He was dazzled by the gorgeous phoenix-tail chrysanthemums.

From a high trellis they cascaded to the ground in a shower of shimmering flecks of light, as if they were a magnificent phoenix tail, or a long sequined skirt spotlighted on a stage, or a silent, fragrant waterfall. The long, blossom-laden stems fell loose and free, like a girl’s freshly washed hair; they hung in tangled profusion and breathed a wild, woodland scent. The phoenix-tail chrysanthemum was his favorite flower, the only one that attained such marvelous perfection.

Transported by the beauty of nature, he slipped his hand mechanically into his pocket, took out a big carved walnut pipe, put it to his mouth, and lit it. As soon as he had taken a few puffs he realized that smoking was prohibited in the greenhouse. Nervously he looked around for a place to put out the pipe and glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the custodian had not spotted him. Fortunately, all was still and there was no one in sight. But just as he breathed his sigh of relief, he noticed the weathered face of an old man peering at him from behind a nearby clump of huge green canna leaves. The face was shockingly grotesque. He figured this must be the custodian and wondered how long he had been hiding in the leaves watching him. The old man’s small gray eyes were fixed on the fuming pipe. But to his surprise the old man waved to him before he could apologize for his transgression.

“It’s all right,” he said amiably. “Come with me.”

Astonished, he followed the old man through the canna leaves to a corner of the greenhouse.

Along one wall there was a brick kang with a mat and a bedroll on it. Beside the kang lay a heap of gardening tools: short-handled hoes, long-handled clippers, sprayers, buckets, twine, and bamboo rods. In the middle of the clean, damp earthen floor stood a foot-high square wooden table that looked as if it belonged on the kang, along with two tiny chairs like the ones used in kindergartens. The unvarnished legs of the furniture were stained halfway up with water from the floor. On the table was an old newspaper covered with drying tobacco leaves. He realized that the old man must be the gardener. He vaguely remembered the fellow from the few times that he had been there before, but this was the first time that he had ever really noticed him.

“Go ahead and smoke. There’s good ventilation here,” the old gardener said, pointing to a small open window over the bed. Then he invited him to sit down and poured him a cup of heated water, even setting it respectfully before him. The offender wondered uneasily what he had done to deserve such treatment.

The old gardener sat down opposite him and took out a long-stemmed pipe and a round shiny tin-plated tobacco case. Then he opened the case and started to fill the pipe, but his hands trembled so much that he was not very efficient. Once he had lit the pipe and started to smoke, he remained silent but kept smiling at his companion while casting sidelong glances at the pipe in his mouth. It was impossible to divine what thoughts were concealed by the gardener’s grotesque features. Was this his good-natured way of mocking him for his error? Or was he trying to show goodwill?

“Mr. Tang, are you still painting these days?” The old gardener broke the ice.

“How do you know my name is Tang? And that I paint?” he asked, taken aback.

“What?” The old gardener cocked his right ear.

He repeated in a louder voice.

“Of course I know,” the old gardener answered with a genial smile, the laugh lines on his cheeks crinkling into symmetrical curves. “You once brought your students here to sketch the flowers. You haven’t changed a bit.”

After a moment’s thought Mr. Tang remembered: Before the onslaught of the Cultural Revolution in the mid-1960s, he had brought his art class here when his favorite phoenix-tail chrysanthemums were in bloom. The old gardener had not forgotten, though six or seven years had gone by. The abrupt twists and turns of recent years had pushed the past so far out of his own mind that it all seemed like ancient history.

He had been a celebrated painter but had fallen into disgrace, like a glittering chandelier that had been knocked down, smashed into rainbow smithereens, and trampled callously underfoot. The world had forgotten him. In better days visitors had flocked to his house, but now his gates were deserted and few carriages came to call. All the people who had pestered him before—celebrities, honored guests, reporters, editors, disciples, admirers, and idle hangers-on—had disappeared without a trace. He was as useless as a postmarked stamp. But now to his surprise he found that he had been inscribed in this old man’s memory. He could not check the wave of grief and tenderness that welled up inside him.

“I’m surprised you remember me. What a good memory you have. But I—uh—don’t paint much anymore.” His voice faltered with emotion.

“What?” The old gardener cocked his right ear again.

“I don’t paint much anymore!”

“I see.” The old gardener nodded sympathetically, like a close friend. “But you ought to paint, you know,” he added emphatically. “Your paintings are beautiful, really beautiful!”

“They are? But you’ve never seen them.” He knew that he had never painted when he had taught his art class here. Suddenly he suspected the old gardener was toadying.

“Yes, I have,” said the old gardener. “There are prints of your paintings. I’ve seen them. They’re really beautiful!”

The old gardener’s praise sounded heartfelt, as if he were recalling the flavor of a particularly tasty fish. Apparently the old man had paid some attention to his works and knew of his reputation. Could it be that an appreciative friend was hidden here in this colorful world of exotic flowers and plants, like a Zhong Ziqi in a secluded mountain valley? He looked in amazement at the old gardener, but a couple of searching glances at his grotesque features was enough to put such odd conjectures to rest.

Who could find a trace of intelligence, beauty, or knowledge in this ugly old gardener? His black jacket and pants were wrinkled, dirty, and worn to a shine at the elbows and knees. He was wearing padded cotton shoes and the puttees of a peasant. “Where shadows fell on his swarthy face it was as black as the bottom of a frying pan blending with the black of his outfit just as his wrinkles matched the creases in his clothes. He was short and squat, with a slight hunchback and pronounced bowlegs. Hunched over, he was like a big black earthen ware pot from the Han dynasty—one of those curious utensils that came only from the marvelous imaginations of those first-century sculptors. A goose egg bulged on his forehead; his brow jutted out like a primeval ape-man’s. His eyebrows were thin, his eyes small and red-rimmed, and his pupils bore the dull, bleared gaze of old age. Stubble covered his cheeks and chin. His jug ears looked artificial and seemed to strain to catch every sound; his right ear, which was always cocked, appeared bigger than the left.

One sensed that this was an old man who was prejudiced and set in his ways. Like an old mountaineer who had spent most of his life in some ravine, he was uneducated, probably incapable of even writing his own name. He had gone deaf in his old age, and his movements were slow and clumsy. He spilled half his tobacco when he stuffed his pipe, but did not bother to pick up the droppings until he had spilled a great deal. And he did not seem to mind reaching down with a leathery, stubby, rough hand to scoop up a mixture of tobacco and dirt to tamp into his pipe. He spoke little, probably because of his poor command of language. When he praised Mr. Tang’s paintings it appeared that the only words at his disposal were “Beautiful, really beautiful!”

In Mr. Tang’s experience, people almost never said a painting was “beautiful.” The word was profound and seemed particularly incongruous on the lips of this weather-beaten old man. What was he talking about? What did he mean by “Beautiful, really beautiful!”? Could such a word be a heartfelt response to his art? Maybe word of his fame and some prints of his works had struck the old man’s fancy, Mr. Tang thought. But the old man’s inclination was merely intuitive; it was by no means an appreciation of his art. The old gardener was right, but he was misinterpreting art, just as when we think the twittering of birds is melodious without having the slightest idea of what they are really communicating. We always assume that birds are warbling affectionately to each other or singing a duet, when they may very well be arguing.

They sat for a while. The old gardener seemed to have nothing more to say and enjoyed his pipe in silence; the brass mouthpiece never left his lips. Although Mr. Tang had also run out of small talk, he had at least recovered from his embarrassment and was enjoying his pipe. But for some reason the old gardener kept glancing at it.

“Do you want to try my tobacco?” he asked.

“No,” the old gardener answered with a smile that was both genial and repulsive. “I was just thinking—I’ve never seen a pipe quite like yours before.”

Mr. Tang’s pipe was unusually large, with a carving in relief of a plump owl perched on a thick, bare branch, and a big full moon—actually just a large circle, but a very neat one—incised into the background to provide contrast to the portion in relief. The design was unique. He emptied the pipe and handed it to the old gardener.

“I carved it myself,” he said.

The old gardener took the pipe and began to examine it in fascination.

“It’s beautiful, beautiful, really beautiful!” he repeated, looking up at Mr. Tang with sincere admiration in his bleary little eyes. Mr. Tang was deeply moved. The pipe was his pride and joy. But he was firmly convinced that its intriguing formal variations and subtlety of line were lost on the old gardener. He was struck with an unkind suspicion: maybe the old gardener was being so deferential and complimentary because he had taken a liking to the pipe and wanted it for himself.

“If you like it, you can have it,” he said, noting that the old gardener seemed unwilling to let the pipe out of his grasp.

To his surprise this brought the old gardener up short. With a grave expression he hurriedly held the pipe out to Mr. Tang.

“No, I couldn’t,” he said.

“Take it and enjoy it. I have more at home.”

“They belong to you. I can’t accept such a gift.”

The old gardener stubbornly shook his head. Mr. Tang politely insisted but only succeeded in upsetting him. His chin trembled and his features contorted as if he could not bear being suspected of coveting someone else’s possessions. He jumped up and thrust the pipe into Mr. Tang’s hands. Mr. Tang had no choice but to take it, refill it, put it back to his lips, and light it.

Mr. Tang’s understanding of the outlandish old gardener had deepened: he saw him as both obstinate and sincere. The gardener’s respect for him was genuine, untainted by any desire for personal gain. But he was still convinced that the gardener was an ignorant man with no more than a layman’s appreciation of art. They could never share a common language. Still, he had had his fill of prejudice, indifference, and ostracism, and he prized the respect shown him here. The old man’s pure, natural kindness was as rare as flowers blooming after a prairie fire, or green leaves after the first storms of winter.

From then on he often went to visit the old gardener, even though the greenhouse was a good distance from his home. He especially liked to go when the phoenix-tail chrysanthemums were in bloom. After viewing the flowers, he and the gardener would sit puffing on their pipes over two cups of steaming hot water. A colorful sea of flowers surrounded them and enveloped them in its tranquil perfume. There was not a breath of wind, but now and then they got a whiff of peony or a hint of the delicate fragrance of orchid. They would speak very little, often sitting quietly until dusk, when it grew dark inside the greenhouse before the light had faded outside the window. Then all he could see was the blur of colors around him and the murky silhouette of the man who sat facing him. At such moments the old gardener, whose grotesque features were only faintly visible in the flickering light of his pipe, was completely transformed into a Han earthenware pot.

From a few idle exchanges of conversation he learned that the old gardener was named Fan and was from Fengrun County, north of Tangshan. He came from a long line of gardeners. He had worked at this little suburban commune greenhouse since he was in his early thirties. He supplied color for meetings of all city organizations and added beauty to the lives of many families. His wife had died of an illness long ago. He had one son, a pump repairman on a neighboring farm. This sunny little greenhouse, with its moist, earthy, scent-laden air, was his home and his entire world. The old gardener apparently had nothing more to tell him.

The two would sit facing each other in silence, without embarrassment at the lack of conversation. On the contrary, each took a sort of satisfaction in the other. Mr. Tang could not tell what it was that gave the old gardener such satisfaction, but the smile in the old man’s eyes as he gazed at him and his pipe gave him the distinct feeling—could it really be that this inarticulate old gardener understood his art? No, never. No one could ever imagine the place that this carved pipe occupied in his life and in the realm of his spirit.

* * * * *

Hunger and the need to buy art supplies once drove penniless Parisian artists to paint golden moons on bar-room walls in exchange for wine, pickles, bread, and canvas. Then they would hurry home to get their beautiful ideas onto canvas before the food in their stomachs had digested.

Not so with our Mr. Tang. At that time all artists were in a state of enforced idleness. Forbidden even to teach, they just languished at home. On the fifteenth of each month Mr. Tang could go to the payroll office of the Art Institute to pick up his ample salary. Every day he could stuff his stomach until it bulged, but he had no outlet for his energy, and time hung heavy on his hands. Although he felt the constant itch to paint, he did not dare touch a brush.

His was the common plight of all our writers and artists. A net of electrified wire had been cast over the world of letters, and the garden of painting was littered with mines. Both paintbrush and pen were as dangerous as the trigger of a bomb: one false move could be fatal.

Eventually his tubes of viscous paints hardened into powdery lumps like dead locusts in an entomologist’s specimen case; a heavy layer of dust coated his canvases; and shiny cobwebs gathered among the paintbrushes in his brush holder.

