The Frog
The swamp like a ribbon of heavy green and golden
velvet stretched for miles along the Pearl River. On
fetid days a thick vapor rose from it, a vapor laden with
queer, fragrant perfumes. At night great trees loomed
up against the moon-splashed sky assuming odd shapes,
black monsters, evil spirits, witches. Many and varied
were the legends and superstitions which circulated
throughout Canton about the awesome swamp. For
one thing few persons had ever wandered through it
and those that had told tales so strange they were
less believable than the legends.
The swamp was privately owned. It was really the
garden of Fu Hsi for in the center of it was a great
house that rambled leisurely over much ground as is
often the case in Chinese houses. Fu Hsi himself was
almost as legendary as the spirits of the swamp. No
one had ever seen him. No one knew him. His servants
wandered about the city but they told nothing. They
were as secretive as seditious plotters. Small wonder
then that what could not be gleaned in any other way
was invented. Some said that Fu Hsi was beloved of
the gods. He was of handsome appearance, tall and
straight as a young elm, with face like the full-moon, star-like eyes and lashes arched like bridges over lotus
ponds. He was dressed in robes of gold and silver, embroidered
of sunbeams and colored by coral dawns. He
was a young god and the moon was his brother. Often
at night he climbed up into the gaunt pine trees and
conversed with the moon which had become tangled in
its branches. Sometimes when the wind whistled
weirdly around the eaves of little houses, Chinese
mothers whispered in hushed voices. “List to the murmurings
of Fu Hsi chatting with the moon.”
Strange mad tales but enthralling to the listeners for
the Chinese are poetical. They glory in fanciful things.
Others there were who discounted the whisperings
of his great beauty. They declared he was an evil
spirit, a Jinni who used the vast swamp for a bed in
which to sleep. When he bathed in the waters of the
Yellow Sea, vast typhoons rose. When he was angered
and stamped about, the earth quaked with fear, houses
fell down, mountains trembled. Sometimes he went
abroad disguised as a big cloud of smoke. All the big
smokes know each other and they ramble about the
sky at will. It was said whenever a child disappeared
or a pig or a dog that the Jinni of the swamp had consumed
it. Poets sang of his awesome power and several
timid souls erected effigies to him which they bowed
down before in worship.
So the controversy continued over Fu Hsi nor did
it abate as time passed for no one ever saw him. The great house in the moss-grown swamp remained
shrouded in mystery.
Sometimes a tiny man was seen to emerge from the
gates of the swamp-garden, a stoop-shouldered little
figure always dressed in grass-green clothes. His age
was problematical. In size he was a child, nor did his
bland expression, an expression of dreamy detachment,
suggest age yet there were numerous wrinkles about
his large bulging eyes and the texture of his skin was
like parchment. As he walked through the crooked
winding alleys of Canton he seemed unaware of the
sea of life surging about him. He muttered and murmured
continuously. Sometimes it seemed as though
he were reciting verses. Even in that quaint city of
mystery and romance, he aroused interest. Many turned
to stare at him. His feet were huge and he was flat-footed.
He padded along like a great green frog. So
everyone thought. And in time ‘The Frog of Canton’
was discussed almost as much as the unknown Fu
Hsi, keeper of the swamp-garden.
Occasionally the queer little man stopped for a pot
of tea at the tea-house of Pu Chiang, tea flavored with
the blossoms of honeysuckle and as he sipped the fragrant
beverage he breathed deeply of the sweet aroma.
Time after time Pu Chiang who was a garrulous talker
endeavored to inveigle him into conversation but sans
result. The Frog-man was interested solely in his own
meditations. This piqued Pu Chiang extremely. His
curiosity was vast nor did the little man do anything to appease it. In the face of failure Pu Chiang invented
a story. He told queer things about his odd customer.
Once he had changed into a frog before his very eyes
and hopped about the table. At another time he had
breathed forth fire. He was a dragon, a fiery dragon
and his true character had reflected from his eyes. As
Pu Chiang waited in his shop for customers, he sucked
on a long black pipe, dozed and dreamed and wove
his fancies until even he himself believed in them.
