, rounded shoulders and arms, this was no idle boast. After finishing the meal and chatting idly a while, because each had tasks awaiting the morrow, we retired early to respective rooms.
Dawn in the mountains presents another special scene. Having drunk a bit too much the previous night, once in bed I fell asleep like a great stone dropped into the sea and slept soundly until daybreak. The chirping and chattering of birds outside the window was terribly lively; for a moment I thought it still midnight, moonlight startling wild fowl. But opening my eyes and lifting the mosquito net to look, I found the room saturated inside and out with the bright, crisp light of morning, and from one window corner, a red arrow of morning sun had already shot through. Rolling hastily out of bed, dressing, and running downstairs, I found the three, mother and children, already washed and neatly attired, having been at work over an hour. Ordinarily they rose around five o'clock. This order of life of mountain dwellers-to rise with the sun and rest at its setting-filled me anew with infinite respect. After the four breakfasted together, Zesheng's sister and I made ready to set out. As we were about to depart, her mother called me to wait. She quickly went upstairs and fetched down a black-lacquered walking stick, saying Zesheng had used it during his illness; on mountain paths, using it for support would conserve much energy. I thanked her for her kindness, then let Zesheng's sister lead the way, and we stepped out through their main gate.
The morning air was delightfully clear and fresh. The sun had risen, but its domain was limited to eaves, treetops, mountaintops and other prominent places. On the fine grass along the mountain path, dew had not yet dried, and a cool, pungent scent of green vegetation, mingled with osmanthus fragrance, smelled as if it could rouse even the deepest dreamer. At first, we were still within Weng Family Mountain village. Zesheng's sister was busy responding to greetings, stopping every three or five steps to chat briefly with village women. After passing the last house, we followed a flagstone path leading into the valley and up the mountainside. Then we met no one, and the view ahead transformed. Looking in our travel direction, there were again undulating ridges and scattered villas. But pausing briefly and turning eastward, a stretch of lake light, like a mirror breathed upon, lay spread below. From afar, gazing through the valley pass between two hills, we could even glimpse a corner of city dwellings, faintly hidden in lingering mist over the lake.
Our path first went northwest, then turned southwest; we first descended a slope, then ascended a ridge. Having the whole day before us, once beyond village bounds, I walked especially slowly, looking here and there without cease. Whenever I saw something slightly noteworthy-be it a landscape feature, a hill or stream, a plant, blade of grass, tree, or creature, bird or insect-I would detain her and question exhaustively. Strange to say, though she had only four years of schooling in the village primary school-so she told me herself-there was nothing I asked that she did not know. As for landscape, historic sites, temples and pavilions around the lake, that was one thing; anyone growing up near West Lake could probably give a general account, so her detailed knowledge was within reason. But what astonished me most was her familiarity with various animals and plants within the region around West Lake. No matter how small a bird, insect, blade of grass, or tree, she could not only name each but also relate, engagingly and thoroughly, when they hatched, migrated, sang, molted, or when they bloomed, bore fruit, what colour the flowers were, how the fruit tasted, and so on. I felt as if reading a living version of Gilbert White's "The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne". Yet White's book was never narrated with such artless simplicity, naturalness, or indeed, such gentle stimulation. Listening to her leisurely, limpid tone, gazing at her pair of lips so naturally red they seemed perpetually kissable, and adding her unique smile, one had to acknowledge an emotional component beyond mere intellect, overlaying distinct human charm upon scholarly pleasure. Chatting as we walked slowly, within less than an hour, I found myself in a daze, utterly enchanted by her as if transported back to youth.
Her form was truly fully developed. Though wearing an ill-fitting lined silk gown made by a village tailor, as she walked step by step ahead, not only did the curves of her rounded posterior, slim waist, and shapely calves stir untoward fancies, but even gazing upon her soft, rounded shoulders filled me with covetous thoughts. Standing before her in conversation, those large, limpid eyes, that straight, finely shaped nose, that tender oval face with its blend of rose and white, and the full rise and fall of her bosom, quickened by walking exertion, vexed me to distraction. And her uncut black hair, though gathered in a simple, carefree chignon, where it met her round, pale forehead and short, full neck, looked especially enchanting. In short, the healthy, natural beauty I failed to discern the previous evening was, on this day's excursion, fully revealed. Furthermore, in her conversation, I confirmed what Wong Zesheng had told me of her lively, innocent disposition. For instance, I asked her age. She said twenty-eight. I remarked one truly could not tell; I had initially thought her only twenty-three or twenty-four. She replied that a woman who has not borne children does not age so quickly. I asked what feelings she had regarding Zesheng's impending marriage. She said nothing particular, only that henceforth dwelling long at her maiden home, she felt somewhat undeserving towards her elder brother and future sister-in-law. This kind of purely sincere, straightforward talk I heard much more of. Her simple, artless nature was truly, as Wong Zesheng had said, that of an eternal child.