He was utterly bored. He had nothing to do all day and seldom had visitors anymore. He cherished his memories of all that he had lost, especially the gratifying limelight of his meteoric rise to fame. In those days good things had come as a matter of course, while his only companion now was loneliness.

But he could not go on living in the past; he had to find some release. He had tried to while away his time by learning to fish and to play chess and cards, but he had found that he lacked patience and the knack of quantitative reasoning and abstract perception. No matter how hard he worked at it, he simply could not cultivate these hobbies.

He had even tried carpentry. He was in fine shape for his fifty-odd years; there was enough strength left in his sturdy frame to handle a big saw or plane. Since a great deal of his furniture had been confiscated during the turmoil of a few years ago, he started to make some useful pieces and found the task quite enjoyable. He laboriously taught himself how to make a rough table or a cupboard, but he was unable to put the finishing touches on anything. He would lose interest in a piece before it was done, complete it carelessly, and slap on the varnish. There was always an odd drawer handle or glass cabinet door that he neglected to install. The unfinished pieces stood all around his room. Unable to paint, he was like a jilted lover who cannot summon the energy for anything.

One day as he sat smoking idly, the big, round, smooth dark red pipe in his mouth happened to catch his eye. Suddenly the grain of the wood reminded him of a couple of the winged celestial beings from the Dunhuang frescoes. In a flash of inspiration he found an engraving tool and carved along the grain of the wood, then he gilded the lines he had engraved. The effect was surprisingly good. The flying angels, with their billowing sleeves and floating, swirling sashes, seemed to soar slowly through outer space, sparkling in the light of the sun. Looking at them was as wonderful as gazing up at the ceiling of the Mogao Caves. The incised lines had taken on a powerful, distinctive charm that wasentirely new to him. An ordinary, everyday pipe had been transformed into a splendid work of art, and he had discovered a whole new universe, an oasis in the parched desert of his intolerable confinement. Like a child whose imagination is inspired by a simple wooden wheel, he began to dabble delightedly with his plaything.

He crawled under the bed and found some old pipes in a tattered basket. Within a few days he had carved them all. On some he carved great fleets of sailing ships, and on others, lifelike, downy chirping sparrows. Still others showed water rippling in the spring wind and a few fading stars, or imitations of Han designs of covered war chariots, each line accurately re-creating the archaic flavor of the ancient rubbings.

When he had carved all the pipes he possessed, he made his own out of hardwood, dried brier-root, or oxhorn. His carving grew increasingly skillful. He mastered incising, bas-relief, and high relief; he drilled holes or carved filigree; he learned to tint, polish, wax, and lacquer. His pipes were incomparable: they were far superior to those of ordinary craftsmen, whose glib technique produced only stereotyped cliches. Strictly speaking, their products were mere toys rather than works of art; but no two of Mr. Tang’s pipes were alike in modeling, line, imagery, construction, or style. He regarded each of his pipes as a creation and devoted himself painstakingly to each. On every one of these inch-high cylinders he strove for a certain emotional appeal, a kind of perfection.

He filled a glass bookcase with the pipes he had carved—the books had all been confiscated, so it was empty anyway—and they were a dazzling array of superb art treasures. Here were bizarre human forms from the ancient bronzes; pure, lively decorations from the “painted pottery” culture; Roman architecture; the Mona Lisa, samurai from the Japanese Ukiyo-e prints; Buddhas from the Northern Wei dynasty; the six steeds from the tomb of Emperor Taizong; the Arc de Triomphe; stone engravings from the Wu Family Shrines; the horses of Han Gan; the oxen of Han Huang; the bamboos of Zheng Banqiao; the Egyptian Sphinx—even Walt Disney cartoon characters.

Each one was true to the original, preserving its artistic style and appeal. Some of the originals were executed on a grand scale, yet they had lost none of their spirit, momentum, or resonance when carved in miniature on pipes. Some he had fashioned out of gnarled old roots, letting the natural shapes guide his carving of jagged mountains, ancient wine vessels, the heads of wild beasts, the waves of the sea, or drifting clouds.

He chose as his subjects the treasures of the civilized world and the infinite variety of human life. His forms were bold and novel. He preferred to capture the spirit of things rather than their precise outlines. He had always rejected the simple transcription of the images received by the retina. He believed, rather, that the images must be blended on his palette with the tones of his innermost feelings. Now he had completely realized his artistic ideals.

