Volume Ii Part 40 (1/2)

”It would be well,” Pao-ch'ai interposed, ”that we should also decide every how many days we are to meet.”

”If we meet too often,” argued T'an Ch'un, ”there won't be fun in it. We should simply come together two or three times in a month.”

”It will be ample if we meet twice or thrice a month,” Pao-ch'ai added.

”But when the dates have been settled neither wind nor rain should prevent us. Exclusive, however, of these two days, any one in high spirits and disposed to have an extra meeting can either ask us to go over to her place, or you can all come to us; either will do well enough! But won't it be more pleasant if no hard-and-fast dates were laid down?”

”This suggestion is excellent,” they all exclaimed.

”This idea was primarily originated by me,” T'an Ch'un observed, ”and I should be the first to play the hostess, so that these good spirits of mine shouldn't all go for nothing.”

”Well, after this remark,” Li Wan proceeded, ”what do you say to your being the first to convene a meeting to-morrow?”

”To-morrow,” T'an Ch'un demurred, ”is not as good as to-day; the best thing is to have it at once! You'd better therefore choose the subjects, while Ling Chou can fix the metre, and Ou Hsieh act as supervisor.”

”According to my ideas,” Ying Ch'un chimed in, ”we shouldn't yield to the wishes of any single person in the choice of themes and the settlement of the rhythm. What would really be fair and right would be to draw lots.”

”When I came just now,” Li Wan pursued, ”I noticed them bring in two pots of white begonias, which were simply beautiful; and why should you not write some verses on them?”

”Can we write verses,” Ying Ch'un retorted, ”before we have as yet seen anything of the flowers?”

”They're purely and simply white begonias,” Pao-chai answered, ”and is there again any need to see them before you put together your verses?

Men of old merely indited poetical compositions to express their good cheer and conceal their sentiments; had they waited to write on things they had seen, why, the whole number of their works would not be in existence at present!”

”In that case,” Ying Ch'un said, ”let me fix the metre.”

With these words, she walked up to the book-case, and, extracting a volume, she opened it, at random, at some verses which turned out to be a heptameter stanza. Then handing it round for general perusal, everybody had to compose lines with seven words in each. Ying Ch'un next closed the book of verses and addressed herself to a young waiting-maid.

”Just utter,” she bade her, ”the first character that comes to your mouth.”

The waiting-maid was standing, leaning against the door, so readily she suggested the word ”door.”

”The rhyme then will be the word 'door,'” Ying Ch'un smiled, ”under the thirteenth character 'Yuan.' The final word of the first line is therefore 'door'.”

Saying this, she asked for the box with the rhyme slips, and, pulling out the thirteenth drawer with the character ”Yuan,” she directed a young waiting-maid to take four words as they came under her hand. The waiting-maid complied with her directions, and picked out four slips, on which were written ”p'en, hun, hen and hun,” pot, spirit, traces and dusk.

”The two characters pot and door,” observed Pao-yu, ”are not very easy to rhyme with.”

But s.h.i.+h Shu then got ready four lots of paper and pens, share and share alike, and one and all quietly set to work, racking their brains to perform their task, with the exception of Tai-yu, who either kept on rubbing the dryandra flowers, or looking at the autumnal weather, or bandying jokes as well with the servant-girls; while Ying Ch'un ordered a waiting-maid to light a ”dream-sweet” incense stick.

This ”dream-sweet” stick was, it must be explained, made only about three inches long and about the thickness of a lamp-wick, in order to easily burn down. Setting therefore her choice upon one of these as a limit of time, any one who failed to accomplish the allotted task, by the time the stick was consumed, had to pay a penalty.

Presently, T'an Ch'un was the first to think of some verses, and, taking up her pen, she wrote them down; and, after submitting them to several alterations, she handed them up to Ying Ch'un.

”Princess of Heng Wu,” she then inquired of Pao-ch'ai, ”have you finished?”

”As for finis.h.i.+ng, I have finished,” Pao-ch'ai rejoined; ”but they're worth nothing.”

Pao-yu paced up and down the verandah with his hands behind his back.

”Have you heard?” he thereupon said to Tai-yu, ”they've all done!”

”Don't concern yourself about me!” Tai-yu returned for answer.

Pao-yu also perceived that Pao-ch'ai had already copied hers out.

”Dreadful!” he exclaimed. ”There only remains an inch of the stick and I've only just composed four lines. The incense stick is nearly burnt out,” he continued, speaking to Tai-yu, ”and what do you keep squatting on that damp ground like that for?”

But Tai-yu did not again worry her mind about what he said.

”Well,” Pao-yu added, ”I can't be looking after you! Whether good or bad, I'll write mine out too and have done.”