I stood in the orchid garden, watching her approach from a distance. She laughed and cried with Đỗ Vũ and Tử Quyên, her gaze gentle and her manner mild. I didn’t dare presume to go out and meet her. I simply watched her from afar; that was enough.
After her children married, Niệm Niệm often came home. Her nature had grown much livelier. She no longer seemed as composed and solemn as she had at home, and was gradually showing the endearing innocence of a young woman.
Whenever she came home, she would take her mother’s hand and tell her how gentle Tư Quân was with her, how her mother-in-law doted on her, and how her younger sister-in-law, Tư Văn, looked after her. Her face was always radiant with happiness.
From Niệm Niệm’s little snippets of news, I tried to find out:
“Is your mother-in-law still well?”
Niệm Niệm didn’t suspect a thing. Thinking I was only concerned about how she was doing, she replied innocently:
“My mother-in-law is wonderful. She’s kind and loving, and never makes me stand by her side all day to observe the rules. My husband is busy with work, so she worries I’ll be bored at home. She even asks Tư Văn to take me out—to the market, sightseeing, or flower viewing. Mother says we’re still young and should get out and see more of the world instead of staying cooped up indoors.”
I pretended to be annoyed.
“How can you two go off having fun and leave your mother-in-law home alone?”
Niệm Niệm hurried to explain:
“Father, you’ve misunderstood. There’s always someone keeping Mother company. You don’t know how skilled she is with her hands. Besides growing flowers, embroidering, and making pastries, she knows all sorts of unusual games. The other day, she taught Tư Văn and me to play with a spinning top and catch seeds. Lately, Mother has been getting ready to grow orchids in the garden, and she’s teaching us how to divide them. Father, next time I come home, I can help tend your orchid garden.”
Seeing how happy Niệm Niệm was, my wife’s eyes filled with tears. She looked at me, deeply moved, and said:
“My lord, you found Niệm Niệm such a good family.”
I only smiled without answering, thinking to myself:
“Of course I know it’s a good family.”
In the years that followed, Niệm Niệm and Tư Quân were a loving couple, and her mother-in-law cherished her as if she were her own daughter. The two of them had two sons and a daughter, and their life together was blissfully complete.
Then, one spring, tragic news came from the Dương family. Niệm Niệm cried until her eyes were swollen and stayed by her mother-in-law’s bedside day after day.
The day her mother-in-law died, I stood before the Dương family residence holding a pot of orchids. It felt as though an invisible thread inside me had snapped. The person I had always thought would never leave me in this lifetime had gone before me.
Niệm Niệm hurried out, her eyes red and swollen from crying. When she saw me standing at the gate with the orchid pot in my arms, she paused for a moment, then immediately understood and said:
“Father, this orchid pot… is it the one Mother gave you all those years ago?”
I didn’t answer. I only asked:
“Did your mother-in-law pass peacefully? Did she leave any words behind?”
Niệm Niệm replied:
“Mother passed very peacefully. She just kept murmuring a name.”
“A name? What name?”
My heart suddenly pounded, as if the little deer from all those years ago had started bounding around inside me again.
Niệm Niệm answered softly:
“Dương Văn Quân.”
Thud!
The flowerpot slipped from my hands and shattered on the ground. Unable to believe it, I stammered:
“Dương? Dương Văn Quân?”
Niệm Niệm nodded firmly.
It was as if I’d fallen from a great height. My legs wobbled, and all I could do was smile bitterly.
“So… so the person she longed for wasn’t me.”
All these years, I’d only been fooling myself.
When I returned home, I fell ill. The illness dragged on, until at last I could no longer bring myself to my feet. In the end, I had no choice but to submit a memorial to the court requesting leave from office and return to my hometown of Vũ Châu to recuperate.
My children watched anxiously as I sat, frail, in the carriage, but I adamantly refused to let anyone accompany me. I took only Trương Sinh and the orchid pot that had survived intact, and slowly set off in a small carriage.
Before leaving the capital, I gave Tư Quy these instructions:
“I’ve shouldered the burden of the Lục family my whole life. Now it’s time to hand it over to you. Remember, don’t let the Lục family return to Vũ Châu.”
After decades away, I returned to Bác Nhã Courtyard.
The courtyard was just as it had been, even the stone bench in the yard still in the same place. And yet it was no longer the same. Of those who had grown up with me and lived here beside me, only Trương Sinh remained.
The courtyard was clean and well kept. I set the orchid pot on the windowsill, then settled in, at peace.
Every morning, I woke to the fragrance of orchids, and little by little, my spirits improved. Trương Sinh was overjoyed, his cloudy eyes brimming with tears.
That day, the sky was clear and blue, the sunshine bright and golden. On a whim, I asked Trương Sinh to bring a reclining chair into the yard and set the orchid pot on the stone table, so I could sit in the sun with it.
Lying back in the chair, I told Trương Sinh:
“Light the incense, then go to Lan Quân Lâu and buy some pastries.”
I hadn’t had an appetite for days. At my words, Trương Sinh was overjoyed, answered at once, and hurried off.
I watched him go, then turned to look around the little courtyard. Before my eyes appeared the image of a thin little girl standing at the door of a room, her large, clear eyes like a fawn’s. She smiled faintly, as if saying to me:
“Young master, you’re back!”