The little man was not mortal. He had no soul. His
blood was cold. It contained no warmth. It was like
the blood of fish.
Meanwhile the tiny Frog-man went his way all unconscious
of the stir he was causing. Throughout the
city he was an object of derision but within the silent
swamp-garden he was king. The flowers were his
subjects. He talked with them by the hour. And they
understood his songs. Flowers have hearts and souls
as surely as people. The little Frog-man knew this and
among them he was happy. The swamp was teeming
with plant, insect and bird life. Bees droned in the
noon-day heat. Frogs basked in the sun. The green of
their bodies was no more brilliant than the coat of
the little man. The winding stretches of forest were
amazingly cool. The moisture of the swamp saturated
everything. Only a bit of light penetrated the forest
depths where the verdure was thickest. At night
the Frog-man slept on a bed of moss and soft loam,
more restful than feathers. But when there was a moon he slept in the treetops on a natural couch in the high
branches which he had discovered. The wind playing
softly in the willows lulled him to sleep. His couch
swayed softly like a cradle while the yellow lanternmoon
splashed down its gorgeous light upon the whispering
swamp.
When morning came the little man would scramble
down from the treetops. With a shout of glee he would
cast off his green suit and plunge into the cool yellow
water. What cared he that the water was oozy mud?
In the coral-dawn it shone like gold. It laved his face
like some sweet elixir. Each time he rose to the surface
he was a golden statue, the glistening yellow mud
clinging like paint to his skin. All about him frogs
croaked and gurgled and gloried in the swamp. When
he had splashed about as long as he desired, he sped
to where there was a bit of a waterfall. Under this
he stood till the last vestige of gold had been washed
from him. Then came the sun, drying his body, toning-up
his happiness. When he was dressed he would wander
throughout his garden, touching, caressing occasional
flowers that were his especial friends.
Sometimes he raised a dew-drenched rose to his
lips or a gorgeous pond lotus. But he never plucked
a flower. For he hated to give pain and he knew as an
aid philosopher has written that one cannot pluck a
flower without troubling a star. Stars are the great
lovers of flowers. Flowers blossom joyously, lift up their heads to the sun, so that they may find favor
with the stars.
At times it rained. The sun attempted to peep out
from behind a tapestry of clouds. It shone on the
steady downpour creating a veritable shower of glistening
golden diamonds. At such moments the little Frogman
would scamper up to his bower in the treetops and
laugh and dance and sing lustily. Fragrantly the rain
poured down perfumed by the countless sweet breaths
of the flowers. And not infrequently when the storm
was over and all the leaves and petals glistened in the
sun in full splendor a gorgeous rainbow would arch
off into the sky like a runaway road leading to enchanted
realms of loveliness. And all the frogs croaked
their gratitude for such a picture while the strange little
man capered about like a merry elf.
It was a superb existence, living in the garden-swamp
among the flowers, sleeping in the treetops
beneath the moon or on the soft loam under the swaying
willows. Every flower in the woodland was his
friend and all the tiny animals that lived there never
fled at his approach. They knew and loved him. They
were all brothers. Life was happiness, song, ecstasy.
What mattered that the little man was a monstrosity,
a tiny dwarf who resembled a frog with great flat feet
and bulbous eyes? For the flowers loved him. Their
sight is very keen. They could see the real beauty of
his character shining through the ugly shell of his
body.
Never did the little Frog-man enter the great mansion
owned by Fu Hsi. It stood gorgeous and majestic. Its
great red roof was like a huge full-blossomed rose. It
was a house of vast extent with many rooms and endless
winding spacious halls. It was filled with all sorts
of costly objects, fine porcelains from Kingtehchen,
wondrous jades, carved tables of ebony wood, silk and
satin draperies embroidered in countless colors with
designs of houses and dragons, phoenix and flowers.
