At this, Hsi Jen cleaned the meat out of a sh.e.l.l, and gave it to him to eat.

Tai-yu then put down the fishing-rod, and, approaching the seats, she laid hold of a small black tankard, ornamented with silver plum flowers, and selected a tiny cup, made of transparent stone, red like a begonia, and in the shape of a banana leaf. A servant-girl observed her movements, and, concluding that she felt inclined to have a drink, she drew near with hurried step to pour some wine for her.

"You girls had better go on eating," Tai-yu remonstrated, "and let me help myself; there'll be some fun in it then!"

So speaking, she filled for herself a cup half full; but discovering that it was yellow wine, "I've eaten only a little bit of crab," she said, "and yet I feel my mouth slightly sore; so what would do for me now is a mouthful of very hot distilled spirit."

Pao-yu hastened to take up her remark. "There's some distilled spirit,"

he chimed in. "Take some of that wine," he there and then shouted out to a servant, "scented with acacia flowers, and warm a tankard of it."

When however it was brought Tai-yu simply took a sip and put it down again.

Pao-ch'ai too then came forward, and picked up a double cup; but, after drinking a mouthful of it, she lay it aside, and, moistening her pen, she walked up to the wall, and marked off the first theme: "longing for chrysanthemums," below which she appended a character "Heng."

"My dear cousin," promptly remarked Pao-yu. "I've already got four lines of the second theme so let me write on it!"

"I managed, after ever so much difficulty, to put a stanza together,"

Pao-ch'ai smiled, "and are you now in such a hurry to deprive me of it?"

Without so much as a word, Tai-yu took a pen and put a distinctive sign opposite the eighth, consisting of: "ask the chrysanthemums;" and, singling out, in quick succession, the eleventh: "dream of chrysanthemums," as well, she too affixed for herself the word "Hsiao"

below. But Pao-yu likewise got a pen, and marked his choice, the twelfth on the list: "seek for chrysanthemums," by the side of which he wrote the character "Chiang."

T'an Ch'un thereupon rose to her feet. "If there's no one to write on 'Pinning the chrysanthemums'" she observed, while scrutinising the themes, "do let me have it! It has just been ruled," she continued, pointing at Pao-yu with a significant smile, "that it is on no account permissible to introduce any expressions, bearing reference to the inner chambers, so you'd better be on your guard!"

But as she spoke, she perceived Hsiang-yun come forward, and jointly mark the fourth and fifth, that is: "facing the chrysanthemums," and "putting chrysanthemums in vases," to which she, like the others, appended a word, Hsiang."

"You too should get a style or other!" T'an Ch'un suggested.

"In our home," smiled Hsiang-yun, "there exist, it is true, at present several halls and structures, but as I don't live in either, there'll be no fun in it were I to borrow the name of any one of them!"

"Our venerable senior just said," Pao-ch'ai observed laughingly, "that there was also in your home a water-pavilion called 'leaning on russet clouds hall,' and is it likely that it wasn't yours? But albeit it doesn't exist now-a-days, you were anyhow its mistress of old."

"She's right!" one and all exclaimed.

Pao-yu therefore allowed Hsiang-yun no time to make a move, but forthwith rubbed off the character "Hsiang," for her and subst.i.tuted that of "Hsia" (russet).

A short time only elapsed before the compositions on the twelve themes had all been completed. After they had each copied out their respective verses, they handed them to Ying Ch'un, who took a separate sheet of snow-white fancy paper, and transcribed them together, affixing distinctly under each stanza the style of the composer. Li Wan and her a.s.sistants then began to read, starting from the first on the list, the verses which follow:

"Longing for chrysanthemums," by the "Princess of Heng Wu."

With anguish sore I face the western breeze, and wrapt in grief, I pine for you!

What time the smart weed russet turns, and the reeds white, my heart is rent in two.

When in autumn the hedges thin, and gardens waste, all trace of you is gone.

When the moon waxeth cold, and the dew pure, my dreams then know something of you.

With constant yearnings my heart follows you as far as wild geese homeward fly.

Lonesome I sit and lend an ear, till a late hour to the sound of the block!

For you, ye yellow flowers, I've grown haggard and worn, but who doth pity me, And breathe one word of cheer that in the ninth moon I will soon meet you again?

"Search for chrysanthemums," by the "Gentleman of I Hung:"

When I have naught to do, I'll seize the first fine day to try and stroll about.

Neither wine-cups nor cups of medicine will then deter me from my wish.

Who plants the flowers in all those spots, facing the dew and under the moon's rays?

Outside the rails they grow and by the hedge; but in autumn where do they go?

With sandals waxed I come from distant sh.o.r.es; my feelings all exuberant; But as on this cold day I can't exhaust my song, my spirits get depressed.

The yellow flowers, if they but knew how comfort to a poet to afford, Would not let me this early morn trudge out in vain with my cash-laden staff.

"Planting chrysanthemums," by the Gentleman of "I Hung:"

When autumn breaks, I take my hoe, and moving them myself out of the park, I plant them everywhere near the hedges and in the foreground of the halls.

Last night, when least expected, they got a good shower, which made them all revive.

This morn my spirits still rise high, as the buds burst in bloom bedecked with frost.

Now that it's cool, a thousand stanzas on the autumn scenery I sing.

In ecstasies from drink, I toast their blossom in a cup of cold, and fragrant wine.

With spring water. I sprinkle them, cover the roots with mould and well tend them, So that they may, like the path near the well, be free of every grain of dirt.

"Facing the chrysanthemums," by the "Old friend of the Hall reclining on the russet clouds."

From other gardens I transplant them, and I treasure them like gold.

One cl.u.s.ter bears light-coloured bloom; another bears dark shades.

I sit with head uncovered by the spa.r.s.e-leaved artemesia hedge, And in their pure and cool fragrance, clasping my knees, I hum my lays.

In the whole world, methinks, none see the light as peerless as these flowers.

From all I see you have no other friend more intimate than me.

Such autumn splendour, I must not misuse, as steadily it fleets.

My gaze I fix on you as I am fain each moment to enjoy!

"Putting chrysanthemums in vases," by the "Old Friend of the hall reclining on the russet clouds."

The lute I thrum, and quaff my wine, joyful at heart that ye are meet to be my mates.

The various tables, on which ye are laid, adorn with beauteous grace this quiet nook.

The fragrant dew, next to the spot I sit, is far apart from that by the three paths.

I fling my book aside and turn my gaze upon a twig full of your autumn (bloom).

What time the frost is pure, a new dream steals o'er me, as by the paper screen I rest.

When cold holdeth the park, and the sun's rays do slant, I long and yearn for you, old friends.

I too differ from others in this world, for my own tastes resemble those of yours.

The vernal winds do not hinder the peach tree and the pear from bursting forth in bloom.

"Singing chrysanthemums," by the "Hsiao Hsiang consort."

Eating the bread of idleness, the frenzy of poetry creeps over me both night and day.

Round past the hedge I wend, and, leaning on the rock, I intone verses gently to myself.

From the point of my pencil emanate lines of recondite grace, so near the frost I write.

Some scent I hold by the side of my mouth, and, turning to the moon, I sing my sentiments.

With self-pitying lines pages I fill, so as utterance to give to all my cares and woes.

From these few scanty words, who could fathom the secrets of my heart about the autumntide?

Beginning from the time when T'ao, the magistrate, did criticise the beauty of your bloom, Yea, from that date remote up to this very day, your high renown has ever been extolled.

"Drawing chrysanthemums," by the "Princess of Heng Wu."