I smiled and slowly closed my eyes.
A breeze passed, scattering the incense ash from the burner throughout the courtyard. Fragrance filled the air, with a cool hint of mint, the soothing sweetness of licorice, and a faint, gentle scent of lemongrass.
….
LỤC TỬ HÀN
Everyone praised my parents as a deeply devoted couple, living in perfect harmony and setting an example for their time. But I knew my father didn’t love my mother, and my mother didn’t truly love my father either.
Even so, they were always courteous and respectful to each other. When they went out, they were always side by side, and their life simply passed in warmth and harmony.
My father was exceptionally gifted, charming, and scholarly—a gentleman renowned throughout the land. My mother was gentle and virtuous, refined and proper, and a celebrated young lady from a respectable family.
They were never like the couples in books, so passionately devoted that she would paint his brows and he would play the lute for her. Nor did they ever quarrel or lose their tempers. They were always affable, treating one another with the respect newlyweds show.
Whenever they went out, Father helped Mother get in and out of the carriage, and Mother gently wiped the sweat from his brow. Father also had no concubines, and whenever he attended a banquet, he always brought Mother along. This made many of the ladies envious. They all said Father was so devoted to Mother, that his love and loyalty ran deep.
Every time, Mother only smiled and said nothing, as if silently agreeing.
My name is Lục Tử Hàn. When Father named me, he said he hoped his son would be exceptional. So from a young age, I buried myself in books, devoting all my attention to the civil service examinations and giving no thought to matters of the heart. I thought that someday I would marry a wife from a family of equal standing, and then live as my parents did—in harmony and quiet contentment, making our way through life together. That would be more than enough.
So when I came of age, Mother asked me many times what kind of wife I wanted. Without a moment’s hesitation, I answered:
“I want a gentle, virtuous wife like you, Mother. We don’t need to be passionately in love; I only hope we can live in harmony and quiet contentment, together for the rest of our lives.”
Mother only smiled when she heard that, a trace of sadness in her eyes:
“My son, you still don’t understand.”
Mother looked at me, still unconcerned. She only shook her head and sighed, then turned back to the task of finding me a wife. But no matter how many candidates she considered, nothing came of it.
My father seemed to take little interest in my marriage prospects. He went about his days as leisurely and carefree as ever.
Then one day, as I sat in my study reading in preparation for the upcoming exams, Father suddenly came in. Without a word, he took the book from my hands and set it aside:
“Son, you’ve worked hard studying. Come on, I’ll take you outside the city to see the flowers and clear your mind.”
I asked, puzzled:
“Father? What’s the matter? Why do you suddenly want to take me on an outing?”
My father gave his fan a light flick and smiled:
“Why all the questions? Just come with me.”
I had no choice but to put down my book and follow Father outside.
The carriage swayed along for nearly two hours before it stopped. I jumped down first, then reached up to help Father down.
As soon as I was steady on my feet, I saw a carriage in the distance. A lady stepped down, and on closer inspection, I realized she was my maternal cousin.
My cousin came over and said to my father:
“You’ve gone to such lengths to arrange this. It certainly wasn’t easy. Well, I’ve got everything taken care of. Let’s go sit in that pavilion.”
I looked up. Before me stretched a peony field in full bloom, with quite a crowd of people there to admire the flowers.
To the left of the field stood a pavilion on slightly higher ground, with a clear view over the sea of flowers.
The three of us entered the pavilion. Servants had already prepared it: the stone table and chairs were covered with clean cloths, and tea and fruit had been laid out in abundance.
Father turned to me and said:
“This is a wonderful place to admire the peonies. Go for a walk and see if you run into anyone you know.”
Someone I knew?
Father’s words struck me as rather odd. Though I was a little puzzled, I kept an eye out for familiar faces as I admired the scenery. Father and my cousin sat drinking tea and eating fruit, as if we really had come only to see the flowers, while I stood in the pavilion, looking from one end of the field to the other. Sure enough, I spotted someone I knew.
It was my younger female cousin, Lục Niệm, who had married Dương Tư Quân, the newly named Thám hoa, that very year. She stood among a group of young women in the sea of flowers, but the crowd had gathered around another young woman.
The young woman looked about Niệm Niệm’s age, and a thin cord was looped around her hand. Her hands were nimble, her fingers moving this way and that. The cord in her hands became a dandelion, then a star, then an arched bridge. Each transformation left the young women around her amazed, their eyes wide as they watched the cord in her hands.
The young woman playing with the cord suddenly broke into a radiant smile. Unlike the graceful smiles of sheltered young ladies, hers was natural and openhearted. The corners of her mouth lifted high, her eyes crinkled with laughter, and dimples showed in her cheeks. She was like the warm winter sun, or a gentle spring breeze.
That smile flowed into my heart like warm water, and I stared, utterly entranced. Suddenly, Father tapped my shoulder lightly with his fan and asked:
“Well? What do you see?”
I came to with a start and hurriedly replied:
“Father, I see my younger cousin Niệm Niệm admiring the flowers here.”
Father smiled and nodded, then suddenly pointed his fan ahead:
“Then do you see the young woman standing beside her?”
I nodded slightly.
Father asked again:
“And what do you think of her?”
I hurriedly answered: