Chin had written that their old mother was desperately ill. The message had come to the Capital by special courier. Wang Wei's wife had died when he was thirty-one and he had never remarried. Thereafter more and more he had studied the doctrines of Buddhism. Despite his sadness he led a crowded life with his painting, poetry and medical ministrations.
While Li Po waited for the caravan to start, he composed a verse called "Song of the Marches":
"The Tien-shan peaks still glisten
In robes of spotless white;
To songs of spring I listen
But see no flowers around."
At the last moment, the Emperor weakened. He decided that he would bid good-bye to Yang Kuei-fei. If she had not been irritable she might have been going along. It had been his intention to take her when next he had made the pilgrimage. How wondrous would it have been if they could have made the long journey together, camping by the roadside, sleeping under a canopy of stars. Perhaps he had been too severe with her. A woman with spirit was like a feast with spices added. Perhaps he had mistaken petulance for anger.
Stealthily he crept to her apartment. The sight of her clothes scattered heedlessly about made him yearn for her. In the air, he believed he detected the subtle fragrance of her body. Perhaps even now, if she were sorry, it would not be too late to take her with him.
