Ladies smiled their winsome smiles; young talents brimmed with high spirits.
In the great hall of the Dragon's Roar Pavilion, several hundred men of letters bustled and declaimed, three sentences to a classical allusion, and whether or not anyone understood, all nodded and smiled as though they were fellow adepts of the same school.
In the row of grand armchairs at the head, Song Baiqing, hair streaked with white, held his teacup with a trace of impatience in his eyes. As Grand Libationer of the Imperial College, there was scarcely a student who came out of that college who did not call him "Teacher," and those of them who had taken office were scattered across all Great Yue—his students were everywhere under heaven. He truly had no use for this chasing after fame and profit.
But in Great Yue the standing of fighting men was too high, and the scholars could no longer press them down. The present emperor valued the literati; without gatherings like this, Chang'an would likely be nothing but duels and sword trials from one end to the other, and all that brawling and killing really would cost the Central Plains dynasty its dignity.
So on occasions such as these, Song Baiqing had to come, and on meeting a scholar of surpassing talent, he had to speak a few words of praise. The present Son of Heaven paid attention too, and was even rather accomplished in the craft of poetry.
And yet poetry—anyone who had studied the books and learned the rules could write it; a piece that would last the ages might not turn up once in years or decades. A thousand poems at one gathering, and perhaps one or two would bear reading; the rest was all chaff.
So the sifting of drafts was all handed to his good daughter, Song Yufu.
At this moment, at the desk where the great scholars sat, Prince Yan, Song Yu, was discussing next spring's metropolitan examination with Song Baiqing, while Song Yufu read the poetry drafts in earnest, now and then asking a word of guidance from the grizzled old man beside her.
The old man was named Qi Xinghan. In his youth, an essay of his, "Rhapsody on Chang'an," had caught the late emperor's eye; he became famous throughout the capital, entered officialdom, and served as a censor and remonstrating official. For breadth of learning and many talents, he had a considerable name in the capital.
Of course, Qi Xinghan was better known for a head of solid iron. In the late emperor's twenty-odd years on the throne, Qi Xinghan had remonstrated at the risk of his life more than twenty times, until he had worked the late emperor into flat-out calling him "that old bastard Qi."
And under the present emperor's ten years of rule—straightening the bureaucracy, quelling banditry, favoring the poor and lowborn—by any reckoning the man deserved to be called a sovereign of restoration; but because once, playing chess with someone, he forgot the hour and came half a quarter-hour late to court, Qi Xinghan had hounded him ever since, and to this day, at any excuse, brought it up, warning the present Son of Heaven not to lose his resolve to playthings.
So pestered was the emperor that he had given up even hunting, spring outings and the like.
A barefoot man has nothing to lose to a man in shoes—Qi Xinghan truly was willing to risk being carved to pieces. Even many great scholars, literati themselves, judged him to be overcorrecting past all reason, and still could not out-argue him. That showed what the fellow was made of.
Stubborn as he was, Qi Xinghan's attainments in poetry were plain for all to see. Now he held a stack of messy drafts, reading them line by line, every word weighed, and his verdicts were fair and apt; there was hardly a man who disagreed.
The gathering was already past its midpoint, and a few decent poems had come up in the course of it—though none that could be called works for the ages.
Song Yufu was a little impatient. She still had not come upon the lyric she had heard at the Imperial College, and could only keep darting glances at the other tables.
Song Baiqing was in the middle of talking with Prince Yan; seeing his girl craning and peering about with not a shred of propriety, he spoke with faint displeasure:
"Yufu, what are you looking at?"
Song Yufu hastily ducked her neck, sat up prim and proper, and answered softly, "Nothing, Father. I wasn't looking at anything."
Prince Yan was easygoing and urbane; seeing Song Baiqing so strict with his daughter, he smiled and said, "Yufu is young. It's only natural she'd love poetry and song. A fine piece comes once in years at best, while chaff lies everywhere—I imagine her eyes are tired from reading it."
Song Baiqing nodded and looked at the dashing young men and pretty girls below: "Poetry comes of true feeling. To put on airs of grieving for spring and sorrowing for autumn at such a young age—what good writing could come of that…"
And right in the middle of this, Qi Xinghan, seated beside him, shook his head and took him up: "That's not certain. Chang'an has a million households and no small number who know their letters; there will always be the odd heaven-sent talent among them. Take this one, for instance: 'The wind has stopped; the dust smells sweet; the flowers are all gone; / the day is late, and I am too weary to comb my hair'…"
At those words, seven or eight old scholars with knitted brows all turned their heads.
After half an evening of doggerel like 'A great river a hundred zhang wide, / and the fish in it tender and fresh,' a line like 'The wind has stopped; the dust smells sweet; the flowers are all gone' landed like a washing of the ears. You could hardly help noticing.
Prince Yan and Song Baiqing raised their brows a little too, a shade more attentive, and turned to look at Qi Xinghan.
Qi Xinghan was past sixty, too old for such a thing; after two lines he felt it hardly became a man of his years, and passed the draft to an attendant, who handed it on to the singsong girl playing the qin nearby.
The several hundred talents and beauties in the hall saw the move and knew someone was about to have his moment; every one of them stopped talking and turned to look.
The girl, dressed in her finery, was a pleasure-house singer who relied on such turns to make her name; taking the draft, she rose, read it through once in earnest, and then spoke softly:
"The wind has stopped; the dust smells sweet; the flowers are all gone; the day is late, and I am too weary to comb my hair. Things remain, the people do not; all, all is over; I would speak, and tears come first…"
Her delicate voice turned and lingered, tinged with a thread of grief, and she brought out to the full that sorrow of 'all splendor spent, the people gone.' In a few short lines she made one picture a woman worn down by the storms of a life, weary and bitter.
Song Baiqing's eyes lit. Rarely did he sit so straight and listen so closely.
Prince Yan's expression did not change; he only tapped lightly at the table with his fingers and nodded slowly.
To say nothing of the many talents and beauties in the hall: from those two short lines of the opening stanza alone, anyone could see the extraordinary craft in this woman's phrasing. Her imagery was beyond all reach.
Many a young lady of official family and many a madam stared fixedly at the singsong girl.
The girl kept her face grave and went on:
"I hear the spring at Twin Creeks is still lovely; I thought I might go drifting in a little boat. Only I fear the boat at Twin Creeks is too small to carry so much sorrow."
When the whole lyric was out, the hall stayed silent for a long while.
Song Baiqing stroked his beard, frowning and nodding slowly; he marshaled his thoughts a long while and still could not pick out a word fit for a verdict.
The first stanza laid out to the full the figure of a woman weather-beaten by the world; the second told how, after the storm had passed, life still had to go on—she hears the spring light over at Twin Creeks is fine, and thinks she might go there to ease her heart. But a single lone boat, she fears, cannot bear the grief inside her.
In phrasing and in technique alike it was exquisite beyond compare, and the grief inside it moved one to the depths. The whole thing was plaintive and mournful, so that reading it one seemed to see the woman and hear her voice—it deserved the four words 'a peerless song of the ages.'
The famous scholars and great masters present privately owned that they had not the skill to write it; who among them would dare rush to pass judgment?
Prince Yan, Song Yu, frowned over it a long while, then smiled and turned his eyes to the talents and beauties below:
"I never thought a gathering like this would hide such a wondrous woman. To leave her unknown would be a waste of true talent."
"Indeed!"
Qi Xinghan stroked his chin, a certain sigh in his eyes: "On the strength of this one lyric, this old man could beg His Majesty to grant the lady a place where she'd never want for food or clothing. Great Yue values the lowborn, and draws no line between civil and martial, man or woman—how can we let a person of such true learning sit full of grief with nowhere to go and ease her heart?"
Song Baiqing did not think skill at poetry was what made a good magistrate, but one who could write poetry this well must be learned indeed. He gave a light nod.
"Well said. Which lady wrote this lyric?"
The talents and beauties in the hall looked right and left, plainly searching for the gentle, soft-spoken matron 'of middle years and brimming grievance' from the poem.
The singsong girl looked at the signature on the draft, hesitated a long while, and then said, not very certain:
"Xu Buling… Lady Xu?"
(One moment—more chapters coming…)