Delightful Lan-fang

HING KO-OU had been brought up in the School of the Two Thousand and Two Literati, and his heart was filled with the white lore of shining wisdom. He had risen from behind the black-thundering clouds of the hardest examinations as a crimson-and-golden sun. He had written not only such light and frivolous books as “The Difference between the Tantras of the Puranic Hindus and the Quang-ho Occultism of the Mings” (Pekin, 1889, 26 volumes quarto) and “Silver-Tinkling Thoughts about Slicing as the Foremost Form of Capital Punishment,” but he had published a monumental work in fifty-three folios which rejoiced in the name of “The Kabala and the Latter-Day Tsaoist Craostialism Compared with the Transcendental Puritanism of the Shankarachayra and the Chinese Holi-Enigma of the Pranayama.” Finally he retired to the province of I-li, where he filled his days richly in discovering the basic conditions of human happiness and the initial causes of human sorrows.

Thus his wisdom grew until it was as broad as the Yang-tse and as height-towering as the blessed Yuang-Wa, and his queue grew in keeping with his wisdom: it was a fine, thick, black queue, and there lived not a Mandarin of the First Degree West of Pekin would could boast a longer one.

Once, at the time of the peach blossoms, he strolled into the country to make certain observations and to increase his ravenous wisdom, and he saw in front of her house delightful Lan-fang, and she was deeply in sorrow. For her pretty eyebrows, which usually stretched upwards from her eyes toward her forehead, right and left, like the tentacles of the silken-winged Ya-kan beetle, were wrinkled straight out in anger and passion; her deliciously oblique eyes brimmed with shimmering pearl-tears; her ivory teeth gnawed her cherry-red lips; and she was scratching her firm little porcelain cheeks with long, nacre finger-nails,

And Ching Ko-Ou was astonished and addressed the maiden:

“I am the Father and Mother of Wisdom. I have discovered the trickling brooks of all emotions. But my wisdom has not as yet reached the camalophitic and accentric cause of your lympidations.”

Delightful Lan-fang did not understand him, and so he asked her in more vulgar phraseology about the causes of her tears. And she said:

“Illustrious Presence and Honorable Professor, above my head fluffs white-red the bloom of the peach-tree, and a yellow butterfly sips the honey from the blossoms. In my garden a jessamine bush exhales sweet and heavy odors, and amongst the waxen flowers sports and dances a dark-blue butterfly. I am a lonely virgin and my heart is full of longing.”

Then Ching Klo-Ou thought for a long time, remembering all his wisdom, remembering also the principal and basic conditions of human happiness and human sorrow, and made reply:

“Delightful Lan-fang, it is said in the twenty-third volume of Wah-kyou's commentaries on the Early Wisdom of Miza Sha-fi, 'An impossible thing should not be spoken; when it happens before the eyes it is seen; a stone swims, and an ape sings a song.' It also says in that delightful book by Mang-wo about the Bhil Traditions of Mahabharata that he who sees a firefly often imagines he is watching a conflagration. Thus farewell, delightful Lan-fang, and dry your eyes.”

He turned to go, highly pleased with himself and his wisdom, but the maiden pulled him back and asked him to explain to her what he meant. And he said:

“Choose a gay youth and nurse your love.”

And then he walked away through the paddies, with his fine, long, black queue wound around his left arm so that it would not sweep the dust and dirt of the fields.

Soon there came along young Yat-kwo and he kissed away the sorrows of delightful Lan-fang. And then, frightened, the dark-blue butterfly flew away from the odorous jessamine bush, and one by one the white-red peach blossoms fluttered down from the tree.

A year had passed and again Ching Ko-Ou walked along the road through the paddies and again he saw delightful Lan-fang—and again the tears were running down her little porcelain cheeks. And he stopped and said:

“During the past year my wisdom has doubled and given birth to twins; but it has not yet reached the bourne of the understanding of your sorrow. Why do you weep, delightful Lan-fang?”

And she replied, sighing:

“Oh honored Professor, Yat-kwo is untrue to me.”

But the wise Ching Ko-Ou meditated for a long time and replied:

“A man should root out an enemy by another enemy called in to aid, just as he would take out a thorn in the foot by a thorn in the hand. Also, Kong-fu-tse declared that a fox does not wag his tail in the lion's den.”

And asked to interpret his wisdom, he said:

“You must marry me after divorcing Yat-kwo, oh delightful Lan-fang.”

And he embraced her, once with his arms and thrice with his nice, long, black queue; and soon afterwards they were man and wife.

And again the dark-blue butterfly flew out of the jessamine bush, but this time no white-red blossoms fluttered down from the peach-tree.

After Ching Ko-Ou had increased his wisdom for another year, he went on a long journey to study Life; and on his return he discovered his wife, delightful Lan-fang, more sorrowful than she had ever been before. And so he spoke to her in an angry voice:

“Shame on you! You are a foolish child. Today my wisdom has reached the pinnacle, and everything human is clear to me. And so I know positively that there can be no reason for your sorrow and tears.”

But delightful Lan-fang replied:

“Oh honored husband, indeed you are wrong; for again Yat-kwo has been untrue to me.”