Kai Lung’s Golden Hours by Ernest Bramah (an ebook reader .TXT) 📕
Description
Ernest Bramah’s Kai Lung stories are set in a fantastical ancient China and written with an oblique, ornate prose style that serves to mimic that of Chinese folk tales. The titular character is an itinerant storyteller and the books themselves are mostly collections of stories presented as if he were narrating.
Kai Lung’s Golden Hours, published in 1922, is the second of the Kai Lung books, and the first to have an overarching framing narrative and thus be published as a novel. In it we see Kai Lung brought before the court of the Mandarin Shan Tien, having been accused of treason by the Mandarin’s agent Ming-shu. Appealing to Shan Tien’s appreciation for refined narrative, Kai Lung tries to regain his freedom by spinning a series of beguiling tales filled with aphorisms and humorous understatement.
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- Author: Ernest Bramah
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“Even a silver trumpet may not prevail above a score of brazen horns,” confessed the storyteller doubtfully. “Would it not be well to engage an even larger company who will outlast the first?”
“The effete Ming-shu has hired all there are,” replied Hwa-mei, with a curbing glance. “Nevertheless, do not despair. At a convenient hour a trusty hand will let fall a skin of wine at their assembling place. Their testimony, should any arrive, will entail some conflict.”
“I bow before the practical many-sidedness of your mind, enchanting one,” murmured Kai Lung, in deep-felt admiration.
“Tomorrow, being the first of the Month of Gathering-in, will be one of Shan Tien’s lucky days,” continued the maiden, her look acknowledging the fitness of the compliment, but at the same time indicating that the moment was not a suitable one to pursue the detail further. “After holding court the Mandarin will accordingly proceed to hazard his accustomed stake upon the chances of certain of the competitors in the approaching examinations. His mind will thus be alertly watchful for a guiding omen. The rest should lie within your persuasive tongue.”
“The story of Lao Ting—” began Kai Lung.
“Enough,” replied Hwa-mei, listening to a distant sound. “Already has this one strayed beyond her appointed limit. May your virtuous cause prevail!”
With this auspicious message the maiden fled, leaving Kai Lung more than ever resolved to conduct the enterprise in a manner worthy of her high regard.
On the following day, at the appointed hour, Kai Lung was again led before the Mandarin Shan Tien. To the alert yet downcast gaze of the former person it seemed as if the usually inscrutable expression of that high official was not wholly stern as it moved in his direction. Ming-shu, on the contrary, disclosed all his voracious teeth without restraint.
“Calling himself Kai Lung,” began the detestable accuser, in a voice even more repulsive than its wont, “and claiming—”
“The name has a somewhat familiar echo,” interrupted the Fountain of Justice, with a genial interest in what was going on, rare in one of his exalted rank. “Have we not seen the ill-conditioned thing before?”
“He has tasted of your unutterable clemency in the past,” replied Ming-shu, “this being by no means his first appearance thus. Claiming to be a storyteller—”
“What,” demanded the enlightened lawgiver with leisurely precision, “is a storyteller, and how is he defined?”
“A storyteller, Excellence,” replied the inscriber of his spoken word, with the concise manner of one who is not entirely grateful to another, “is one who tells stories. Having on—”
“The profession must be widely spread,” remarked the gracious administrator thoughtfully. “All those who supplicate in this very average court practise it to a more or less degree.”
“The prisoner,” continued the insufferable Ming-shu, so lost to true refinement that he did not even relax his dignity at a remark handed down as gravity-removing from times immemorial, “has already been charged and made his plea. It only remains, therefore, to call the witnesses and to condemn him.”
“The usual band appears to be more retiring than their custom is,” observed Shan Tien, looking around. “Their lack of punctual respect does not enlarge our sympathy towards their cause.”
“They are all hard-striving persons of studious or commercial habits,” replied Ming-shu, “and have doubtless become immersed in their various traffics.”
“Should the immersion referred to prove to be so deep—”
“A speedy messenger has already gone, but his returning footsteps tarry,” urged Ming-shu anxiously. “In this extremity, Excellence, I will myself—”
“High Excellence,” appealed Kai Lung, as soon as Ming-shu’s departing sandals were obscured to view, “out of the magnanimous condescension of your unworldly heart hear an added plea. Taught by the inoffensive example of that Lao Ting whose success in the literary competitions was brought about by a conjunction of miraculous omens—”
“Arrest the stream of your acknowledged oratory for a single breathing-space,” commanded the Mandarin dispassionately, yet at the same time unostentatiously studying a list that lay within his sleeve. “What was the auspicious name of the one of whom you spoke?”
“Lao Ting, exalted; to whom at various periods were subjoined those of Li, Tzu, Sun, Chu, Wang and Chin.”
“Assuredly. Your prayer for a fuller hearing will reach our lenient ears. In the meanwhile, in order to prove that the example upon which you base your claim is a worthy one, proceed to narrate so much of the story of Lao Ting as bears upon the means of his success.”
The Story of Lao Ting and the Luminous InsectIt is of Lao Ting that the saying has arisen, “He who can grasp Opportunity as she slips by does not need a lucky dream.”
So far, however, Lao Ting may be judged to have had neither opportunities nor lucky dreams. He was one of studious nature and from an early age had devoted himself to a veneration of the Classics. Yet with that absence of foresight on the part of the providing deities (for this, of course, took place during an earlier, and probably usurping, dynasty), which then frequently resulted in the unworthy and illiterate prospering, his sleeve was so empty that at times it seemed almost impossible for him to continue in his high ambition.
As the date of the examinations drew near, Lao Ting’s efforts increased, and he grudged every moment spent away from books. His few available cash scarcely satisfied his ever-moving brush, and his sleeve grew so light that it seemed as though it might become a balloon and carry him into the Upper Air; for, as the Wisdom has it, “A well-filled purse is a trusty earth anchor.” On food he spent even less, but the inability to procure light after the sun had withdrawn his benevolence from the narrow street in which he lived was an ever-present shadow across his hopes. On this extremity he patiently and with noiseless skill bored a hole through the wall into the house of
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