TheMandarin’s Ear
By Frank Owen
An odd and curious Story about a Chinese mandarin who had the ear of a thief grafted in place of the ear he had lost
The mandarin Wang Mok was distraught.
He had gone hunting in
the hills west of Peking. Not only
had he returned without any game, but he
had returned without one of his ears.
Where the ear had been, there was now a
jagged wound which his numerous doctors
bustled about in an effort to heal. Not
only was the pain excruciating, but Wang
Mok considered that he had lost face. Now
he would not be able to be buried in completeness
on that day when earth should
cease to need him more. And another
thing disturbed him. Now when he
walked in the garden among his numerous
slender slave-women, they might turn
their heads that he would not behold
them smiling. No longer was the face of
Wang Mok round and bland as a full
moon. It was a broken moon. Saurin the
poet could no longer write sonnets about
him.
How he lost his ear ever remained a
mystery. Some said that it had been shot
off accidentally, others that a wild beast
of the mountains had attacked Wang
Mox in savage fury, resentful of his desire
to spread death through the mountains.
But those in the mandarin’s party
wisely said nothing. Although as a rule
the mandarin was a gentle master, upon
occasion he had been known to slit the
tongue of a cook because he had prepared
food for him that had caused his stomach
vexation.
And now the doctors shook their heads
as they gathered in conclave. For once
their extensive resources were inadequate.
They could not very well resort to acupuncture,
nor for that matter could they
prescribe shed snakeskins, asafetida or
apricot gold pills. Only a magician could
grow a new ear. Then Doctor Wen Hsi,
who always walked alone in the pathways
of therapeutics and philosophy, craved
audience with the mandarin and was at
once shown into his august presence.
“My master,” he said humbly, after
preliminary salutations had been exhausted,
“if you will permit me to speak,
I will advise you of my humble conclusions
in regard to the replacement of your
ear.”
“Speak freely,” the mandarin directed,
“for I know you are a doctor possessed
of remarkable powers, though I greatly
doubt your ability to grow a new ear
for me.”
Doctor Wen Hsi bowed. “Most gracious
master,” he said slowly, “I make no
claim that I can grow you a new ear, but
I believe that with the help of the gods
and your august sanction I can replace the
one you have lost.”
“You mean with an ear of wax?”
“No, with a living ear!”
The mandarin leaned forward on his
chair. His eyes lit up and glowed like
bright lanterns.
“If you could do that,” he whispered
tensely, “the fortunes of China would be
yours.”
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It was an elegant exaggeration. Wang
Mok could not have promised more had
he been the emperor instead of only a
mandarin. Nevertheless he was fabulously
wealthy, so that within reason he
could make good his boast.
“Up till now,” the doctor went on, “I
have only a theory.”
“What more do you need?”
“An ear.”
The mandarin leaned back and sighed.
“A living ear? Where could we find one
willing to part with so necessary an appendage
save as the result of violence?
Besides which, to make the matter more
difficult, an ear would have to be found
that would match in symmetry the ear I
have lost.”
“That should not be hard,” Wen Hsi
said, musingly. “Surely among the hosts
of condemned murderers, waiting to have
their heads ignominiously chopped off, we
could find one willing to give up his ear
in exchange for his head.”
“Vast approval do I bestow on your
plan,” the mandarin commented. “Proceed
at once with it. Days will drag until
that hour when the symmetry of my face
shall be restored.”
2
Ming Ti had only five days to Eve. He
sat in his cell, his back against the
wall, meditating over the sweetness of
life. He smacked his lips. He had found
the world a juicy plum and it had not
been hard to bite into it. Among thieves,
Ming Ti was an emperor; that is why he
had the colossal effrontery to assume the
name of one of the most illustrious of
all Chinese emperors. But then Ming Ti
held nothing sacred. He was tall, handsome.
No emperor had ever had better
features, nor had there been one whose
face more truly resembled that of a full
moon. And his skin was of a fine golden
texture, like the color of the young moon
rising. His nose was a bit too flat, but his
eyes were glittering. They seemed to be
laughing, but it was laughter without
warmth. His mouth was firm and his chin
strong. But greater in perfection than
any other of his features were his ears.
Alas! that so soon he would no longer
be able to hear the faint swish of the wind
through the willows or the glory-song of
a Chinese nightingale!
Yet he knew that at his death, many
slender girls would weep, girls like flowers,
girls from many different provinces.
And their tears would fall to form a
mighty river on which his soul might flow
into the Celestial Heaven. Ming Ti had
no desire for immortality. He had little
fault to find with a world so constructed
that he had money hidden away everywhere.
Occasionally there were those who
spoiled his play. They protested at his
taking money to which he had no right.
Now and then it was necessary to inflict
death upon these misguided strangers.
