Chinese Ghost Stories (9 page)

Also the
Dingyao,
fifth in rank among all perfect porcelains—white as the mourning garments of a spouse bereaved, and beautiful with a trickling as of tears—the porcelains sung of by the poet Son Dongbo;

Also the porcelains called
Biseyao
,
whose colors are called “hidden,” being alternately invisible and visible, like the tints of ice beneath the sun—the porcelains celebrated by the far-famed singer Xin Yin;

Also the wondrous
Shuyao
, the pallid porcelains that utter a mournful cry, when smitten—the porcelains chanted of by the mighty chanter, Tushao Ling;

Also the porcelains called
Qinyao,
white or blue, surface-wrinkled as the face of water by the fluttering of many fins. … And ye can see the fish!

Also the vases called
Jihongqi
,
red as sunset after a rain; and the
Totaiqi,
fragile as the wings of the silkworm-moth, lighter than the shell of an
egg
;

Also the
Jiajing,
fair cups pearl white when empty, yet, by some incomprehensible witchcraft of construction seeming to swarm with purple fish the moment they are filled with water;

Also the porcelains called
Yaopian,
whose tints are transmuted by the alchemy of fire; for they enter blood-crimson into the heat, and change there to lizard-green, and at last come forth azure as the cheek of the sky;

Also the
Jizhouyao,
which are all violet as a summer’s night; and the
Xingyao
that sparkle with the sparklings of mingled silver and snow;

Also the
Xuanyao
, some ruddy as iron in the furnace, some diaphanous and ruby-red, some granulated and yellow as the rind of an orange, some softly flushed as the skin of a peach;

Also the
Zuiqiyao,
crackled and green as ancient ice is; and the
Zhoufuyao
,
which are the Porcelains of Emperors, with dragons wriggling and snarling in gold; and those
yao
that are pink-ribbed and have their angles serrated as the claws of crabs are;

Also the
Wuniyao
,
black as the pupil of the eve, and as lustrous; and the
Hutianyao
,
darkly yellow as the faces of men of India; and the
Wugongyao,
whose color is the dead-gold of autumn-leaves;

Also the
Longgangyao,
green as the seedling of a pea, but bearing also paintings of sun-silvered cloud, and of the Dragons of Heaven;

Also the
Jinghuayao,
pictured with the amber bloom of grapes and the verdure of vine-leaves and the blossoming of poppies, or decorated in relief with figures of fighting crickets;

Also the
Kangxi Niancangyao,
celestial azure sown with star-dust of gold; and the
Qianlong Niantangyao,
splendid in sable and silver as a fervid night that is flashed with lightnings.

Not indeed the
Longwangyao
, painted with the lascivious
Bixi,
with the obscene
Nannü sixie
,
with the shameful
Zhunhua,
or “Pictures of Spring”; abominations created by command of the wicked Emperor Muzong, though the Spirit of the Furnace hid his face and fled away;

But all other vases of startling form and substance, magically articulated, and ornamented with figures in relief, in cameo, in transparency—the vases with orifices belled like the cups of flowers, or cleft like the bills of birds, or fanged like the jaws of serpents, or pink-lipped as the mouth of a girl; the vases flesh-colored and purple-veined and dimpled, with ears and with earrings; the vases in likeness of mushrooms, of lotus-flowers, of lizards, of horse-footed dragons woman-faced; the vases strangely translucid, that simulate the white glimmering of grains of prepared rice, that counterfeit the vapory lace-work of frost, that imitate the efflorescences of coral;

Also the statues in porcelain of divinities: the Genius of the Hearth; the Longping who are the Twelve Deities of Ink; the blessed Laozi, born with silver hair; Kongfuzi, grasping the scroll of written wisdom; Guanyin, sweetest Goddess of Mercy, standing snowy-footed upon the heart of her golden lily; Shinong, the god who taught men how to cook; Fo, with long eyes closed in meditation, and lips smiling the mysterious smile of Supreme Beatitude; Shoulao, god of Longevity, bestriding his aerial steed, the white-winged stork; Putai, Lord of Contentment and of Wealth, obese and dreamy; and that fairest Goddess of Talent, from whose beneficent hands eternally streams the iridescent rain of pearls.

