Terrified by these words, the grandees kept a mournful silence, and no one ventured a single reply, which only irritated the monarch the more. On his return home, Ho related to his friend Lí everything that had transpired at court, who, hearing him with a mournful smile, replied, “How to be regretted, how unlucky it is that I could not obtain a degree at the examination last year, which would have given me a magistracy; for now, alas! it is impossible for me to relieve his Majesty of the chagrin which troubles him.” “But truly,” said Ho, suddenly, “I think you are versed in more than one science, and will be able to read this unlucky letter. I shall go to his Majesty and propose you on my own responsibility.” The next day he went to the palace, and passing through the crowd of courtiers, approached the throne, saying, “Your subject presumes to announce to your Majesty that there is a scholar of great merit called Lí, at his house, who is profoundly acquainted with more than one science; command him to read this letter, for there is nothing of which he is not capable.”
This advice pleased the Emperor, who presently sent a messenger to the house of the academician, ordering him to present himself at court. But Lí offered some objections: “I am a man still without degree or title; I have neither talents nor information, while the court abounds in civil and military officers, all equally famous for their profound learning. How then can you have recourse to such a contemptible and useless man as I? If I presume to accept this behest, I fear that I shall deeply offend the nobles of the palace”—referring especially to the premier Yang and the general Kao. When his reply was announced to the Emperor, he demanded of Ho why his guest did not come when ordered. Ho replied, “I can assure your Majesty that Lí is a man of parts beyond all those of the age, one whose compositions astonish all who read them. At the trial of last year, his essay was marked out and thrown aside by the examiners, and he himself shamefully put out of the hall. Your Majesty now calling him to court, and he having neither title nor rank, his self-love is touched; but if your Majesty would hear your minister’s prayer, and shed your favors upon his friend, and send a high officer to him, I am sure he will hasten to obey the imperial will.” “Let it be so,” rejoined the Emperor; “at the instance of our academician, we confer on Lí Peh the title of doctor of the first rank, with the purple robe, yellow girdle, and silken bonnet; and herewith also issue an order for him to present himself at court. Our academician Ho will charge himself with carrying this order, and bring Lí Peh to our presence without fail.”
Ho returned home to Lí, and begged him to go to court to read the letter, adding how his Majesty depended on his help to relieve him from his present embarrassment. As soon as he had put on his new robes, which were those of a high examiner, he made his obeisance toward the palace, and hastened to mount his horse and enter it, following after the academician. Seated on his throne, Hwantsung impatiently awaited the arrival of the poet, who, prostrating himself before its steps, went through the ceremony of salutation and acknowledgment for the favors he had received, and then stood in his place. The Emperor, as soon as he saw Lí, rejoiced as poor men do on finding a treasure, or starvelings on sitting at a loaded table; his heart was like dark clouds suddenly illuminated, or parched and arid soil on the approach of rain. “Some foreign ambassadors have brought us a letter which no one can read, and we have sent for you, doctor, to relieve our anxiety.” “Your minister’s knowledge is very limited,” politely replied Lí, with a bow, “for his essay was rejected by the judges at the examination, and lord Kao turned him out of doors. Now that he is called upon to read this letter from a foreign prince, how is it that the examiners are not charged with the answer, since, too, the ambassadors have already been kept so long waiting? Since I, a student turned off from the trial, could not satisfy the wishes of the examiners, how can I hope to meet the expectation of your Majesty?” “We know what you are good for,” said the Emperor; “a truce to your excuses,” putting the letter into his hands. Running his eyes over it, he disdainfully smiled, and standing before the throne, read off in Chinese the mysterious letter, as follows:
“Letter from the mighty Ko To of the kingdom of Po Hai to the prince of the dynasty of Tang: Since your usurpation of Corea, and carrying your conquests to the frontiers of our States, your soldiers have violated our territory in frequent raids. We trust you can fully explain to us this matter, and as we cannot patiently bear such a state of things, we have sent our ambassadors to announce to you that you must give up the hundred and sixty-six towns of Corea into our hands. We have some precious things to offer you in compensation, namely, the medicinal plants from the mountains of Tai Peh, and the byssus from the southern sea, gongs of Tsíching, stags from Fuyu, and horses from Sopin, silk of Wuchau, black fish from the river Meito, prunes from Kiutu, and building materials from Loyu; some of all these articles shall be sent you. If you do not accept these propositions, we shall raise troops and carry war and destruction into your borders, and then see on whose side victory will remain.”
After its perusal, to which they had given an attentive ear, the grandees were stupefied and looked at each other, knowing how improbable it was that the Emperor would accept the propositions of Ko To. Nor was the mind of his Majesty by any means satisfied, and after remaining silent for some time, he turned himself to the civil and military officers about him, and asked what means were available to repulse the attacks of the barbarians in case their forces invaded Corea. Scholars and generals remained mute as idols of clay or statues of wood; no one said a word, until Ho ventured to observe, “Your venerable grandfather Taitsung, in three expeditions against Corea, lost an untold number of soldiers, without succeeding in his enterprise, and impoverished his treasury. Thanks to Heaven Kai-su-wăn died, and profiting by the dissensions between the usurper’s sons, the glorious Emperor Taitsung confided the direction of a million of veterans to the old generals Lí Sié and Pí Jin-kwei, who, after a hundred engagements, more or less important, finally conquered the kingdom. But now having been at peace for a long time, we have neither generals nor soldiers; if we seize the buckler and lance, it will not be easy to resist, and our defeat will be certain. I await the wise determination of your Majesty.”
