Long ago, in a palace by the Red River, there lived a
great mandarin and his daughter, Mi Nuong.
Like other young ladies of her position, Mi Nuong
was kept indoors, away from the eyes of admiring men. She spent most of
her time in her room at the top of a tower. There she would sit on a
bench by a moon-shaped window, reading or embroidering, chatting with
her maid, and gazing out often at the garden and the river.
One day as she sat there, a song floated to her from
the distance, in a voice deep and sweet. She looked out and saw a
fishing boat coming up the river.
“Do you hear it?” she asked her maid. “How
beautifully he sings!” She listened again as the voice drew nearer.
My love is like a blossom in the breeze.
My love is like a moonbeam on the waves.
“He must be young and very handsome,” said Mi Nuong.
She felt a sudden thrill. “Perhaps he knows I am here and sings it just
for me!”
The maid’s eyes lit up. “My lady, perhaps he’s a
mandarin’s son in disguise—the man you are destined to marry!”
Mi Nuong felt a flush on her face and a stirring in
her heart. She tried to make out the man’s features, but he was too far
off to see clearly. The boat and the song glided slowly up the river and
away.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Perhaps he is.”
All day long, Mi Nuong waited by the window, hoping
to hear the singer again. The next day she waited too, and the next. But
the voice did not return.
“Why doesn’t he come?” she asked her maid sadly.
As the days passed, Mi Nuong grew pale and weak. At
last she went to her bed and stayed there.
The mandarin came to her. “Daughter, what’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing, Father,” she said faintly.
The mandarin sent for the doctor. But after seeing
Mi Nuong, the doctor told him, “I can find no illness. And without an
illness, I can offer no cure.”
The weeks passed, and Mi Nuong grew no better. Then
one day her maid came before the mandarin.
“My lord, I know what ails your daughter. Mi Nuong
is sick for love. To cure her, you must find the handsome young man who
sings this song.” And she sang it for him.
“It will be done,” said the mandarin, and he sent
out a messenger at once.
Days later, the messenger returned.
“Lord, in no great house of this province does any
young man know the song. But in a nearby village I found a man who sings
it, a fisherman named Truong Chi. I have brought him to the palace.”
“A fisherman?” said the mandarin in disbelief. “Let
me see him.”
The messenger brought him in. The fisherman stood
uneasily, his eyes wide as they cast about the richly furnished room.
For a moment, the mandarin was too astounded to
speak. The man was neither young nor handsome. His clothes were ragged
and he stank of fish. Certainly no match for my daughter! thought
the mandarin. Somehow, she must not realize . . . .
He gave his order to the messenger. “Bring the
fisherman to my daughter’s door and have him sing his song.”
Soon Truong Chi stood anxiously outside the young
lady’s room. He could not understand why they’d brought him here. What
could they want? He was just a fisherman, wishing only to make an honest
living. He had hurt no one, done nothing wrong!
At the messenger’s signal, he nervously started to
sing.
My love is like a blossom in the breeze.
My love is like a moonbeam on the waves.
In the room beyond the door, Mi Nuong’s eyes flew
open. “He’s here!” she cried to her maid. “How can that be? Oh, quickly,
help me dress!”
Mi Nuong jumped from her bed. Never had she so
swiftly clothed herself, put up her hair, made herself up. By the time
the song drew to a close, she looked like a heavenly vision in flowing
robes.
“Now, open the door!” she said, trying to calm her
wildly beating heart. She forced herself to stand shyly, casting her
eyes down in the manner proper to a modest young lady.
As the door pulled open, Truong Chi shrank back, not
knowing what to expect. Then all at once he found himself gazing on the
greatest beauty he had ever known. He felt his heart leap, and in that
moment, he fell deeply, hopelessly, desperately in love.
Mi Nuong could not wait a moment longer. She lifted
her eyes to look upon her beloved. And in that moment, her eyes grew
wide and she burst out laughing.