Never did he kill with malice. It was
merely in the routine of business. But
those in authority had become vexed.
Protestations had come from various legations.
So much pressure had been put
upon China that she winced. The result
was that Ming Ti was scooped up and
thrown into prison. His head was to be
sliced from his body. Not in anger. That
too was to be merely in the routine of
business.
The contemplation of it spoiled the
rhythm of Ming Ti’s life, for more than
anything else he was a poet. He liked to
sing little songs to the moon, especially
when a slender girl was standing in silhouette
in front of it. Ming Ti was a
born lover, a veritable emperor of hearts.
It was his proud boast that no damsel had
ever been able to withstand the ardor of
his wooing. Even girls who became his
captives ended up by being slaves of his
love. Ming Ti knew all that there was to
know about war and women. He was a
braggart, a boaster, a swashbuckling buccaneer.
Through his life had passed a countless
procession of women—women of every
hue, women for every mood. Yet now the
procession was about to end. The parade
was over. Death would be his final mistress.
Nor would she succumb to his
charms. Rather would it be the other
way about. He would join that endless
procession of men upon whom death had
smiled, then turned away.
Ming Ti sighed. How sweet life was!
Life was a great melon. Women were the
seeds.
But now the feast was over. In a few
days his head would drop from his body,
as the executioner demonstrated his skill
before an assembled throng. Ming Ti
drew his hand across his eyes and shivered.
He hoped his head wouldn’t roll
when it fell to the ground.
And then came Doctor Wen Hsi.
From his gracious and charming attitude
no one would have imagined that his
interest was concerned with trading. He
was a merchant extraordinary, willing to
trade a head for an ear.
Ming Ti was tired of being alone. His
spirits drooped. He was alone in a stinking
cell where there was no human about
to whom he could boast. There were
vermin and rats, to be sure, but they paid
little heed to his ravings. Always he had
wasted his time in wine shops and in the
company of women, telling tall tales
about his exploits. Everything was related
with some degree of veracity,
though slightly multiplied. If he fought
one man it was a dozen. If he escaped
from his pursuers by swimming a creek it
was a mighty river. If he kicked a dog
until it fled yelping from his path it became
a tiger in the telling. And his exploits
in love were equally as amazing.
They too were warmed with boasting, but
they were so Rabelaisian that they cannot
be set down. Suffice to say that no woman
could resist him, and certainly there was
no woman strong enough to overcome
him in nuptial combat. He was a singing
troubadour, a Chinese Don Juan. For
years he had been the center of his little
world. His subjects had willingly grouped
around him, for he told his stories well;
but, far more important, he dispensed
warm wine when the tales were concluded.
Now he no longer had wine,
and his subjects had dispersed to other
tiny kingdoms not overcome by drought.
So at the approach of Doctor Wen Hsi
he was in a highly receptive mood.
Naturally he was unenthusiastic about
the suggestion that he relinquish all claim
to his ear, but he was enthusiastic about
the opportunity to continue marching
onward into life. Life had been too enjoyable
for him to contemplate cessation
of it without regret.
Now Doctor Wen Hsi was a man of
action. Wherever possible he liked to
accomplish his work with promptitude.
Therefore he took Ming Ti back to the
mandarin and amid great pomp and ceremony
Ming Ti’s ear was transplanted
onto the moon-like head of Wang Mok.
And in the palace there was great rejoicing,
for now the mandarin had not lost
face; rather he had regained that part of
his face that had been missing.
Ming Ti, the bandit, was amply rewarded.
His wound was given the best of
attention. When it had healed he was
sent forth from the palace, a free man,
and his purse had been filled with so
much gold that it was burdensome to
carry. But Ming Ti soon righted that.
He stopped at numerous wine shops,
dallied on love boats and squandered his
new wealth in profligate living and with
such speed that he was soon reduced to
a rank little above that of a beggar. So
once more he returned to his profession
of banditry, which he had perfected until
it had become a fine art.
Meanwhile Wang Mok, the mandarin,
walked once more among
his slave-women in the vast gardens surrounding
his house. Once more he was
fit for the adoration of slant-eyed girls.
How good it was to feel the caress of
slender hands, the warmth and softness
of lush red lips, under a Chinese moon!
The garden was fragrant with the mingled
perfumes of many flowers. And in
that garden walked Jasmine, with a body
like warm white velvet. When Jasmine
smiled, the moon itself bowed in homage.
Wang Mok was completely captivated by
this slender gorgeous slave who had come
to live with him, though now he found
himself living with her. He obeyed her
every wish. She was a delicate, fragile,
perfumed tyrant. She cared not in the
slightest for Wang Mok, but she was appreciative
of the position in which she
was placed through her association with
him. Her family had been poor farmers
who lived in the shadow of the Yellow
River. Sometimes the shadows deepened
and floods enveloped the land like great laughter. It was a continuous struggle
between man and the river, but eventually
the river won. The little family, like a
million others, was reduced to a state of
starvation perched on the fringe of death.