After climbing to a flat summit below Lion Peak at Longjing, having listened to her account of how tea is cultivated, picked and roasted, and how strenuous yet engaging mountain folk life was in those days, I sat on a large rock by the path. Facing Hangzhou city lying under sunny sky, with nearby waters and distant hills, my eyes fixed on a corner of azure expanse, I remained silent quite some time. Meanwhile, my mind wandered, recalling a novel by German writer Jensen, 'The Brown Erica'. This work was later imitated by English writer Hudson, who produced 'Green Mansions'. Both novels depicted an utterly lovely, innocent girl who grew up in the wilds, and in both, the heroine's fate later turned rather tragic. Lost in silent reverie a long while, I felt her rest her plump, soft right hand quite naturally upon my shoulder from behind.
I reached up and clasped her plump hand, then turned my head, smiling, to look into her large eyes-for she sat behind me. Holding her hand, I gazed wordlessly another minute, but in her eyes and face appeared not the slightest trace of shyness or agitation. Her smile remained exactly as usual, as if nothing amiss. Observing my strange manner, after a pause she instead very naturally inquired:
It was I made abashed by her question, instantly feeling cheeks grow warm. First I released her hand, then cleared my throat twice, and finally mustering courage, uttered a laugh that sounded almost strangled:
She stood up as if startled, asking this. Simultaneously, I too rose, and in the motion, took chance to wipe my eyes. My heart felt suddenly clear, my desires purified. As we slowly walked southward up the ridge once more, I confessed to her all that had been in my thoughts. I recounted the stories of the two novels, I laid bare my own base inclinations, and I delivered a stern critique of the feelings that had stirred within me. Finally, I addressed her thus:
'To defile an innocent soul, pure as blank paper, is an unpardonable sin. That momentary wicked impulse nearly led me to commit this grave offence. Fortunately, it was your pure heart, your heart like the deep snows upon a high mountain, that rescued me from peril. Yet though I sinned not in deed, in my heart, I have already trespassed. Therefore, were you to punish me, even with death, I would have no regret. If you deem me so base and without hope of redemption, then tonight upon returning, you may disclose my conduct to your elder brother and mother. But if you believe this was but a fleeting lapse, one that shall never recur, then I beg you trust my oath. Henceforth, regard me as you would your own elder brother. Should you ever face peril, difficulty, or any insoluble matter, I would gladly give my life in your stead.'
As I made this confession, we at first walked slowly, then later sat beside the path. When I reached the final part, it was she who, like a child, began to tremble, grasped both my hands, and leaned into my embrace, sobbing softly. After she wept awhile, I took out a handkerchief and dried her tears, then gently pressed my lips to her brow. We clung to each other in silence a long time. Then I bent my head and asked if she understood my words' meaning. Her eyes on the ground, she nodded several times. I pressed further:
Again she gazed downward and nodded. I released my hands, then reached to cradle her face, making her look directly at me. After gazing a moment, her eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, suddenly smiled. Seizing the moment, I drew her up, and hand in hand we stood together.
'Good, it is settled. We shall forever be the dearest, purest of siblings-elder brother and younger sister. The day grows late. Let us make haste and reach Wuyun Mountain for our noon meal.'
After proceeding several dozen paces in silence, I glanced sideways at her. As if by miracle, I suddenly discerned upon her face a holy radiance, brimming with hope and trust for the future, utterly free from care. This luminosity I had never before seen upon her countenance. The more I looked, the deeper grew my affection and respect, so that unconsciously, as we walked, I glanced at her repeatedly. She, who had been smilingly contemplating Wuyun Mountain's white walls bathed in sunlight ahead, seemed to sense my diverted attention due to lagging step. She turned her head, and our eyes met. She laughed again, simultaneously slowing pace. After another glance my way, she began, with a touch of shyness, to ask:
The two words 'Elder Brother' were uttered swiftly, closely linked. Hearing my loud 'Ah!' in response, she flushed, released my hand, and laughing heartily, ran on ahead. As she ran, she turned back, calling 'Elder Brother!' several times successively. While I called for her not to run and gave chase myself, our onward path had narrowed to a slender stone ridge, and Wuyun Mountain's summit now seemed quite near. Resuming ordinary pace, walking single file along that narrow ridge, I finally felt I had truly become her elder brother. Filled with fraternal tenderness, I addressed her with earnest gravity:
When we arrived at the Temple of the God of Wealth on Wuyun Mountain, the sun stood directly at zenith. The temple folk were already at midday meal. Having walked half the day under sun, our mouths were as parched as trees in drought, so upon sitting in the guest hall, we asked them to brew tea first, then serve our meal. After washing face and hands, drinking two or three bowls of clear tea, and sitting quietly over ten minutes, both our fatigue and excitement had subsided. Then hunger made itself keenly felt, and we urged them to serve quickly. This midday repast on Wuyun Mountain, shared by just the two of us, for me truly rivalled the legendary feast of Alexander the Great as imagined by an English poet. As for contentment of heart, harmony, and the zenith of appetite, I dare say even Alexander could not have surpassed me at that moment.