The floors were softened by silk rugs of Pekin and
Lientsin. But though the house was magnificent it was
strangely silent, almost like an empty house despite
the presence of numerous servants. No music was ever
heard therein, no conversation of merry guests, no
laughter or song. It was as though the great house was
forever listening, listening for some voice in the garden.
Perhaps it listened to the voice of the little Frog-man
who loved to sing to the moon on purple nights when
it rose like a great yellow-lantern in a sea of blue or
perhaps it was enthralled by the plaintive voice of the
wind in the willows.
Back at the tea-house of Pu Chiang the meditations
continued. It is pleasant to have a problem to mull over
as one imbibes one’s tea. There was sufficient oddness
about the little man to supply such a need. Where was
Fu Hsi who had builded such a wonderful house and
yet was unknown to everyone? What had become of
him?
According to Pu Chiang, beautiful though it appeared the house was really sinister. It was a house
of horror which all wise folk might well avoid. The
Frog-man who dwelt in the swamp was a dreadful
character, a necromancer whose heart matched jet.
“Once,” he told the numerous loiterers who frequented
his tea-house, “I was passing the swamp-garden
on a night when the moon was idle. I paused
for a moment fascinated outside the gate and as I gazed
within I noticed a dozen men in white robes marching
slowly off into the winding trails of the forest. Each
carried a lantern which glimmered like a firefly in the
darkness. Sombrely, soundlessly they marched along,
like dead men escaped from their tombs. They were on
their way to commune with the Frog-man for he only
in all Canton is able to converse with spirits. All
through the dark night they remained in the heart
of the swamp plotting weird crimes. Until dawn I
waited as though bound by a spell, and then as the
sun’s first gleam appeared like a sword in the East,
they returned. They emerged from the forest and
marched soundlessly up toward the gate before which
I stood. I shuddered as I beheld them. For me there
seemed no escape. But as each one crept through the
gate he disappeared into the air. It was a strange sight
to witness. Every man of them vanished before my
very eyes. Necromancy ended as they passed the gate.
Such was one of my experiences before the swamp garden
and I have had many, each less believable than the
last. Truly the Frog-man is a menace to the good people of Canton. They should rise in their wrath and
destroy him.”
In the swamp-garden the little man walked down
the fragrant paths. It was noonday and the glow of
the sun was never more wondrous. It brought out more
pungently the colors of the flowers. The carnations and
chrysanthemums, the peonies and sweet lan bloomed
more perfectly than ever. Occasionally he stopped and
caressed a flower. He breathed deeply of the fragrant
air. No garden could be more lovely than this.
His gaze was attracted by a flower more exquisite
than any other he had ever beheld, a pink and white
flower that stood in the path of the sun. Its pink petals
were like the cheek of a lovely maiden, a tall slender
maiden that would make kingdoms tremble. The little
Frog-man sighed softly. His blood surged in ecstasy
through his shrunken body. Again he looked at the
lovely flower but now it was not a flower any longer
but a lovely girl, a girl of enchanting beauty. She came
toward him and drew him into her arms. As her lips
pressed his all sadness fell from him. What mattered
that he was a hideous dwarf, a Frog-man, what mattered
that his eyes protruded or that his feet were immense?
This wondrous girl was his and she was in his
arms.
In his tea-house Pu Chiang continued his malicious
gossip. His stories were seasoned by the smoke from
the long black pipe. All the plagues of China, he declared,
were traceable to that tiny Frog-man. He was an evil spirit, fit only to be blasted from the earth. His
companions listened to his ravings, mused over them
as they sipped their tea.
“I have solved the mystery of the continued absence
of Fu Hsi,” he said slowly. “Fu Hsi who built the great
house in the swamp-garden. He has been done to death
by the weird Frog-man who perhaps has feasted on his
body. One of the greatest men in all Canton, to be
blotted out like this.”
Now Pu Chiang had never seen Fu Hsi, but he
inferred that he had. It gave piquancy to his fancies.