And though many a secret of that matchless art that Bu bequeathed unto men may indeed have been forgotten and lost forever, the story of the Porcelain-God is remembered; and I doubt not that any of the aged
Rouyan liaogong
,
any one of the old blind men of the great potteries, who sit all day grinding colors in the sun, could tell you Bu was once a humble Chinese workman, who grew to be a great artist by dint of tireless study and patience and by the inspiration of Heaven. So famed he became that some deemed him an alchemist, who possessed the secret called
White-and-Yellow
,
by which stones might be turned into gold; and others thought him a magician, having the ghastly power of murdering men with horror of nightmare, by hiding charmed effigies of them under the tiles of their own roofs; and others, again, averred that he was an astrologer who had discovered the mystery of those Five Xing which influence all things—those Powers that move even in the currents of the star-drift, in the milky
Tianhe,
or River of the Sky. Thus, at least, the ignorant spoke of him; but even those who stood about the Son of Heaven, those whose hearts had been strengthened by the acquisition of wisdom, wildly praised the marvels of his handicraft, and asked each other if there might be any imaginable form of beauty which Bu could not evoke from that beauteous substance so docile to the touch of his cunning hand.

And one day it came to pass that Bu sent a priceless gift to the Celestial and August: a vase imitating the substance of ore-rock, all aflame with pyritic scintillation—a shape of glittering splendor with chameleons sprawling over it; chameleons of porcelain that shifted color as often as the beholder changed his position. And the Emperor, wondering exceedingly at the splendor of the work, questioned the princes and the mandarins concerning him that made it. And the princes and the mandarins answered that he was a workman named Bu, and that he was without equal among potters, knowing secrets that seemed to have been inspired either by gods or by demons. Whereupon the Son of Heaven sent his officers to Bu with a noble gift, and summoned him unto his presence.

So the humble artisan entered before the Emperor, and having performed the supreme prostration—thrice kneeling, and thrice nine times touching the ground with his forehead—awaited the command of the August.

And the Emperor spake to him, saying: “Son, thy gracious gift hath found high favor in our sight; and for the charm of that offering we have bestowed upon thee a reward of five thousand silver
liang.
But thrice that sum shall be awarded thee so soon as thou shalt have fulfilled our behest. Hearken, therefore, O matchless artificer! it is now our will that thou make for us a vase having the tint and the aspect of living flesh, but—mark well our desire!—
of flesh made to creep by the utterance of such words as poets utter
—
flesh moved by an Idea, flesh horripilated by a Thought!
Obey, and answer not! We have spoken.”

Now Bu was the most cunning of all the
Peisegong
—the men who marry colors together; of all the
Huayanggong,
who draw the shapes of vase-decoration; of all the
Huisigong,
who paint in enamel; of all the
Tiancaigong,
who brighten color; of all the
Shaolugong
, who watch the furnace-fires and the porcelain-ovens. But he went away sorrowing from the Palace of the Son of Heaven, notwithstanding the gift of five thousand silver
liang
which had been given to him. For he thought to himself: “Surely the mystery of the comeliness of flesh, and the mystery of that by which it is moved, are the secrets of the Supreme Dao. How shall man lend the aspect of sentient life to dead clay? Who save the Infinite can give soul?”

Now Bu had discovered those witchcrafts of color, those surprises of grace, that make the art of the ceramist. He had found the secret of the
fenhong,
the wizard flush of the Rose; of the
huahong,
the delicious incarnadine; of the mountain-green called
shanlü;
of the pale soft yellow termed
xiaohuangyou;
and of the
huangjin,
which is the blazing beauty of gold. He had found those eel-tints, those serpent-greens, those pansy-violets, those furnace-crimsons, those carminates and lilacs, subtle as spirit-flame, which our enamelists of the Occident long sought without success to reproduce. But he trembled at the task assigned him, as he returned to the toil of his studio, saying: “How shall any miserable man render in clay the quivering of flesh to an Idea—the inexplicable horripilation of a Thought? Shall a man venture to mock the magic of that Eternal Molder by whose infinite power a million suns are shaped more readily than one small jar might be rounded upon my wheel?”