After the meal, the temple monk led us on a circuit around the premises. Wuyun Mountain is truly lofty. Standing in the temple pavilion and opening a window to look northeast, the hills surrounding the lake appeared like mounds of blue-green earth. The peculiar charm of West Lake's landscape lies precisely in its being more real and grand than stage scenery, yet more neatly arranged and diminutive, like a potted landscape, compared to other famous mountains and rivers. But Wuyun Mountain's character is entirely different. Owing to height and secluded setting, ordinary tourists of less sturdy constitution seldom reach it. In this alone, Wuyun Mountain already possesses the qualifications of a celebrated peak. Moreover, winding its serpentine course through green hills and fields in the distance ahead was the Qiantang River, itself notable in history. Thus, if West Lake's landscape may be compared to a white bear confined in an iron cage, then Wuyun Mountain's peaks and Qiantang's waters are like wild deer of the deep mountains. The caged bear can only satisfy the timid adventurer's craving; but the wild deer, though less imposing than the plateau's lions and tigers, offer a breath of untrammelled, free-spirited vigour.
We watched the sail-shadows and green hills along the Qiantang from Wuyun Mountain's southern side a while longer, then thought to commence our return. But lifting my head, I saw the sun still high in the sky, having declined only a few degrees past zenith. Returning from here, barring delays, would take less than two hours to reach Weng Family Mountain. Having originally planned to spend the entire day abroad, returning so early seemed a waste of fine weather. Therefore, when we reached a narrow path on Wuyun Mountain's southwestern corner, I halted again, took her hand warmly, and asked with affection:
Her manner as she said this was full of confidence and resolve, utterly without exaggeration or coquetry, perfectly natural. I could not help but reach out and tickle her under the chin. Ticklish, she drew her neck in and laughed. I too laughed broadly and said to her:
'Let us simply proceed to Yunqi! This is a side path leading there; walking down, likely not too far. If you tire, I can carry you.'
Laughing and talking, it seemed in the blink of an eye we had covered the greater part of that narrow descending trail. Below the mountain stretched bamboo groves like shards of green glass. The westering sun shone into this hollow, and a fresh, tranquil, pale green light, like clear water, saturated the surrounding air, seeming to flow. Sitting within Yunqi Temple, we had just finished a bowl of tea when suddenly from the main hall ahead arose the sound of clamorous voices, and then entered two elderly monks wearing exceptionally wide black monastic robes. The monk attending us pointed at them and said boastfully:
'These two venerable monks are the abbot's senior fellow disciples. Both nearing eighty years and have just returned from a certain mansion in the city.'
A certain city magnate was indeed a leading patron of Buddhism. I had heard his name before, but thought discussing such worldly matters with monks somewhat inappropriate, so I turned the conversation, asking the monk the cause of the commotion in the main hall. The attending monk smiled somewhat disdainfully and said:
'It is merely the city sedan bearers demanding tips for wine. The sedan fare was paid by the mansion, but these poor folk are insatiably greedy.'
After viewing the 'Imperial Stele' and numerous stone inscriptions, we exited the main hall. Those sedan bearers were still grumbling, not yet risen. Partly feeling I had walked enough, and partly wishing to give that attending monk a mild lesson, I approached and said to the bearers:
The bearers were overjoyed. Like opium addicts after a morphine injection, their manner transformed instantly; they became talkative and jovial.
The attending monk also accompanied us to the bamboo grove outside the temple. Observing the names or lines of poetry carved or inscribed upon the bamboo, I felt somewhat puzzled and asked her their significance. Whereupon she, like the sedan bearers, smiled and explained at length. Hearing his explanation, I found it rather interesting, so I took out a five-yuan note, handed it to him, and said:
Saying this, I glanced at her standing beside me. She, like a child who has obtained a new plaything but dares not yet touch it, smiled and drew near, asking softly:
I stood quietly pondering a moment. Just then, the attending monk returned from the temple with ink and a brush. Selecting two large bamboos standing side by side, I took up the brush and on each inscribed the characters: 'Bamboo for the Release of Captive Creatures-Elder Brother Yu and Younger Sister Lian.' After adding the date, I laid down the brush, turned, and asked her opinion of the inscription. She smiled as if her heart overflowed with joy, nodding repeatedly without speech. This artless, guileless demeanour of hers beneath the green bamboo moved me once more, profoundly.