It is a trait of mankind to condemn that which cannot
be understood. So his companions drank their
tea and plotted. They decided to seize the little Frog-man
and exact retribution from him for imagined
crimes.
One night he came to the tea-house when Pu Chiang
and his companions were there. He ordered tea. Pu
Chiang laughed slyly as he slipped a sleeping-potion
into the cup. It was a delectable moment. The next
thing the little Frog-man knew he was lying in the
yellow-moonlight on a slight hill outside the city. Several
shadowy forms glided about. When Pu Chiang discovered
that the little man’s consciousness had returned,
he dragged him to his feet, bound his hands
behind his back and commenced beating him with a
bamboo switch. The little man writhed in agony. He
groaned and cried hoarsely. To overwrought imaginations
his screams sounded like the croaking of a frog.
When Pu Chiang grew tired one of his companions
took up the delectable task. It was extremely pleasant
to beat the helpless little Frog-man with bamboo. But
not long did he continue without interruption for there
suddenly appeared a maiden of jewel-like beauty upon
the silent hilltop. The rays of the moon spun about her
like a web, making her slender body fairly glow. She
was dressed in a costume of silver, so brilliant that it
seemed to be made of star-dust. Her face was beautiful
and her blue hair blended into the blue of the
sky. Her lips were red like crushed cherries and an elusive
perfume floated on the air about her. She stopped
as she reached the side of the little Frog-man. As she
did so the wielder of the bamboo switch stepped back
in awe. Never had he beheld beauty comparable to
this, not even in a sunset or a flower. Softly she stooped
over the little moaning man. She lifted his head into
her lap and pressed her gorgeous lips to his.
“Little Fu Hsi,” she whispered, “little keeper of my
garden.”
He sighed softly, sighed in ecstasy. Forgotten was the
torture he had been through. For the lovely lady was
bending over him and her breath was mingling with
his.
She helped him to his feet and hand in hand they
walked off toward the moon. Pu Chiang and his companions
gazed upon them entranced. They marveled
that they had ever thought the little Frog-man ugly.
On that clear night on the hilltop they saw the real man which the gargoyle shell of his body had always
hidden. For one brief interlude their sight was as keen
as that of flowers. He was straight and handsome, like
a young tree, and his beauty matched hers in perfectness.
Like beaten mice Pu Chiang and his friends crept
down from the hilltop. They had sinned by interfering
with the strange ways of destiny.
From that day forth misfortune dogged the footsteps
of Pu Chiang. His business did not prosper. His
customers fell away. They complained that his tea was
bitter. When he brought them honeysuckle blossoms
and rose petals to flavor it with, strange bugs peeped
out from the flowers whose bite was poison. At last not
a customer remained to Pu Chiang, the garrulous.
More and more he sought solace in his pipe. He grew
nervous and irritable. He had lost his wealth and his
health was fleeing. He became a victim of his own hallucinations.
Always he had controlled his dreams but
now his dreams controlled him. He believed that on
moonlight nights more of the moon-glow came to his
house than to any other. The moon was spying on him.
The moon was alive. It was an enemy, a great animal
whose breath was poison. It tore at his reason. When
it was moonlight he cried and moaned as though the
moon were beating him with bamboo sticks.
One morning his reason broke free from its moorings.
He rushed from his deserted tea-house to the
swamp-garden. After all life was a veritable swamp.
No matter how hard one struggled the end was inevitable. One was sucked under by the purling ooze. It
was a beautiful morning. The flowers lifted up their
heads to a sky that was cloudless. Bees droned in the
fragrant air. A bird sang shrilly. The swamp-garden
was a vault of liquid gold. Blindly Pu Chiang rushed
into the forest. He was mad. Helpless. On into the
swamp he plunged, into the golden mud that was
bottomless. As he sank he ceased screaming. Only a
few bubbles on the yellow water proclaimed that he
had passed.
Nguồn: Wikisource English — The Wind That Tramps the World (collection)/The Frog. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.