Yet the command of the Celestial and August might never be disobeyed; and the patient workman strove with all his power to fulfill the Son of Heaven’s desire. But vainly for days, for weeks, for months, for season after season, did he strive; vainly also he prayed unto the gods to aid him; vainly he besought the Spirit of the Furnace, crying: “O thou Spirit of Fire, hear me, heed me, help me! How shall I—a miserable man, unable to breathe into clay a living soul—how shall I render in this inanimate substance the aspect of flesh made to creep by the utterance of a Word, sentient to the horripilation of a Thought?”

For the Spirit of the Furnace made strange answer to him with whispering of fire: “
Vast thy faith, weird thy prayer! Has Thought feet, that man may perceive the trace of its passing? Canst thou measure me the blast of the Wind?
”

Nevertheless, with purpose unmoved, nine-and-forty times did Bu seek to fulfill the Emperor’s command; nine-and-forty times he strove to obey the behest of the Son of Heaven. Vainly, alas! did he consume his substance; vainly did he expend his strength; vainly did he exhaust his knowledge: success smiled not upon him; and Evil visited his home, and Poverty sat in his dwelling, and Misery shivered at his hearth.

Sometimes, when the hour of trial came, it was found that the colors had become strangely transmuted in the firing, or had faded into ashen pallor, or had darkened into the fuliginous hue of forest-mould. And Bu, beholding these misfortunes, made wail to the Spirit of the Furnace, praying: “O thou Spirit of Fire, how shall I render the likeness of lustrous flesh, the warm glow of living color, unless thou aid me?”

And the Spirit of the Furnace mysteriously answered him with murmuring of fire:
“
Canst thou learn the art of that Infinite Enameler who hath made beautiful the Arch of Heaven
—
whose brush is Light; whose paints are the Colors of the Evening?
”

Sometimes, again, even when the tints had not changed, after the pricked and labored surface had seemed about to quicken in the heat, to assume the of living skin—even at the last hour all the labor of the workers proved to have been wasted; for the fickle substance rebelled against their efforts, producing only crinklings grotesque as those upon the rind of a withered fruit, or granulations like those upon the skin of a dead bird from which the feathers have been rudely plucked. And Bu wept, and cried out unto the Spirit of the Furnace: “O thou Spirit of Flame, how shall I be able to imitate the thrill of flesh touched by a Thought, unless thou wilt vouchsafe to lend me thine aid?”

And the Spirit of the Furnace mysteriously answered him with muttering of fire: “
Canst thou give ghost unto a stone? Canst thou thrill with a Thought the entrails of the granite hills?
”

Sometimes it was found that all the work indeed had not failed; for the color seemed good, and all faultless the matter of the vase appeared to be, having neither crack nor wrinkling nor crinkling; but the pliant softness of warm skin did not meet the eye; the flesh-tinted surface offered only the harsh aspect and hard glimmer of metal. All their exquisite toil to mock the pulpiness of sentient substance had left no trace; had been brought to nought by the breath of the furnace. And Bu, in his despair, shrieked to the Spirit of the Furnace: “O thou merciless divinity! O thou most pitiless god!—thou whom I have worshipped with ten thousand sacrifices!—for what fault hast thou abandoned me? for what error hast thou forsaken me? How may I, most wretched of men! ever render the aspect of flesh made to creep with the utterance of a Word, sentient to the titillation of a Thought, if thou wilt not aid me?”

And the Spirit of the Furnace made answer unto him with roaring of fire: “
Canst thou divide a Soul? Nay!
. . .
Thy life for the life of thy work!—thy soul for the soul of thy Vase!
”

And hearing these words Bu arose with a terrible resolve swelling at his heart, and made ready for the last and fiftieth time to fashion his work for the oven.

One hundred times did he sift the clay and the quartz, the
gaoling
and the
dun
;
one hundred times did he purify them in clearest water; one hundred times with tireless hands did he knead the creamy paste, mingling it at last with colors known only to himself. Then was the vase shapen and reshapen, and touched and retouched by the hands of Bu, until its blandness seemed to live, until it appeared to quiver and to palpitate, as with vitality from within, as with the quiver of rounded muscle undulating beneath the integument. For the hues of life were upon it and infiltrated throughout its innermost substance, imitating the carnation of blood-bright tissue, and the reticulated purple of the veins; and over all was laid the envelope of sun-colored
baijiahe,
the lucid and glossy enamel, half diaphanous, even like the substance that it counterfeited—the polished skin of a woman. Never since the making of the world had any work comparable to this been wrought by the skill of man.