Seated in sedan chairs, we travelled west and then south under bamboo shade along a sloping path for six or seven li, exited Fancun, reached the western end of Zhakou, turned from the mouth of Nine Creeks into the mountain hollow of the Nine Creeks and Eighteen Gullies, ascended Yangmei Ridge, and arrived at Weng Family Mountain below South Peak. The sun already hung between the twin peaks of North Peak and Tianzhu Mountain. Within their house, the hall was festooned with lanterns, and the pair of red lanterns overhead appeared half-consumed. The dowry seemed already arranged in the bridal chamber; spectators in the main hall had long since dispersed. As our sedan chairs arrived, Zesheng and his mother emerged smiling to greet us. After I paid the chair fare and stepped across the threshold, his mother inquired:
Startled by her question, I finally remembered. I could only smile and shake my head, saying to her slowly:
'Below Lion Peak, we pledged ourselves as brother and sister before heaven and earth. I have become sworn siblings with your sister. That walking stick was likely left beside that large rock over there.'
'Lian, you two are something! We have not yet performed wedding rites, but you and Old Yu have already sworn vows before heaven and earth at Lion Peak, and even used my walking stick as an offering. Mother, what penalty shall we impose upon them?'
At his words, all laughed heartily again. I willingly accepted blame and claimed the evening feast two days hence as my sole treat.
That evening, the Wong family invited the matchmaker and four or five close kin to drink. I, the guest of honour, kept them company below. The matchmaker, a middle-aged country gentleman, though not particularly portly, bore an air of prosperity. He and I exchanged toasts, draining some eighteen or nineteen cups in all. Somewhat inebriated from wine and having walked a great deal during the day, I slept even more soundly that night than the previous one.
On the twelfth of September, the wedding day proper, everyone was occupied the whole day through. Though the ceremony blended old and new customs, both families disdained extravagance, so affairs remained fairly simple. At five in the afternoon, the bridal sedan arrived. After the rites, the good-natured matchmaker insisted on drawing me forth to say a few words on behalf of the guests. Unable to decline, I first spoke of my friendship with Zesheng from our student days in Japan. Finally, recalling what Zesheng had told me of late osmanthus virtues, I borrowed his words to offer congratulations:
'Zesheng remarked the other day that the later osmanthus blooms, the better, for blooming late, it endures longer. Now, compared to customary marriage age, your union may seem somewhat belated, but a marriage that comes late shall likewise endure. Next year when late osmanthus blooms, I shall surely return to Weng Family Mountain. I reckon now that by then, between these two trees of late osmanthus, one early osmanthus will likely have flowered. Let us all wait until this time next year to gather again and share in their wedding toast, with its fragrance of early osmanthus.'
After I finished, all sat down to the wedding banquet. They played finger-guessing games, made merry in the bridal chamber, and kept up revelry until midnight before finally dispersing. Throughout that day, I watched Zesheng's sister's expression covertly, yet the sad, lonely look Zesheng had mentioned and that I had glimpsed before did not reveal the slightest trace upon her face. That day, when she laughed, her joy seemed uncontainable, perfectly natural. Reflecting her mood, needless to say, even Zesheng and his mother appeared in highest spirits.
As both families favoured simplicity, the elaborate rituals such as the bride's third-day return to her natal home were completed during daylight on the thirteenth. The evening feast was, as promised, my treat. Though Zesheng dearly wished me to stay a few days more to chat and laugh with him and his sister, I, for one, still had an article to complete and desired a quieter place to work; for another, I felt my purpose in attending the wedding feast had been fulfilled. Thus, the day after the evening banquet, I departed Weng Family Mountain to catch the morning express train back to Shanghai.
Those who saw me off at the station were Wong Zesheng and his sister. As the departure bell was about to sound and the locomotive emitted white steam, I stretched both hands from the train window, one clasping Zesheng's hand, the other his sister's, and pressed them firmly a long moment. After the steam whistle blew and the train began to inch forward, the brother and sister walked alongside for many paces. Leaning out, I called to them:
The train pulled far, far away. Those seeing off guests on the platform had all returned, yet I could still see the brother and sister standing straight in the sunlight outside the eastern platform canopy, waving to me.
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