# The Wind That Tramps the World (collection)/The Snapped Willow

The Snapped Willow
The house of Lao Tzu stood in the center of a verdant oasis in the vast mystery which is China. Each day he crouched beneath a great gingko tree before his house and gazed before him into purpling distances. The yellow sun streamed down upon his shiny bronzed head but he heeded it not. For years he had written graceful verse about love, and pearls and mountain-mist which had passed unnoticed. Now he wrote nothing. His brush had been cast aside and he was rated as a great philosopher.
Countless were the quaint tales recounted about the venerable Lao Tzu. It was said that wherever he walked a white cloud followed him. It hung far up in the sky. It moved along as he moved. When he went to the mountains, it followed. When he remained in his garden the cloud hung still above him. Many were the theories regarding this cloud. Some said it was a chest of silver laden down with earth-treasures for Lao Tzu, others that it foreboded evil, that it was a cloud constantly hanging over his life. To those versed in Oriental literature, it was quite easy to trace the source of the story to a poem by Li Tai-Po who lived and flourished under the T'ang Dynasty more than twelve ​hundred years ago. Still the rumor was current and it went far to make a mystic of the philosopher, Lao Tzu.
Lao Tzu was old. The flesh of his face had drawn and shriveled. About his eyes and lips were countless lines and wrinkles. It was as though he had been dried and bleached by the sun in whose warmth he joyed to sit. Now the fire of his eyes was dimmed but there was a day when the beauty of Lao Tzu was a thing to conjure with. This was in the days of his youth when his glowing yellow skin, his rosy pomegranate cheeks and his black eyes flaming with enthusiasm and youth, made people in the market place turn to gaze upon him. He was admired for his beauty but his lovely lyrical verse passed totally neglected. He was a master of lu-shih poetry which to be proper should be of eight lines, although he was equally adept in pai-lu, longer poems which may be of any length. To Lao Tzu poems were precious stones. He carved them and polished them until in their brilliance they were like stars.
Now it so happened that among those who admired Lao Tzu most was the beauteous lady Shun Hua. She was small of stature but lovelier than the first star of evening, or a rainbow-glory. Gentle and quiet in her manner, a girl to be cherished as one might cherish white jade or blue pearls. When Lao Tzu beheld the lovely Shun Hua his heart almost burst with desire. He became in that moment a genius. The lyrics she ​inspired were like the music of mountain-brooks. So great they were, she could not resist them.
Their marriage is still recalled by the older people of China. It took place on a day when the lotuses were in bloom and the garden was heavy with the sweet perfume of wistaria, plum-blossoms and peonies. Even the sun smiled more brightly that day and showered the garden with a warm golden glow.
The years were friendly to them. For a while it seemed as though the future were to be a perfect poem. And then into the harmony of their lives came Ping Yung, a wandering musician. He told wondrous tales of the ruins of old Cambodia. He sang of the gorgeous temples and antiquities which lie buried in the heart of a dense jungle, of a once mighty country now deserted, a country whose people had reached the highest pinnacle of culture as artists and sculptors only to vanish, forming one of the most unfathomable mysteries of all time.
It stirred the romance in the blood of Lao Tzu. He yearned to roam off to those ruins of enchantment. In a moment of ecstasy he confided his desires to Shun Hua.
"If I could journey down to Cambodia," he said, "I could write poetry that would make me famous throughout the whole of Asia."
His words brought sadness to the heart of Shun Hua. She felt as though some evil spirit were clutching at their happiness. But she was a woman of China so ​she bowed down before the wishes of her husband and master. With her acquiescence it was not long before Lao Tzu was ready to set out on his wanderings. His veins were on fire with excitement. He was about to go off in quest of romance not realizing that no romance he could find could surpass the romance he was leaving behind in his garden.
For days the grief of Shun Hua was inconsolable. She remained alone in the little house, counting the hours, longing for the day to come that would bring him back to her. The sunlight seemed less bright when Lao Tzu had gone. The flowers bloomed less gloriously. For the poetry of his voice was missing from the garden.
In an effort to forget her loneliness Shun Hua commenced work upon a lovely rug. She would weave a rug for her husband Lao Tzu and it would be ready for him when he returned. It would be pleasant to have so lovely a gift for him. Great would be his appreciation.
So day after day she sat before her loom weaving the silken rug, a rug made up of the most wondrous colors of the spectrum. And into the warp and the woof of her rug she wove all the great love which she had for Lao Tzu. From dawn till late into the night she toiled, day after day, seldom stopping to eat or sleep. It absorbed her entire life. Nothing else caught her attention. And it so happened that in the intensity of her weaving the real love which she had for Lao Tzu was ​drawn from her body and consumed by the rug until naught of it remained within her.
Meanwhile Lao Tzu wandered about the ruins of Cambodia. He marveled at the excellence with which the old Cambodians had builded. He wrote a strange poem in which he referred to the ancients who had erected their homes to last for centuries and permitted their bodies to perish. The tender traceries on the buildings were used by him for patterns for his lu-shih. He wrote of the great fresh-water lake, "Tale Sap," and of the Siamrap stream. But greater than all others was the long poem which was inspired by Nakhon Wat, a sculptured, massive pyramid rising among forests and jungle-veiled plains almost two hundred feet. Many are the legends of how the old Cambodians worshipped in this great temple but Lao Tzu preferred to accept that one which gave credence to the fact that the supreme being to be worshipped and adored was a repulsive snake.
Despite grave doubts of their veracity the poems were exquisite, as clear cut as the carvings on the ancient temples. He imagined that they would bring great renown to him upon his return, and yet they did not. They caused less of a ripple in the stream of humanity that is China than a stone thrown into a stagnant pond.