It was at this time that Jasmine urged her
father to sell her into slavery, so that the
rest of the family might be freed from
their shackles of poverty. Despite the
feeble protests of those dear to her, Jasmine’s
will prevailed. Through an agent
in Peking who was famous for his traffic
in women, she eventually found herself
the property of Wang Mok. Never had
she beheld a mansion more beautiful, nor
a garden more fragrant. At night when
the moon was high, Wang Mok lingered
with her in one of the tiny pavilions that
stood like a jewel on the edge of an artificial
lake, and drew her to his breast.
Jasmine desired more than anything
else to please Wang Mok, for Wang Mok
had made her family comparatively affluent.
Now they were the one prosperous
clan in a village of beggars. It pleased
them to flaunt their success. And though
Jasmine gave herself to Wang Mok willingly,
she was never stirred by his wooing.
To her he had far less personality than
the moon or the trees that grew in the
garden.
Now that he had a new ear, Wang
Mok’s esteem of himself increased. He
never appreciated the worth of his ear
until it had been snatched from him.
And so the sleep of Wang Mok was calm
and serene, but unfortunately it did not
remain so for long. Presently a night
came when he tossed upon his kong and
groaned in misery, for he seemed to be
suffering torture, the same torture that he
could hear as though on the breath of the
wind from some far-distant place. Sighs
and groans and much weeping. Hours on
end of torture, and a man sitting in a jail
cell, pleading to the gods to smite him
down and end sufferings so extreme.
Once more Wang Mok summoned the
renowned Doctor Wen Hsi and related
the strange occurrences of the night, but
to the learned doctor such phenomena
were far from a mystery.
“You are wearing the ear of Ming Ti,”
he explained, “and so you hear all the
things that are happening to him. And I
might add that at this moment things are
happening to him in considerable quantities.
For Ming Ti has been arrested once
more for being a bandit, and hour after
hour he is being tortured with all the
refinements and perfection of that gentle
art.”
“But this must cease,” the mandarin
said irritably, “for by torturing Ming Ti
they are torturing me. Arrange for his
release at once.”
“I will do so,” the doctor said, “and I
believe, as ever, your decision is a wise
one. I suggest carrying it a step farther,
however, to guard against such a thing
happening again. Ming Ti is a bandit,
and a bandit he will always remain. He
will steal anything when urged by poverty,
and so efficiently does he squander
money that it is a practical impossibility
to keep him always in funds. Given the
wealth of all China, he would squander
it in a few years. It is my thought that if
Ming Ti were brought to this garden to
dwell for ever in peace and plenty with
his own servants to wait upon him the
urge to steal would not be sharpened to
so keen an edge. And both you and he
would be able to sleep of nights, for there
would be nothing to interrupt the calm
measure of your dreams.”
“That is an excellent plan,” agreed
Wang Mok, and his joy was far in excess
of that warranted by the occasion.
3
So Ming Ti was brought to the garden
of the mandarin. He was bathed and
dressed in elaborate clothes, after which
he was served a meal fit for the gods, a
meal that was a poem in fifty courses.
And as the meal progressed the mandarin
entered and sat at the table also. In glowing
phrases he bade Ming Ti welcome.
“Henceforth,” said he, “you will be
permitted the run of my house, for you
are now my brother. We are blood brothers,
united by an exchange of ears.”
Ming Ti smiled insolently. “Hardly
that,” said he, “for I did not receive any
ear in return.”
“That is true,” the mandarin said
blandly, “but in my eyes, you have an ear.
This ear that I am wearing will ever be
yours. And to seal the compact I give
you this house and garden as your home
till death.”
Ming Ti bowed. “You are most gracious,”
he declared. “First you give me
my life. And now you give me a new
splendid world in which to enjoy it.
Truly it is like being born anew. May I
be worthy of the honors which you are
showering down upon me.”
“If you have a wife,” Wang Mok went
on, “she shall be brought here so that you
may enjoy the pleasures with which she is
able to supply you.”
“I have no wife,” Ming Ti said curtly.
“There is no one I wish to bring here.”
“If you have any desires, make them
known to me,” the mandarin told him at
parting.
Before that day had drawn to a close
and the sun had gone over the far hills to
die, Ming Ti had flamed with a great desire,
but he did not mention the matter
to the mandarin. For as he walked
through that enchanted garden in the late
afternoon, he encountered Jasmine, who
was walking alone. Her slender body
vied with the flowers ifl loveliness. There
was fragrance in her breath, fragrance in
her smile as she stepped aside for Ming
Ti to pass. And though Ming Ti passed,
his thoughts remained with Jasmine. He
paused and looked back, scarcely believing
that such enchantment could be reality.