Sometimes he was absorbed in his work all day long, just as he had been when creating a painting. If inspiration came in the middle of the night, he could not resist the urge to jump out of bed and pick up his engraving tool. When he was pleased with his efforts he would even wake up his wife to admire them with him. She had been in his graduating class at art school thirty years before, and her ideals and talents were similar to his. After marriage, however, she had renounced her ambitions for his sake, or rather, she had made his goals her own. Her fragile shoulders had borne the heavy burdens of life, but she had taken pleasure in his success and silently shared the rewards of his career. She had shown less overt concern than he at the announcement of his ruin, although secretly she had been more discouraged than he. Now she was greatly comforted to see that he had found some spiritual solace during his protracted misery. Pipes would always pass unnoticed as toys. A painter was safe as long as he refrained from painting. Sometimes she could not hold back her tears when she saw how much pleasure he derived from these small objects.

Mr. Tang concluded that the old gardener could not possibly understand any of this. He was probably just deluding himself to imagine that the gardener truly appreciated his art. But an artist needs public acclaim, not just the esteem of his family. Perhaps it was that Mr. Tang could not bear being enveloped in silence, and the solitary, hoarse response of the old gardener partly filled the void.

* * * * *

The autumn winds brought a dappling of purple and gold to the uniform greenery of nature. Beauty returned to the world, and chrysanthemums were in season again. But Mr. Tang did not go to the distant little greenhouse; he had not been there for over half a year.

Six months before, the Party had given famous painters back their laurels. He began to have visitors again, just as a branch that flowers after a blight attracts hordes of bees, butterflies, and small insects. Editors came for contributions, and reporters for interviews. His house was host to a continual parade of celebrities. The students who had vanished a few years before re- turned to ask advice, and there was no end to the number of people who wanted his paintings. He was kept busy all day long just ushering people in and out the door. Sometimes they would come in a swarm, packing his studio until it bustled like a newly opened little restaurant.

He could not get any work done with all these people pestering him. Some dropped in just to pass the time and then would stay for hours; the only reason they left at all was that they got tired of sitting. These tactless visitors had him at his wits’ end. Sometimes he deliberately refrained from speaking, hoping his indifference would drive them out, but they were oblivious to his signals. Some of them even asked: “How can you find time to paint with so many visitors here? Can’t you stop being nice to them?” The way they always excepted themselves was ludicrous and exasperating.

Nonetheless, he was gratified to have so many people clustered around him like stars around the moon; it was tangible proof of his fame and worth. His lost prestige had returned like an escaped bird that comes home to roost, filling the air with its songs. Dimples of joy played upon his cheeks from morning to night; the procession of visitors pleased and honored him. He was so busy that the insignificant old gardener faded from his memory.

He did, however, continue to make his carved pipes, because all his visitors asked for them once they found that they could not have paintings. Very few of the people who wanted his pipes really understood the marvelous language embedded in each of these tiny objects, nor did they necessarily like them terribly much(though they pretended to treasure them). They asked for them only because they were carved by the celebrated Mr. Tang, just as autograph hunters ask a great author for a signed copy of his book without intending to read it. Still, he had to comply with their wishes. In the short space of a few months people had taken most of the pipes in his glass case, and he had to find the time to turn out new ones. He carved them hastily and less conscientiously than before, but people still vied for them. He was meticulous about the design or technique only if he was making a pipe for an art expert or some VIP.

He was allowed to paint again but could not for lack of time. For the moment his pipes were more famous than his paintings; he was fast becoming the recognized master in the art of pipe carving.

One day he found his house filled from early morning with illustrious friends. One of them was a short, fat, famous writer who knew something about painting. Two others, who were the same height as each other, both wore round glasses and looked much alike (although one had a long face and the other a small one), were senior editors who had come to press him for contributions. A fourth guest was tall, thin, and long-legged like a stork; he was a painter. They were discussing Mr. Tang’s artistic style, for which they naturally, since he was present, had nothing but the highest praise. The long-legged painter, one of Mr. Tang’s former colleagues, had not graced his door for many years. Recently he had begun to visit again and had adopted the pose of being one of Mr. Tang’s closest and most appreciative friends.

