The Arrow and the Song
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of a song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. American poet, novelist, and translator. This was one of his works.
It was a poem famous enough worldwide that you could find it without much trouble in any anthology of classic verse.
I had never been much of a poet myself, even back in the modern world, but I had read often enough that the piece stayed with me—and I had always liked it.
Borrowing someone else’s poem pricked my conscience a little, yet it was the only choice left if I wanted to break free of the present situation.
When the last line faded, a brief hush settled over the hall. The Wei civil officials around me clearly had never expected such verses to leave my mouth; a quiet, almost stunned air hung among them.
The silence broke first with Xun Yi.
“Ah… General, though you are a warrior, it seems your refinement in letters runs deep as well. I confess I have never heard a poem quite like this.”
Xun Yi’s praise opened the floodgates. The other officials began offering their own appraisals, and the banquet hall quickly filled with lively discussion. Fei Yi, who had been wound tight with tension, finally let his expression ease and released a quiet breath of relief.
“Do you often compose poetry, General? The feel of this piece is quite different from the verses we are accustomed to hearing.”
“I do not write often, but from time to time, when I find myself in a place of fine scenery, I recite a few lines alone.”
“You are renowned as a master archer, General. This poem suits you perfectly.”
And Cao Pi? He wore a faint smile, his tone carrying a note of genuine surprise.
“The literary skill of Shu’s General Who Pacifies the North far exceeds what I had imagined. I am honestly a little astonished.”
“…Thank you for the compliment.”
This one is no pushover either. Even in modern times the man was widely called a psychopath, yet the moment his scheme failed to land he pivoted without missing a beat.
Cao Pi was a poet of the age in his own right; perhaps the interest was real. Still, I could not shake the feeling that it was performance.
While I recited, I had stolen glances at his face. Sure enough, the moment the verses began to flow smoothly from my lips, his complexion had soured for an instant. From the middle onward, though—whether he was simply managing his expression or had truly been moved—he wore a look of keen fascination.
“Where did you study poetry? I have seen many verses, yet never one composed in quite this manner. I have delved deeply into poetry and literature, but this form appears entirely new.”
Of course it does—it comes from a far more distant future. Longfellow lived in the 1800s, after all.
Cao Pi continued to discuss the poem with carefully controlled features, yet the faces of Wu Zhi and Zhu Shuo at his sides remained dark. Their prearranged plan had come apart, and their discomfort was plain.
Cao Pi, you ought to employ more competent retainers. Everything shows on their faces.
In any case, I deflected the talk of poetry with moderate vagueness.
“I have cultivated my learning in spare moments and composed verses in my mind. I am glad it pleased you. I had worried I might spoil the mood. Perhaps it would be better now to enjoy the poem of the next in line…”
“Very well. Then I shall continue.”
The person beside me took up the recitation, and so the poetry contest—that contest of wills that had felt almost like a small war—drew to its close.
One way or another the banquet ended, and Cao Pi made no further attempt to press me.
With that, the diplomatic mission was complete. The banquet and the poetry had been unexpected, yet I felt a certain lightness. I wanted to return to Jiangling as soon as possible.
This was my first time setting foot on the Central Plains, and at first the novelty had been refreshing. Still, these were not our lands, and a quiet unease lingered. From the very beginning I had crossed paths with that strange creature Cao Wei, and later endured Cao Pi’s petty tricks.
Before leaving Xuchang I exchanged a brief farewell with Cao Pi.
“Safe travels. We received the gifts well, and that poem in particular—truly beautiful. It seems I prepared a fine occasion after all. I mean that sincerely.”
A fine occasion, my foot. Something rose in my throat, but any breach of courtesy here would only make me look the fool, so I swallowed it and answered.
“Yes, Your Highness. We are grateful for the generous hospitality. And once more we offer our condolences for the late King of Wei.”
His expression remained indifferent despite the words, yet he committed no further rudeness, which was fortunate. In any case, he was a man difficult to feel any human liking for.
Instead, Cao Zhang came to see us off.
“So you are departing. Thank you truly for coming to mourn our father.”
“Not at all. It was only the proper courtesy.”
“I hope nothing caused you discomfort.”
“None whatsoever. The hospitality was so thorough we scarcely knew where to put ourselves.”
“That is a relief to hear.”
Cao Zhang had not attended the banquet, so he seemed unaware of the finer details. He likely knew only that the gathering had ended on a pleasant note.
His face, however, still looked somewhat haggard.
He drew a quiet breath and, in a rather melancholy tone, began to speak of what lay on his heart.
“…In truth, I was not at my father’s side when he passed. When word came that he was gravely ill, I was in Chang’an. I rode at once, yet by the time I arrived he had already left this world…. I should have been there. In life I never managed proper filial piety, and at the last I failed him again.”
“How deeply that must have wounded you. Yet it was beyond your power; I do not believe it counts as unfilial. He would have known the sincerity of your heart.”
“Thank you for the comfort.”
Even the way he had wept at the memorial rites made plain how profoundly Cao Zhang grieved Cao Cao’s death.
Cao Pi had shown little emotion, so his inner feelings remained opaque; yet the way he had immediately inquired about gifts upon seeing us, and the stunt he pulled at the banquet, suggested he did not mourn nearly as deeply as his brother.
Cao Zhang accompanied us a considerable distance before we finally exchanged parting words.
“May your journey home be peaceful.”
“You are too kind. There was no need to go this far.”
Cao Zhang’s consideration was welcome, yet I still could not fathom what grievance Cao Pi held that he kept sending his younger brother out on such errands.
Even so, Cao Zhang treated us with perfect courtesy to the end.
He offered his farewell and turned back. If we met again, it would likely be on the battlefield.
Seeing how carefully Cao Zhang fretted over us made one thing certain: Cao Pi was deliberately keeping me in check.
I had weathered his attempt to humiliate me, yet I could not shake the feeling that this would not be the end of it.
Cao Pi was infamous for nursing grudges for years and then exacting repayment. How else could a man, once emperor, have sought revenge on Cao Hong simply because the latter had refused to lend him money in their youth?
The records also tell of Bao Xun, another of Cao Pi’s victims, and his story is no less striking.
Bao Xun had repeatedly crossed Cao Pi’s path—once even trying to dissuade him from going hunting during Cao Cao’s mourning period. One incident stood out especially.
Cao Pi had a wife of the Guo clan; her younger brother—Cao Pi’s own brother-in-law—committed theft by stealing silk from a government office. When Bao Xun learned of it, he had the man executed.
Bao Xun had merely administered justice with impartiality, yet such grievances must have piled up. Later, after becoming emperor, Cao Pi seized upon some trivial pretext and had Bao Xun put to death.
Bao Xun was the son of Bao Xin, Cao Cao’s close friend and benefactor; he was hardly a man who deserved execution. Many meritorious officials pleaded for his life, but Cao Pi brushed them aside and saw the sentence through.
Here is the truly breathtaking detail: twenty days after Bao Xun’s death, Cao Pi himself died of illness.
With only twenty days of life remaining, his own body could not have been sound. Yet even while dying he seemed determined to think, Before I go, I will make certain that man dies first.
As a foreigner I was unlikely to suffer such excesses directly, yet the unease remained. Would some bizarre scheme one day drag me in?
Learning what sort of feeling Cao Pi harbored toward me may well have been the greatest harvest of this entire diplomatic mission.
With that unsettled emotion trailing behind me, I returned to Jiangling.