“Woe is me!” he cried at last, his sorrow getting the better of his usual calmness. “I have picked up the great capital and moved it from the South to Beijing and have built here a mighty city. I have surrounded my city with a wall, even thicker and greater than the famous wall of China. I have constructed in this city scores of temples and palaces. I have had the wise men and scholars compile a great book of wisdom, made up of 23,000 volumes, the largest and most wonderful collection of learning ever gathered together by the hands of men. I have built watch-towers, bridges, and giant monuments, and now, alas! as I approach the end of my days as ruler of the Middle Kingdom there is nothing more to be done for my people. Better far that I should even now close my tired eyes forever and mount up on high to be the guest of the dragon, than live on in idleness, giving to my children an example of uselessness and sloth.”
“But, your Majesty,” began one of Yongluo’s most faithful courtiers, named Minglin, falling upon his knees and knocking his head three times on the ground, “if you would only deign to listen to your humble slave, I would dare to suggest a great gift for which the many people of Beijing, your children, would rise up and bless you both now and in future generations.”
“Only tell me of such a gift and I will not only grant it to the imperial city, but as a sign of thanksgiving to you for your sage counsel I will bestow upon you the royal peacock feather.”
“It is not for one of my small virtues,” replied the delighted official, “to wear the feather when others so much wiser are denied it, but if it please your Majesty, remember that in the northern district of the city there has been erected a bell-tower which as yet remains empty. The people of the city need a giant bell to sound out the fleeting hours of the day, that they may be urged on to perform their labors and not be idle. The water-clock already marks the hours, but there is no bell to proclaim them to the populace.”
“A good suggestion in sooth,” answered the emperor, smiling, “and yet who is there among us that has skill enough in bell-craft to do the task you propose? I am told that to cast a bell worthy of our imperial city requires the genius of a poet and the skill of an astronomer.”
“True, most mighty one, and yet permit me to say that Guanyou, who so skillfully molded the imperial cannon, can also cast a giant bell. He alone of all your subjects is worthy of the task, for he alone can do it justice.”
Now, the official who proposed the name of Guanyou to the emperor had two objects in so doing. He wished to quiet the grief of Yongluo, who was mourning because he had nothing left to do for his people, and, at the same time, to raise Guanyou to high rank, for Guanyou’s only daughter had for several years been betrothed to Minglin’s only son, and it would be a great stroke of luck for Minglin if his daughter-in-law’s father should come under direct favor of the emperor.
“Depend upon it, Guanyou can do the work better than any other man within the length and breadth of your empire,” continued Minglin, again bowing low three times.
“Then summon Guanyou at once to my presence, that I may confer with him about this important business.”
In great glee Minglin arose and backed himself away from the golden throne, for it would have been very improper for him to turn his coat-tails on the Son of Heaven.
But it was with no little fear that Guanyou undertook the casting of the great bell.
“Can a carpenter make shoes?” he had protested, when Minglin had broken the emperor’s message to him.
“Yes,” replied the other quickly, “if they be like those worn by the little island dwarfs, and, therefore, made of wood. Bells and cannon are cast from similar material. You ought easily to adapt yourself to this new work.”
Now when Guanyou’s daughter found out what he was about to undertake, she was filled with a great fear.
“Oh, honored father,” she cried, “think well before you give this promise. As a cannon- maker you are successful, but who can say about the other task? And if you fail, the Great One’s wrath will fall heavily upon you.”
“Just hear the girl,” interrupted the ambitious mother. “What do you know about success and failure? You’d better stick to the subject of cooking and baby-clothes, for you will soon be married. As for your father, pray let him attend to his own business. It is unseemly for a girl to meddle in her father’s affairs.”
And so poor Ke’ai—for that was the maiden’s name—was silenced, and went back to her fancy-work with a big tear stealing down her fair cheek, for she loved her father dearly and there had come into her heart a strange terror at thought of his possible danger.
Meanwhile, Guanyou was summoned to the Forbidden City, which is in the center of Beijing, and in which stands the imperial palace. There he received his instructions from the Son of Heaven.
“And remember,” said Yongluo in conclusion, “this bell must be so great that the sound of it will ring out to a distance of thirty-three miles on every hand. To this end, you should add in proper proportions gold and brass, for they give depth and strength to everything with which they mingle. Furthermore, in order that this giant may not be lacking in the quality of sweetness, you must add silver in due proportion, while the sayings of the sages must be graven on its sides.”
Now when Guanyou had really received his commission from the emperor he searched the bookstalls of the city to find if possible some ancient descriptions of the best methods used in bell-casting. Also he offered generous wages to all who had ever had experience in the great work for which he was preparing. Soon his great foundry was alive with laborers; huge fires were burning; great piles of gold, silver and other metals were lying here and there, ready to be weighed.
Whenever Guanyou went out to a public tea-house all of his friends plied him with questions about the great bell.
“Will it be the largest in the world?”
“Oh, no,” he would reply, “that is not necessary, but it must be the sweetest-toned, for we Chinese strive not for size, but for purity; not for greatness, but for virtue.”
“When will it be finished?”
“Only the gods can tell, for I have had little experience, and perhaps I shall fail to mix the metals properly.”
Every few days the Son of Heaven himself would send an imperial messenger to ask similar questions, for a king is likely to be just as curious as his subjects, but Guanyou would always modestly reply that he could not be certain; it was very doubtful when the bell would be ready.
At last, however, after consulting an astrologer, Guanyou appointed a day for the casting, and then there came another courtier robed in splendid garments, saying that at the proper hour the Great One himself would for the first time cross Guanyou’s threshold—would come to see the casting of the bell he had ordered for his people. On hearing this, Guanyou was sore afraid, for he felt that somehow, in spite of all his reading, in spite of all the advice he had received from well-wishers, there was something lacking in the mixture of the boiling metals that would soon be poured into the giant mold. In short, Guanyou was about to discover an important truth that this great world has been thousands of years in learning—namely, that mere reading and advice cannot produce skill, that true skill can come only from years of experience and practice. On the brink of despair, he sent a servant with money to the temple, to pray to the gods for success in his venture. Truly, despair and prayer rhyme in every language.
Ke’ai, his daughter, was also afraid when she saw the cloud on her father’s brow, for she it was, you remember, who had tried to prevent him from undertaking the emperor’s commission. She also went to the temple, in company with a faithful old servant, and prayed to heaven.
The great day dawned. The emperor and his courtiers were assembled, the former sitting on a platform built for the occasion. Three attendants waved beautiful hand-painted fans about his imperial