Lao Tzu was saddened by the reception which his greatest work received but his sadness was somewhat mitigated by the beautiful rug which was now ​completed at last No finer rug had ever been seen in China. The sheen of the silk, the poignance of the colors made it seem as though the great rug was a thing alive, as though it could feel and breathe. And perhaps it could for it contained all the rare love which had once lain hidden in the beautiful body of Shun Hua.
Melancholia was often the lot of Lao Tzu after his return from Cambodia. Perhaps it was the strange attraction of the ancient temples that drew his thoughts away from mundane things. Or perhaps it was the fact that Shun Hua had developed an odd fretfulness. She continually complained about their mode of living. She was never contented except when they were in the room wherein hung the silken rug. It seemed to weave a charming spell over her even as she had woven charm into it. For at those times she was once more the girl he had loved during the first sweet weeks of their marriage. And Lao Tzu would be satisfied. His confidence would be restored. Her fretfulness was but a figment of his imagination. But when they left the room of the silken rug it was as though she slipped out of her wondrous character as one might slip from an old coat. And once more dire forebodings would grip Lao Tzu, plunging him into abject misery.
Then again came Ping Yung, the musician with his stories of witchery. He sang of the glory of Cambodia and more. He sang of the bright lanterns which were the eyes of Shun Hua. She listened to his every word ​enthralled. While Ping Yung was present she was never fretful. For this reason Lao Tzu begged him to delay his departure. Ping Yung was complimented by his host's cordiality. It pleased him to tarry at the little house. The comeliness of Shun Hua was a thing pleasant to contemplate. It was easier to sing for her than for any other woman he had ever known. Particularly good were his verses when he sang in the room of the silken rug. That rug held a fascination for him. He would sit for hours before it droning out his songs. At such times Lao Tzu spoke to him but he heeded him not. He was not conscious of his presence. He was entranced by the sheen of the soft silken carpet. For hours after leaving the room Ping Yung would wander about as though in a dream. It was hard for him to shake off its elusive fascination.
So passed days and nights of witchery more gorgeous than any of the poems of Lao Tzu. Existence had taken on a cast of perfection. There was nothing to break the magic contentment which lay spread over the little house like a coverlet until one night Ping Yung disappeared. He vanished like the night wind that sighs through the willows. With him vanished the silken carpet, the carpet into which Shun Hua had woven all the love of her soft body.
Lao Tzu threw up his hands in agony! He shrieked curses into the fragrant air of the garden! He besought all the gods of the hills and the waters to strike vengeance on the soul of Ping Yung. Shun Hua said ​nothing. She was very pale. The color had gone from her lips. She seemed weak and ill.
There followed a period of depression that was hard to countenance. Shun Hua seldom smiled. She was fretful. She wept much. All the love which she had for Lao Tzu had been woven into the silken carpet and now the carpet had been stolen. Ping Yung had seized it, carrying off with it her love as well. It was a sad ending for a romance upon which the very sun had smiled.
Lao Tzu was very sad. He ceased writing poetry. He seldom conversed with anyone. His life was like a lamp of which the flame had been quenched. Shun Hua no longer had any love for him. Her love had been stolen. It had been absorbed by the silken rug which Ping Yung had carried away.
For hours each day Lao Tzu wandered through the crooked alleys of the town. His house was now a cold and desolate place. The real Shun Hua was gone, only a shadow remained. This was the sum of his musings. He could not have been more miserable if the sun had faded forever.
But though his gloom was great, greater was to come. One morning Shun Hua crept away from his house as he slept. She had followed the silken rug into which her love had been woven. She had followed Ping Yung. For days Lao Tzu sought for her, but in vain. Shun Hua was gone, never to return. When the grain is swept away what need has man for the husks? ​Something within the mind of Lao Tzu snapped. He ceased to talk much. For hours each day he sat before the door of his house. He wrote no poetry. He did nothing. It was then that rumors commenced to circulate about him. He was a philosopher. He communed with spirits. It was said that a white cloud followed him constantly about. Whether Lao Tzu heard the stories who can say? But they had no effect upon him. He was trying to piece together the jumbled puzzle that is life. He was seeking the divine reason for existence. What was it for? And to what end?
One day when the sun was golden warm as he sat before the door of his house, the web of melancholia in which he had been entangled seemed to lessen. The threads parted. His burden lifted. Life had a meaning. Life was beauty. It seemed to him as he listened that soft sweet voices were singing, as though they were singing love-songs to him. He turned slowly about and gazed at his garden. But it was a garden no longer. It was a great rug, a rug wherein countless gorgeous flowers had been woven, lotus and wistaria, magnolia and oleanders, peach-blossoms and chrysanthemums. At last his vision had cleared. He could see with celestial sight. The singing was coming from the flowers, from the flowers in the rug. It was like the voices of many lovely women, as though each flower was the love of beautiful women that had been woven into the rug. Softly he walked through the garden. Occasionally he caressed a carnation or lifted a bit of ​wistaria to his lips. And as he walked his soul was purged of its last vestige of sadness. From his gorgeous love-rug of flowers he drew peace.
The years rolled on. They piled up one upon the other until Lao Tzu was an old man. But he heeded them not. He lived in solitude, in perpetual silence. Each day he sat before the door of his house. Half in a dream he listened to the singing of the flowers. They sang of young love and rose-colored nights. They kept the soul of Lao Tzu from ageing even though his body shriveled and dried up.
Lao Tzu wrote no more poetry. His fame spread throughout the length and breadth of China.