A mandarin’s son? Her destined love? Why, he was
nothing but a common fisherman! How terribly, terribly silly she’d been!
Shaking with mirth at her folly, she turned her head
away and whispered, “Close the door.”
The door shut in Truong Chi’s face. He stood there
frozen, the young lady’s laughter ringing in his ears. He felt his heart
grow cold and hard.
Truong Chi was sent home. But he could not go on as
before. Hardly eating or sleeping, he grew pale and ill. He no longer
cared if he lived or died.
And so he died.
The villagers found him on the sleeping mat in his
hut. On his chest sat a large crystal.
“What is it?” a man asked.
“It is his heart,” said a wise old woman. “The laugh
of the mandarin’s daughter wounded it so deeply, it turned hard to stop
the pain.”
“What do we do with it?” asked a young woman. “It is
very lovely. Like one of his songs!”
“We should put it in his boat,” said another young
man, “and let it float down to the sea.”
At sundown, they set the crystal in the fisherman’s
boat. Then they pushed the boat from its mooring and watched in sorrow
as it drifted down the river and out of sight.
But the boat did not drift to the sea. It came to
shore by the mandarin’s palace. And so it was that the mandarin found it
at sunrise as he strolled along the bank.
“What have we here?” he said, reaching in to pick up
the crystal. He turned it over in his hand, examining and admiring it.
“What a splendid gift the river has brought!”
A few days later, when no one had claimed it, the
mandarin sent it to a turner to be made into a teacup. He brought the
cup one evening to Mi Nuong’s room.
“A gift for my lovely daughter,” he said.
“Oh, Father, it’s beautiful! I can hardly wait to
drink from it!”
When the mandarin left, she told her maid, “It’s
late, so you can go to bed. But first make me some tea, so I can drink
from my cup.”
The maid finished her task and went off. Mi Nuong
poured the tea, blew out the candles on the table, and carried the cup
to her window seat. A full moon shone into the room, and looking out,
she watched the moonlight play upon the river. The scent of blossoms
drifted from the garden.
Mi Nuong lifted the cup to her lips. But just as she
was about to drink, she cried out in surprise and fear. She quickly set
the cup down on the bench.
On the surface of the tea was the face of Truong
Chi, gazing at her with eyes filled with love. And now his sweet song
filled the room, familiar but a little changed.
Mi Nuong is like a blossom in the breeze.
Mi Nuong is like a moonbeam on the waves.
And Mi Nuong remembered those eyes she had seen so
briefly through the open door, and she remembered her laugh. “What have I
done? I was so cruel! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know. . . .
I’m sorry. So very, very sorry!”
Her eyes filled with tears. A single tear dropped
into the cup.
It was enough. The crystal melted away, releasing
the spirit of Truong Chi. Then Mi Nuong heard the song one last time,
floating off over the river.
Mi Nuong is like a blossom in the breeze.
Mi Nuong is like a moonbeam on the waves.
“Good-bye,” said Mi Nuong softly. “Good-bye.”
* * *
It was not many months more when Mi Nuong was given
in marriage to the son of a great mandarin. He was young and handsome,
and she felt that her dreams had come true.
Yet now, as she gazed on a different garden and a
different view of the river, she often still heard the song of the
fisherman echo softly in her heart.
About the Story
For the retelling of this popular Vietnamese legend,
numerous versions were consulted, the most important being “Le Cristal
D’Amour,” in Légendes des Terres Sereines, by Pham Duy Khiêm,
Mercure de France, Paris, 1951; and “Truong-Chi and Mi-Nuong,” in Vietnamese
Legends, by L. T. Bach-Lan, Saigon, 1957 (private printing).
How to Say the Names
Mi Nuong ~ MEEN WONGTruong Chi ~ troo-ONG CHEE
How to Sing the Song
Words and music by Aaron Shepard
My love is like a blossom in the breeze.
My love is like a moonbeam on the waves.
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