“Since such is the case, what answer shall we make to the ambassadors?” said Hwantsung. “Deign to ask Lí,” said the doctor; “he will speak to the purpose.” On being interrogated by his sovereign, Lí replied, “Let not this matter trouble your clear mind. Give orders for an audience to the ambassadors, and I will speak to them face to face in their own language. The terms of the answer will make the barbarians blush, and their Ko To will be obliged to make his respects at the foot of your throne.” “And who is this Ko To?” demanded Hwantsung. “It is the name the people of Po Hai give to their king after the usage of their country; just as the Hwui Hwui call theirs Kokan; the Tibetans, Tsangpo; the Lochau, Chau; the Holing, Sí-mo-wei: each one according to the custom of his nation.”
At this rapid flood of explanations, the mind of the wise Hwantsung experienced a lively joy, and the same day he honored Lí with the title of an academician; a lodging was prepared for him in the palace of the Golden Bell; musicians made the place re-echo with their harmony; women poured out the wine, and young girls handed him the goblets, and celebrated the glory of Lí with the same voices that lauded the Emperor. What a delicious, ravishing banquet! He could hardly keep within the limits of propriety, but ate and drank until he was unconscious of anything, when the Emperor ordered the attendants to carry him into the palace and lay him on a bed.
The next morning, when the gong announced the fifth watch, the Emperor repaired to the hall of audience; but Lí’s faculties, on awaking, were not very clear, though the officers hastened to bring him. When all had gone through their prostrations, Hwantsung called the poet near him, but perceiving that the visage of the new-made doctor still bore the marks of his debauch, and discovering the discomposure of his mind, he sent into the kitchen for a little wine and some well-spiced fish broth, to arouse the sleepy bard. The servants presently sent it up on a golden tray, and the Emperor seeing the cup was fuming, condescended to stir and cool the broth a long time with the ivory chopsticks, and served it out himself to Lí, who, receiving it on his knees, ate and drank, while a pleasing joy illumined his countenance. While this was going on, some among the courtiers were much provoked and displeased at the strange familiarity, while others rejoiced to see how well the Emperor knew to conciliate the good will of men. The two examiners, Yang and Kao, betrayed in their features the dislike they felt.
At the command of the Emperor, the ambassadors were introduced, and saluted his Majesty by acclamation, whilst Lí Tai-peh, clad in a purple robe and silken bonnet, easy and gracious as an immortal, stood in the historiographer’s place before the left of the throne, holding the letter in his hand, and read it off in a clear tone, without mistaking a word. Then turning toward the frightened envoys, he said, “Your little province has failed in its etiquette, but our wise ruler, whose power is comparable to the heavens for vastness, disdains to take advantage of it. This is the answer which he grants you: hear and be silent.” The terrified ambassadors fell trembling at the foot of the throne. The Emperor had already prepared near him an ornamented cushion, and taking a jade stone with which to rub the ink, a pencil of leveret’s hair bound in an ivory tube, a cake of perfumed ink, and a sheet of flowery paper, gave them to Lí, and seated him on the cushion ready to draw up the answer.
“May it please your Majesty,” objected Lí, “my boots are not at all suitable, for they were soiled at the banquet last evening, and I trust your Majesty in your generosity will grant me some new buskins and stockings fit for ascending the platform.” The Emperor acceded to his request, and ordered a servant to procure them; when Lí resumed, “Your minister has still a word to add, and begs beforehand that his untoward conduct may be excused; then he will prefer his request.” “Your notions are misplaced and useless, but I will not be offended at them; go on, speak,” said Hwantsung; to which Lí, nothing daunted, said, “At the last examination, your minister was turned off by Yang, and put out of doors by Kao. The sight of these persons here to-day at the head of the courtiers casts a certain discomposure over his spirits; let your voice deign to command Yang to rub my ink, whilst Kao puts on my stockings and laces up my buskins; then will my mind and wits begin to recover their energies, and my pencil can trace your answer in the language of the foreigners. In transmitting the reply in the name of the Son of Heaven, he will then not disappoint the confidence with which he is honored.” Afraid to displease Lí when he had need of him, the Emperor gave the strange order; and while Yang rubbed the ink and Kao put on the buskins of the poet, they could not help reflecting, that this student, so badly received and treated by them, only fit at the best to render such services to them, availed himself now of the sudden favors of the Emperor to take their own words pronounced against him as a text, and revenge himself upon them for past injuries. But what could they do? They could not oppose the sovereign will, and if they did feel chagrined, they did not dare at least to express it. The proverb hath it true: