Chapter Eighty-Five: Lianchang Composes a Poem

One after another, more students submitted their works, and the professors from the county academy examined each poem in turn.

The students below waited anxiously for the results; at this moment, no one dared to disturb the elders as they judged the verses. Even the insects and birds nearby seemed affected by the tense atmosphere, falling silent, so that for a time, the entire courtyard was so quiet that the drop of a pin could be heard.

Among the gathered students, some stared eagerly at the judges, while others stood quietly, indifferent—each with their own manner.

After a long while, one of the elders picked up a sheet of paper with a smile and said, “I find this poem rather fine. Let us judge together:

‘In autumn’s pure season, golden winds stir the garden,
A new chill upon the pillow, awakening a traveler’s sorrow.
Crickets chirp in the cracks of bricks, unceasingly,
Cicadas cry from lofty trees, clamorous and shrill.
Ever has the world been ephemeral as mayflies,
Yet human feelings need not gather like powdery butterflies.
To compose essays and chant poems is but an empty pleasure,
A passing cloud, a light rain, washes over city towers—what say you?’

When the scholar finished reading, a young man among the students could not hide his joy—this must be his work.

“Not bad. I have found another; listen, gentlemen:

‘A frosty wind taunts my slender brush,
Lines from the heart besiege a lonely tower.
Heed not the departing wild geese chasing clouds afar,
Only pity the cold cicadas enduring a bitter autumn.’

“Excellent, superior even to the first,” nodded the most senior elder.

The professors of the county academy each selected their favorite poems and read them aloud one by one. The authors whose poems were chosen were invited to the seats reserved for them.

“Waters channel red blooms along the imperial moat,
Soft winds and tiny leaves learn from beauties’ rouge.
How many times behind curtains does youth grow old,
While a thousand years are imprisoned in the long daylight... Hm! Who composed this?” The middle-aged poet with narrowed eyes suddenly looked up from a pile of papers and asked, “This poem begins with the spring scene by the imperial canal, yet swiftly links to the countenance of palace maidens, then laments their fate, locked away for years. From the real to the abstract, using the small to hint at the great, it defies the cliché of palace lament poems. The colors are bright, the diction splendid—both technique and conception surpass the rest. Truly a masterpiece!”

Zhang Ji stood up abruptly, holding the paper so close to his face it nearly stuck, then widened his eyes and exclaimed, “Li He? Who is Li He? Please, step forward!”

Wei Renshi smiled and gave Li He a gentle push. Li He adjusted his garments, stepped forward, and bowed, saying, “Student Li He, greetings to the academic master and esteemed gentlemen.”

A stir swept through the crowd—astonished that such a poem was written by a mere youth!

Zhang Ji was equally surprised. He leaned forward, peered at the boy, then at the paper, and asked incredulously, “You... you truly composed this yourself?”

The academic master furrowed his brow and said, “If you have passed off another’s work as your own, that will not do.”

Li He shook his head. “It is indeed my own. Not written today, but some months ago in Luoyang.”

“Wait... your name is Li He—could it be styled Changji?” another professor asked, rising to his feet.

“It is I,” Li He replied. “My father died early, thus he gave me my courtesy name while on his deathbed.”

“So it is you!” the professor laughed. “We have long heard that Changgu produces prodigies, a Li with the courtesy name Changji. Truly, the rumors were not unfounded.”

“I am unworthy of such praise,” Li He replied, bowing once more.

The academic master glanced at the professor, then said to Li He, “In that case, take your seat. The final results shall be revealed soon.”

Li He bowed again, walked to the empty chair, looked back at Wei Renshi with a smile, and sat down.

With Li He seated, the men in the pavilion all returned to their places. No sooner had they done so than Zhang Ji leaped up again, holding another sheet, and called out, “Who is Wei Renshi? Please, step forward!”

Wei Renshi came forward, raised his hand in greeting, and said, “Student Wei Renshi, greetings to the esteemed gentlemen.”

