“My esteemed friend,” he said, smiling, “the levitation was beautifully done. I have read about this strange phenomenon, but I have never had the pleasure of witnessing it.”

“I am happy to meet so wise a man.”

“Wisdom is a rare flower. It is sufficient for a man to just breathe a little of its exquisite perfume.”

“I have read the words of Kong-Fu-tze, the greatest of philosophers. Anxious to meet the people whom he taught so wisely, I risked my life and the life of my faithful servant.”

He smiled. “You have noticed, my learned Master, that the people are not apt scholars. I suspect that wisdom is rare among the people everywhere.”

“You are right, excellent friend.”

“There are, however, in each generation, and in every locality, a handful of men who love truth…”

“I shall esteem it a favor beyond recompense, if I am allowed to speak with that handful of men who live in this city.”

The Chinaman’s lips curled into a smile. “Accept the hospitality of my humble roof.”

I bowed, and thanked him profusely. “I am most anxious to be converted to the teaching of Kong-Fu-tze.”

“Kong-Fu-tze desires no converts. It suffices to quaff his wisdom…”

‘Apollonius!’ I thought suddenly, ‘except for the slanting eyes… The tall stature, the white beard, the slow intelligent gestures of the arms are unmistakable…’ I scrutinized him. He smiled politely.

“Forgive me,” I said “your words recalled and recaptured the voice of a friend…”

“Living or dead?”

“Alas! He died…if he died…at Ephesus, at the age of one hundred. I tried to discover in your face, the beloved features of my friend.”

“Wherever one goes, one always discovers one’s friends.”

My host begged me to make myself comfortable in his library.

We smoked.

I watched the smoke, my eyes half closed. The shadow it threw upon the opposite wall assumed the shape of a woman.

“Are the women of your country desirous to afford pleasure?”

“The wiser ones among them make a devout study of the ways of pleasure.”

“I should like to meet such a student.”

“You shall, Cartaphilus.”

She pushed gently the door of my room and looked in. I pretended to be asleep. She entered, and on tiptoes, much lighter than a cat, approached me. With the corner of one eye I observed her,—a tiny creature with a face hardly larger than a doll’s, illumined by two long eyes that seemed to be dreaming something weird, or merely reflecting the strange smile that appeared and vanished in rapid succession about her mouth.

I opened my eyes. She bowed. “Has Flower-of-Joy disturbed Cartaphilus, Master of Wisdom?”

“Flower-of-Joy has entered more gently than a ray of the sun, and disturbed Cartaphilus no more than the perfume that leaves the heart of a flower and mingles with the air he breathes.”

“Cartaphilus is beautiful and wise and Flower-of-Joy fears she cannot delight him.”

“Her very presence is a great delight to him.”

“Flower-of-Joy is a little tired. May she lie down with Cartaphilus?”

“Flower-of-Joy will be as a dainty dream that visits him in his sleep.”

She was a bit of chiseled ivory, animated by the seven devils that Jesus drove out of Magdalene.

Like a labyrinth made of deeply perfumed flowers, within which one wanders certain at every turn to discover an issue, but always finding that it is merely another bend, was the pleasure she afforded me.

Mung Ling greeted me, as always, most cordially. He apologized for having sent me an inexperienced girl.

“Inexperienced?”

He smiled, closing his eyes. “When I was a young man, Cartaphilus, and lived in the Capital, pursuing my studies, I discovered the meaning of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged…”

I thought it was merely an old man’s exaggeration of his youthful delights, but nevertheless decided to visit the Capital. ‘Unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged!’ His words stirred ancient echoes in my brain. My thoughts returned to Jerusalem. I heard Aurelia’s soft voice insinuate the very phrase.

“Your fine phrase is worth a long trip, excellent Mung Ling,” I remarked.

THE people were clamorous in their complaints against the tax-collectors. The harvests had been very poor, but neither the Governor nor his subordinates showed any clemency. Even the few fistfuls of rice and the small portions of dried, salted fish were dwindling from the hands of the coolies and the small merchants. Many refused to work. If it was one’s fate to starve, why add to it the pain of labor?

Fishermen, with baitless lines, were sitting at the shore of the river, their thin legs up to the knees in water; the small merchants, their shops closed, reclining upon the threshold, gossiped with their neighbors across the narrow alleys; the coolies wandered about like lean dogs or cats, seeking among the refuse something to eat.

The Governor sought to subdue them by force. He imprisoned whole families; sold children into servitude; put men to torture. An obstinate silence supervened. People grinned or frowned, but said nothing. They understood one another perfectly. The newlyborn were carried hastily to the shore of the river and left to die and decompose in the sun. The stench was becoming unendurable. It was rumored, hardly above a whisper, but which chilled like the half-motionless shadow of a venomous snake, that some men and women had died of the plague.

“What should a man do, Mung Ling,—stay among the people or go away?”

“Kong-Fu-tze, the Incomparable, said that when law and order prevail in the Empire, the man of sincerity and love is in evidence. When it is without law and order, he withdraws.”

We were silent for some time. Kotikokura pulled my sleeve, and bade me listen.

Soldiers on horseback were galloping through the street, and men and women shouted after them. “Thieves!” “Thieves!” “Murderers!” “Wolves!”

Mung Ling nodded. “Sooner or later a river breaks its dikes.”

“Will you accompany me, Mung Ling? Let us go to the Capital.”

“How kind you are, Cartaphilus, and how can I have the heart to refuse your offer?”

“Will you come then?”

He shook his head. “I remember a poem of an ancient master.

He was speaking of the uselessness of taking too much care of one’s self.” He stopped awhile, then recited:

“I am too old, Cartaphilus, to care where I die.”

“Apollonius,” I whispered.

He smiled, ordered his servant to light his pipe, and addressed Sing Po, who was meditating, his head between his hands.

“May I disturb you, Sing Po, pride of all poets?”

“How can Mung Ling ever disturb me?”

“Do you remember the two verses you once wrote to Gen Hsin, who complained that one could no longer keep his soul intact…that the days of beauty had passed away?”

Sing Po wrinkled his forehead.

“Our friend is like a bird…sings, delights his hearers, and flies on…unaware of the joy he has afforded.”

“Mung Ling knows how to praise better than all men, and his words are as delicious as wine.”