By Chang Chi-hsien, Sung Dynasty, Translated by Dr. W. W. Yen (1877-1950)
The founder of the dynasty of Liang was notorious for his ferocity, cruelty and tyranny. After he had unified the four principal military districts under his single command, he was feared as if he was the king of beasts. Anyone in his service who incurred his displeasure in the slightest degree would be immediately beheaded. When the officials of Liang left their homes in the morning to go to court, they would bid eternal farewell to their kin, and when they would returned safe and sound in the evening, the whole family would rejoice “??? so uncertain were they of their lives. His guests, when they were received in audience, trembled as if from bitter wintry cold.
A doctor of literature by the name of Tu Hsun-ho sought service under the Lord of Liang, requesting an interview. His card was presented by an attendant, but His Lordship gave no indication whatever of his pleasure. As a result, Tu was kept waiting for several months in his inn. For the rule was that the innkeeper must not permit any guest to depart, once his name had been registered at the palace for an audience, though he might have stayed for as long as a year, suffering from cold and hunger in his lodgings. Otherwise, the hotel-keeper was liable to meet with serious trouble in case the guest should at last be summoned to court and not be present.
Tu went daily to the palace waiting-room for news of the audience. One morning His Lordship was sitting in his reception room and enquired of his retainers where Tu was, and they replied that he was present in the waiting-room. Before he could be summoned, however, some important personage arrived on horseback at the palace, and was immediately received by His Lordship. When the guest departed, it was already after noon and His Lordship retired to his private apartments.
Tu became very hungry, so he asked the usher”s permission to return to the inn, but the officer refused his request and hastily arranged a meal for him instead. “You must have some pity on our lives,” he explained, “for if His Lordship should send for you when you are away, that would mean the end of our days.”
After dusk the Lord of Liang appeared once more in his reception hall and asked for dice, which he threw again and again on the table, as if he used them to decide some irresolution. Some how or other he was not satisfied with the results of his throws, for he glared around at his retinue, who trembled with fear.
Finally His Lordship holding the six dice in his palm shouted “Tu Hsin-ho!” and threw them once more on the table. All six ivory cubes turned up with the red four, and the poor scholar-guest was commanded to make his appearance.
The usher led him in, warning him to walk fast, which he did to such good purpose that he involuntarily reached the steps of the dais. His Lordship loudly rebuked him for coming so close to his throne, which made the scholar burst into a cold sweat, mumbling at the same time, “Yes, Sire! Yes Sire!” After expressing his honour and gratefulness at being received, he was permitted to take a seat.
Tu was still trembling with fright and had almost lost his presence of mind, when His Lordship graciously remarked that he had long heard of the scholar”s name, upon which the guest rose from his chair and wanted to fall on his knees to express his appreciation.
“That’s unnecessary,” roared His Lordship. Tu bowed profoundly and resumed his seat.
The Lord of Liang looked beyond to the courtyard, and observed to the attendants that raindrops seemed to falling. They went obsequiously out of the hall to see and returned confirming the fact, though when they raised their heads they did not notice the presence of a single cloud. The drops were moreover, heavy ones, and as they struck the eaves, one could hear the sound. His Lordship got down from his dais to have a look himself, returning after a minute or two to his seat.
“Have you, sir, ever seen rain falling without the presence of clouds”? He demanded of Tu.
The scholar replied timidly in the negative.
“When there is rain without clouds,” His Lordship laughingly commented, “it signifies that Heaven is weeping. I would what that augurs.”
He commanded that a pen and paper be brought and requested Tu to compose a poem on the theme “Rain Without Clouds.”
When the scholar first took his seat facing the Lord of Liang, he was embarrassed and felt very uncomfortable, as he was sitting on burning coals, and now that he was ordered to compose a poem, he dared not refuse. Still keeping his seat, he managed to finish in the twinkling of an eye a poem of four lines which he presented respectfully to His Lordship, who seemed delighted with the composition, inviting him then and there to dinner.
They parted after spending a pleasant evening together, the royal host announcing that he would later give a formal banquet in honour of the guest, who once more bowed his thanks and retired.
His poem, specimen of impudent flattery and adulation, said in effect that while the Great Universe remained constant and eternal, an exceptional phenomenon had been noted, namely, raindrops impelling themselves on the glowing solar disc; if in this manner brilliant sunshine and rain-laden clouds lost their distinctiveness, such a miraculous freak of nature could owe its birth only to the infinite creative powers of His Lordship!
From that time on Tu became a court favourite.
On his return to the inn he fell ill from the fright and nervousness, suffering so severely from diarrhea that he could hardly rise on his feet. The court usher watched at the bedside and attended to the medical requirements as if he were a loving parent. The next day another official came to announce that the Lord of Liang desired to receive him again, and urged him to proceed quickly on horseback to the palace. Left with no alternative, he made his toilet and mounted his steed with great difficulty, finding on his arrival that some five or six others had also been summoned. As he was very weak from his ailment, he was among the last to enter the audience hall.
“Mr. Tu excelled himself in emphasizing in his poem my creative powers,” shouted the lord as soon as he laid eyes on his guest.
This eulogy made Tu so proud that he forgot his illness, and almost running towards the dais, and prostrating himself on the floor to thank His Lordship for the compliment.
The lord had a special mansion prepared for Tu and bestowed on him clothes, money and many other gifts, treating him with particular generosity.
Another scholar from Fukien, who failed in the government examinations, presented a literary composition to His Lordship on the theme “Passing Through the Suburbs of the Liang Capital,” which impressed him deeply with ability of the author.
“The rulers of old when rewarding scholars,” declared His Lordship, “used to say “each word is worth a thousand taels of silver.” Unfortunately, my military treasury is burdened with innumerable expenditures, so I can compensate the author only at the rate of one roll of silk for each word.”
The article in question embodied a conversation between the writer and country elders, who were made to lavish words of fulsome praise on the lord. He also was invited to reside at the government hostel, besides receiving other courtesies.
Later when the Lord of Liang was burning with ambition to become emperor, he sought for scholars and retainers more honest and truthful than those already in his service. One day he and a number of his retinue went into the country ten miles beyond the city gate, and sat in the shade of a large willow tree, the trunk of which required the outstretched arms of many men to encircle, the branches being so luxuriant and wide spreading as to give shelter to some three score of men. He and his followers all rested under the same tree.
“What a magnificent will tree!” they all repeated, rising from their seats.
“Its timber can well be used to build carts,” asserted then the Lord of Liang.
Again, it was echoed by the obsequious followers. Only one person differed: “Although I admit that the tree is a very fine willow,” he said, “for making carts one should really employ the wood of elm.”
“What a lot of yes-men have we here,” shouted the lord. “You people like to flatter and deceive me by repeating whatever I say. How can the wood of the willow be used for making carts? One must in fact use that of the elm. But you said the other thing simply because I did so. I used to read with some doubt the anecdote of the state minister who pointed to a deer and called it a horse and all his sycophants agreed with him. I can now readily believe the story!”
Calling to his guards he yelled: “What are you waiting for? Off with their despicable heads!” Some half hundred powerful men seized those who had repeated that the willow tree would make carts, charged them with willful and shameless deceit, and slew them.
The founder of the Liang dynasty commenced life as a bandit, and was by nature persistent, ambitious and suspicious, much more so than the other heroes of old. He was, moreover, self-willed, audacious and determined in character.