Once again, a commotion broke out—the elders in the pavilion were even more astonished. How was it that all these fine poems came from such young men?

“Uh... You—” Zhang Ji looked at Wei Renshi, then at the paper, utterly bewildered. “Another youth?”

The academic master took the paper from Zhang Ji and read aloud:

‘One goes two or three miles,
Mist village, four or five homes.
Six or seven pavilions,
Eight, nine, ten blossoms in bloom... This—did you truly write this yourself?’

“I wrote it with my own hand,” Wei Renshi answered.

The academic master looked at Zhang Ji, whose face broke into delight. “This poem begins each line with a number—two and three, four and five, six and seven woven within; eight, nine, ten returning to the lead. From one to ten, mingled with road, mist, village, pavilions, and flowers. With just a few simple words, a rural landscape is sketched—sound, vision, and meaning naturally blended. Lively yet restrained, natural and apt. Reading it, one feels a graceful simplicity and an almost primal charm! Is it truly possible that a youth wrote this? I must test you!”

Wei Renshi was stunned and pointed at Li He. “Why don’t you test him?”

“According to Master Dong, he has long been famed as a prodigy, so such poetry is expected. But you—” Zhang Ji gestured at Wei Renshi. “This poem has a sense of returning to innocence; it hardly seems the work of a youth. If you can prove it truly yours, I shall apologize to you.”

“You may not know,” Li He quickly interjected, “Brother Renshi is exceptionally talented, far beyond me. He is always modest and cares little for fame, hence he is not well known. This poem is definitely his own; I can vouch for it!”

“Hmm...” Zhang Ji pondered, then said, “The sense of innocence in this poem seems to come from someone who has seen much of life, not a youth. Still, I must test you. If you can compose another poem with numbers right here, I’ll believe you and apologize.”

A few laughs arose in the crowd, as if waiting for Wei Renshi to be embarrassed.

Wei Renshi was helpless—he did not wish to compose again, but neither did he want to be laughed at. After a moment’s thought, he said, “One piece, two pieces, three or four pieces...”

No one laughed now; all pricked up their ears to listen.

“Five pieces, six pieces, seven or eight pieces,” he continued.

At this, a few people began to snicker.

Wei Renshi ignored them and went on, “A thousand pieces, ten thousand pieces, countless pieces...”

“This is supposed to be a poem?” someone called out, and others echoed in agreement.

Wei Renshi paid no mind, but concluded, “Falling among the plum blossoms, never to be seen.”

The laughter around him ceased abruptly.

For a long moment, only the sound of sharp intakes of breath could be heard.

Everyone looked at Wei Renshi as if they had seen a ghost.

Having recited four lines, Wei Renshi raised his eyes and looked around. Suddenly, he stretched out an arm, pointed at the bamboo grove, and said, “This is not quite appropriate for the scene—let me try another:

One, two, three bamboo stalks,
Four, five, six bamboo leaves.
Naturally sparse and scattered,
Why must they be dense and tangled?”

Finishing, Wei Renshi saluted the pavilion and said, “I take my leave, gentlemen.”

With that, he turned and walked away.

“Renshi!” Li He, seeing him leave so abruptly, could not care for decorum. He hurriedly rose, bowed to the pavilion, and said, “Forgive me, gentlemen!”

With these words, he snatched up his old brocade pouch and chased after him.

“Cold sky, falling snow by the countless flakes, vanishing among plum blossoms, nowhere to be found... So it is! One piece, two pieces, three or four pieces, five pieces, six pieces, seven or eight pieces. A thousand pieces, ten thousand pieces, countless pieces, falling among the plum blossoms, never to be seen! Vivid! Apt!” Zhang Ji stood dumbstruck in the pavilion, muttering to himself, “Naturally sparse and scattered, why must they be dense and tangled... Naturally sparse and scattered, why must they be dense and tangled!”

After a long while, he slapped his thigh and exclaimed loudly, “Alas! I have misjudged him!”