Although Mr. Tang enjoyed listening to them, he wanted to paint and hoped that they would not stay too long. He had made a sketch the night before, intending to complete it that day, but visitors had been arriving continuously since morning, and he felt obliged to entertain them. They had already polished off an entire pack of filter cigarettes, filling the studio with heavy smoke, and still they showed no sign of leaving. He was close to the end of his tether, when there was another knock at the door.

Here comes someone else. I guess I’ll just have to write today off as a total loss, he thought in frustration, and went to answer the door.

But his eyes lit up in surprise when he opened it, for he was greeted by a huge pot of splendid phoenix-tail chrysanthemums, held in the arms of someone whose face was hidden by the blossoms. He was stunned. Who would bring him flowers? And such gorgeous ones at that!

“Who is it? Please come right in!”

The visitor plodded in silently, set the flowers on the floor, and straightened up. Then Mr. Tang recognized the old gardener. He had delivered Mr. Tang’s favorite flowers right to his door.

“Oh, it’s you, Lao Fan! How did you get here with those? Did you carry them here all the way from your greenhouse?”

The stocky old gardener stood smiling affably in his mud-spattered jacket. The long trip had exhausted him; perspiration glistened on his brow, and he was breathing so hard that all he could do was nod his head wordlessly.

The guests rose and gathered around to admire the pot of chrysanthemums.

Mr. Tang invited the old gardener to sit down and catch his breath. The gardener turned to sit in an armchair but then hesitated as if afraid his clothes were too dirty. Spotting a little wooden stool in front of the bookcase in the corner, he went over and sat on that. Mr. Tang did not urge him to move to the armchair.

“How are you? Busy?” he asked, pouring the old gardener a cup of heated water.

“What?” The old gardener still had that habit of cocking his right ear.

“I said, are you busy?” Mr. Tang repeated in a louder voice.

“Oh, no, not really. You haven’t been to the greenhouse in six months. The phoenix-tail chrysanthemums are your favorites, aren’t they? I figured you’d miss them if you stayed away much longer, so I took off work today to bring you some. Now you can enjoy them at home.” As the old gardener spoke he took out his long-stemmed pipe and round tin-plated tobacco case, opened the case, and set it on the ground. He filled the pipe, lit it, and began to smoke.

The guests had returned to their seats, and Mr. Tang went back to his big leather easy chair to resume the conversation. No one took any further notice of the weather-beaten old man in the corner who had brought the flowers. Mr. Tang did not try to make conversation with him either. Instead, he left the gardener to smoke and sip his water alone, though he did smile and nod in his direction from time to time.

Far from resenting Mr. Tang and his guests for ignoring him, the old gardener listened with relish to their rambling conversation. He had cocked his right ear to hear more clearly. His face would furrow with incomprehension, then relax as if he had grasped some subtle point. He sat there quietly, looking quite content, just as when he had sat across from Mr. Tang in the greenhouse puffing silently on his pipe.

Then, discovering the fantastic array of carved pipes in the glass bookcase behind him, he stood up and examined them at length. Awestruck, he pressed himself against the glass doors as if trying to squeeze inside. His hot breath clouded the glass, which he kept wiping with his hand.

“Beautiful, beautiful, really beautiful!” He could not help breathing his peculiar sighs of appreciation.

The guests found such sounds jarring: what an absurd figure this foolish, ugly old man was. Mr. Tang was embarrassed at having such an ignorant, eccentric acquaintance and was afraid to speak to him for fear he might cause him to say anything even more humiliating. He did his best to divert the attention of his distinguished guests from the old gardener and prayed that he would take his leave soon.

Everyone ignored the old gardener. After a while he rose and said goodbye to Mr. Tang, who made a show of good manners and escorted him out the front door.

“I’m afraid I interrupted your conversation,” the old gardener apologized.

“Not at all. Thank you for coming so far to bring me flowers,” he answered politely.

“Why haven’t you been to the greenhouse? All the phoenix-tail chrysanthemums are blooming beautifully this year. You must be busy.”

It occurred to Mr. Tang that unless he said he was busy the old gardener might drop in whenever he had the chance.

