Ma Wei Slope полностью

There was a great todo inside the door, and Lo Chin backed out, still bowing. Father Peng followed him, with great sleeve-flapping after title manner enjoined by Confucius, bowings and handshakings inside his sleeve, as he cried: “Alas, that I was not told of the arrival of the nephew of so famous a man as Li Tai Po!” He used the society name of the poet. “Had I but been aware of your footfall on the threshold, I should have come before, but this stupid fellow leads you to my door instead of giving me the opportunity of coming, myself, to greet you!”

He retired backwards through the door, still bowing, and Ah Lai had to follow the wizened figure, whiskered, white-bearded, the bright button of his cap bobbing at every step, as he vanished into the darker room.

Here, while he made the conventional difficulties about sitting down first, Ah Lai had leisure (since his politeness was almost automatic) to notice the single scroll on the wall, the cedar chest under it, the porcelain stools, the high k’ang bed at one end and the small table bearing writing materials, from which the old man had clearly risen only a moment before. On this table lay a sheet of rough paper on which three lines had been written in the style of the spider.

“I try to occupy my time so that no harm shall come to posterity from my activities,” the old man said, when they had finally seated themselves. “I saw you glancing at my unworthy effort of to-day.”

Ah Lai said: “Poetry can never harm posterity. If it could do so, it would not be poetry. My uncle also spoils paper.”

The old man replied: “Your uncle is famous in court and hovel. Wherever men have learned to rise above the level of the beasts, his poetry is known. To meet you is an honour which overwhelms my white hairs. Have you anything of his with you?”

“I regret that we parted yesterday in too much haste for me to ask him for a scrap of verse to elevate my mind while travelling,” the boy answered. “But I see that you are lacking one line of a ‘stop-short’, unless I am mistaken in your metre.” He indicated the three lines on the table.

“An unworthy outpouring of an old man’s complaints,” the other said. “Besides, I see no prospect of ever achieving the fourth line. If you would care . . .”

Ah Lai accepted the paper and read:

They sat for a minute, looking at the lines together. Then Ah Lai said: “I would make this in the first line into a, and (with your permission) conclude with a sombre thought.”

Old Peng agreed: “Yes, a would improve it. Poems should always be as indefinite as is consistent with clarity. You remember the Master’s If language is lucid, that is enough? But what of your sombre thought? Can you be more precise?”

The boy smiled. “It is not for me, who have so few years,” he said, “to suggest, to you, an accomplished poet. But, if you insist . . .”

“I insist,” Peng answered.

Ah Lai repeated the poem and added a line.

Father Peng rose to his feet and bowed.

“Sir,” he said, “I am in your debt. After this I shall never dispute that literary ability is inherited.”

Ah Lai laughed. “I am only my uncle’s nephew,” he answered. “And now I must leave you, for I have the Emperor’s horses to see to.

Indeed, as he was making his last ceremonial bow to Father Peng, he heard the confused noise of men and horses, and knew that the Emperor was within bowshot. Hastily he ordered Lo Chin to throw open the great central gate and unlock the store houses. Then he went to stand in the road and appear to be ready. He was conscious of a gnawing at the pit of his stomach, which told him, if he needed the telling, that he had not eaten for many hours. But this gnawing was soon only at the back of his mind, for he had never yet seen an Emperor’s Guard in all the splendour of their tossing plumes and red kneecaps, the slung bows and the high proud action of the horses, the bright glint of sun on steel (for it was the hour of the serpent, and again his stomach reported its presence to him) and the shouting round the single carriage in the midst of all these horsemen.