And at that moment, Ming Ti stepped
into a dream, a dream that became more
beautiful day by day. It warmed and
grew rich in color. Now Ming Ti was
no longer a bandit. He was merely a
man, conquered by love. Nor was his
love fruitless, for it stirred an echo in
Jasmine’s gentle breast.
In the ensuing days they contrived to
meet each other frequently, and it happened,
as such things do, that eventually
their love blended and became one. Their
two lives flowed onward like a peaceful
river. But they were not happy, for Ming
Ti knew that the mandarin shared the favors
of Jasmine with him, and jealousy
overcame him like a mighty flood. He
felt as though he were drowning, unable
to breathe. He must get Jasmine away
from this enchanted prison. Not for a
moment did Ming Ti think of all the
comfort he would be surrendering by
leaving the garden to go into an exile
of poverty. Jasmine would go with him.
Therefore nothing else mattered. Having
Jasmine, he would have everything. At
last Ming Ti had become as profound as
any of the sages of old China. All that
is worthwhile in life is reflected in the
smile of a beloved woman.
When Wang Mok, the mandarin, was
advised one morning that they had fled,
he was distraught. It was as though sunshine
had vanished from the garden. The
birds no longer sang, there was no melody
in the tree-tops, and the flowers had lost
their fragrance. Night after night he lay
sleepless, listening to the wooing of Ming
Ti. Although he did not know where
the lovers had gone, each night he listened to their whispering. The ear of
Ming Ti had restored symmetry to the
mandarin’s face, but it had taken away
serenity of mind.
As the weeks rolled on and drearily
grew into months, the agents of the
mandarin scoured the empire for any trace
of Jasmine or the bandit, but without success.
Apparently they had vanished like
spirits into the very air. It was a profound
mystery, an event without reason. And
yet, though none of the searchers suspected
it, the explanation was so simple
that it needed little explanation. Ming Ti
and Jasmine had merely stepped over the
threshold of China and it was as though
a door had closed upon them. To the
heart of Indo-China they went, where
they could find heart’s ease and serenity.
Now during his life Wang Mok had
owned and possessed many women. Some
were like fine bits of fragile porcelains,
some like flowers, a few as smooth as
jade. He had enjoyed a feast of love, a
feast of many courses; nor did he care
particularly when one was taken from
him. And now that Jasmine was gone,
he might have forgotten her if he had not
been forced to listen to the music of her
voice as she sang exquisite love-songs to
Ming Ti. And the ear of Ming Ti on the
face of the mandarin strained so hard to
catch every note, it was almost like an
attack of acute neuralgia. The pain kept
Jasmine ever in his thoughts, which naturally
kept her ever in his heart. Night
after night his sleep was disturbed. He
became irritable and fretful. He tried the
salve of the velvet bodies of other women.
But still his ear, the ear of Ming Ti,
listened for the magic tones of Jasmine’s
rippling voice.
And then one night, surprizingly,
Wang Mok slept through till dawn. No
dreams, no pain. The soft golden body
beside him gave him warmth. The gentle
breasts of the newest of his slaves
were silken cushions against which he lay
sleeping. When he awakened he gazed
about him, unable to comprehend this
new freedom that had been thrust upon
him. He put his hand to his face. His
ear was as cold as ice. It was without
feeling. With it he could hear nothing.
And once more Wang Mok sent for Doctor
Wen Hsi and acquainted him with all
that had occurred.
Wen Hsi examined the ear thoroughly.
“Strange are the ways of the gods,” he
mused.
“What do you mean?” asked the mandarin.
“This ear is dead. It must be cut from
your body before it begins to rot. I
strongly recommend that it be done
within the hour.”
“But how do you explain it?” the mandarin
persisted.
“Somewhere, somehow,” the doctor began,
“Ming Ti has met death. He has
gone to join the spirits of his ancestors
and he has taken his ear with him. That
ear still belongs to Ming Ti. It always
heard the things that were happening to
Ming Ti. We erred when we attempted
to meddle with the affairs of the gods.”
The mandarin smiled. After all, there
were many nights to come, Chinese nights
entertainments to rival any of those related
of Bagdad in the book of a thousand
and one stories.
Later that day, an operation was performed.
For the second time Wang
Mok lost an ear, but this time he did not
mind, for he had grown to believe that
by surrendering his ear, he had regained
his “face,” which was vastly more important.
Better, he believed, to have one
ear and enjoy the repose of yellow-velvet
fragrant nights, than to have two ears and
toss sleepless until dawn.
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