“I’m more than busy—I’m swamped. These people have nothing better to do with their time than drop in on me, so I never have a minute to myself. And they want my paintings, but when am I supposed to paint? I’ve only painted four pictures in the last six months, and most of those were done late at night. If this goes on much longer, I’ll have to become a hermit in the mountains if I want to get anything done!” His face showed mingled pleasure and annoyance.

“Oh, that’s terrible. You ought to paint, you know.” The old gardener seemed more worried than Mr. Tang. “Why don’t you come and paint at my greenhouse?” he added earnestly after a moment’s thought.

“No—I can’t get away from here. Sometimes the people who come to see me have real business. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”

The old gardener was speechless for a moment. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be going now. You still have company.” And he turned and trudged away.

The old gardener delivered flowers twice thereafter. Both times he placed them quietly by the door and left without showing his face or knocking. Discovering them as he escorted guests out the door, Mr. Tang was touched by the gardener’s kindness and meant to visit him, but then it slipped his mind.

Once, when he was opening the window to clear the room of smoke after seeing guests out, he heard someone outside set something down with a clank. He ran to the door and found another pot of beautiful flowers on his step. He caught sight of the silhouette of a stocky old man in black and recognized the gardener by his slightly hunched back and waddling gait.

“Lao Fan!” he called out, running after him. He invited the gardener in. “No thanks. Don’t waste your time,” the gardener said, shaking his head.

“There’s no one here now. Why don’t you come in for a moment and catch your breath before you go back

“No, thanks. This is your chance to do some painting. I’m not tired. I’ll be home before I know it.”

“Don’t come so far out of your way anymore after this. This pot must weigh a good ten pounds. I’ll go to the greenhouse if I want to see the flowers,” said Mr. Tang.

“You don’t have time,” said the old gardener. He could not forget how Mr. Tang had complained of the lack of time to work.

“But—you haven’t even asked me to pay for them. I can’t let you deliver flowers for nothing.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the old gardener, shaking his head. “I only have one son, and he supports himself, so he doesn’t cost me anything. I have more money than I need—I don’t drink and have nothing to spend it on. I even grow my own tobacco. Please don’t mention money.”

“But how can I thank you?”

“What?”

“I said, I should thank you somehow.”

“Do you really want to thank me?” The old gardener’s bleary little eyes peered out in astonishment from beneath his bronzed, protruding brow.

“Yes.”

“Well—” The old gardener hesitated for a moment, then continued decisively, “I’d like to have one of your carved pipes then.” His expression was one of earnest entreaty, but he also looked embarrassed, even ashamed, to be making such a request.

“What? All right! That’s easy enough. I’ll go inside and get one for you.” Mr. Tang turned and went into the house, thinking that the old gardener was terribly eccentric. He had offered him a pipe on the first day they had met. Why hadn’t he taken it then?

Mr. Tang opened the glass doors of his case. There were not many pipes left. On the top shelf only five remained, of which two were masterpieces that he had been reluctant to give away. The other three, recent creations, were exquisite too, but they were spoken for. They had been made to order for a famous poet, the chief of the Municipal Art Bureau, and a great movie director. Each was fine enough to be in a museum. Without touching them, he chose a pipe adorned with five rather simply carved peonies from an assortment of ordinary pipes on a lower shelf. It was an amateurish effort, one of his earliest pieces, but he figured that it was good enough for the ignorant old gardener. Polishing the pipe in his palms, he took it outside.

At the sight of the pipe the old gardener’s eyes twinkled like little gray light bulbs, surprising Mr. Tang with their expressiveness.

“Do you”—the old gardener’s voice quavered with delight—”really want to give me such a fine pipe?”

“Of course, take it!” Mr. Tang said, handing it to him. He took satisfaction in the old gardener’s obvious pleasure: at last he had repaid him for delivering the flowers.

“Thank you, Mr. Tang, thank you very much. I’ll be going now—” the old gardener stammered gratefully, taking the pipe solemnly in both hands.

He turned and walked away, his eyes glued to the pipe cradled in his palms.

* * * * *

Mr. Tang sat in his leather easy chair puffing on his pipe. He was slumped so low that the chair seemed about to swallow him up. He looked as if he had plopped down there in exhaustion after three days of continuous hard labor.

His eyes were bleary and listless; his cheery dimples were gone; and his shoulders were hunched up as if to ward off the cold—although it was only early autumn and he was wearing two heavy sweaters. Total silence reigned in the room, and dust coated the furniture, which had not been polished in several days. There had been no visitors.

One of his paintings had inexplicably been deemed counterrevolutionary by the same Municipal Art Bureau chief who had commissioned one of his carved pipes. Although this bureau chief personally rather liked his paintings, he had blotted him out in order to toe some preposterous line handed down from above, and climb another rung on the ladder of power. After enduring repeated political attacks, Mr. Tang had been cast aside to await his fate.

All was lost again. He found himself ignored once more. Now, as before, only he and his wife crossed his threshold. The babble of voices had vanished from his studio, leaving it as hushed as a small restaurant in the wee hours of the night. But a few pipes commissioned by famous and important people still lay on the top shelf of his glass case. Exquisite as they were, no one came to claim them.

Strange to say, he found seclusion a welcome change. He had learned to deal both passively and actively when confronted with life’s ups and downs. At any rate, he no longer regarded his fleeting glory—the illusory feeling of being a moon surrounded by stars—as the most precious thing in the world.

There was a knock at his door, a sound he had not heard in a long time. Putting down his pipe, he shuffled across the room to see who it was.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight that greeted him: in his doorway stood a man bearing a pot of giant golden phoenix-tail chrysanthemums. The long stems trailed clear to the ground, although the bearer of the flowers was holding the pot in front of his face.

It was the old gardener—Lao Fan! Of course it was he. He might keep his distance when times were good, but he always turned up at moments like this. He had always been an undemanding, sincere friend. To Mr. Tang the heady aroma of the flowers seemed blended with pure human kindness. He was dumbstruck.

“Come on in, Lao Fan—come right in—all right just put them on the floor. They’re beautiful! What a big pot! It must be terribly heavy.”

The visitor put the flowers down and straightened up. When he got a look at him, however, Mr. Tang was startled to see that it was not Lao Fan, but a stranger: a young man of medium height wearing a black cotton jacket. He looked like a peasant, with large hands, a broad chin, small drooping eyes, coarse weathered skin, and mud-spattered shoes.

“Who are you?”

“I am the son of your acquaintance Lao Fan.”

Mr. Tang recognized the family resemblance. Quickly he invited him to sit down and poured him some hot tea.

“How’s your father? I’ve been meaning to go see him.” Mr. Tang spoke in earnest; he was not just being polite.

“My father got caught in the rain last summer and died of pneumonia,” the young man answered unexpectedly. His voice was subdued, yet he showed no sign of violent grief, as if he were speaking of the distant past.

“What? He’s dead?”

“As my father lay ill on the kang he kept telling me that these were your favorite flowers, Mr. Tang. He was growing this pot of them specially for you. He said that I should be sure to deliver them if he was gone by the time they bloomed.”

Mr. Tang was astounded. A man he had not considered worthy of his esteem had treated him with respect and sincerity. Sadness came over him; he was at a loss for words. Mechanically he picked up his pipe from an end table, but his hands were trembling so much that he could not strike a match.

“Mr. Tang,” said the young man, as if the sight of the pipe had reminded him of something, “do you know how much my father loved your carved pipes? You once gave him one, didn’t you? Well, as he lay dying he said to me, ‘Remember, I don’t care what kind of clothes you bury me in when I’m gone, but you mustn’t forget to put the pipe Mr. Tang gave me into my mouth.'”

What?” Mr. Tang cried in shock, as if he had not heard clearly, when he had in fact heard perfectly.

The young man repeated himself, but Mr. Tang could not hear a word for the buzzing in his ears.

To this day Mr. Tang often recalls the old gardener’s hoarse, foolish sigh of appreciation: “Beautiful, really beautiful!” Then he wonders: Could the old gardener, who raised so many exotic flowers with his own coarse hands, really have been ignorant of beauty? In his mind’s eye the weather-beaten old man is no longer grotesque but has been transformed into a beautiful, unforgettable soul. At such moments guilt weighs on his heart like a heavy slab of stone. He wishes that he had given the old gardener his most exquisite pipe when he had the chance. . .