Chapter Seventy-Two: On Poetry

Zhang Shishu really is something else—what need is there to build an Eight Trigrams formation in a perfectly good courtyard? This isn’t Peach Blossom Island! Turning past a pavilion and two intersections, following Zhang Qingheng’s directions, Zhang Qian finally found the side door he’d used during his earlier “escape,” stepping inside and silently grumbling to himself.

Thinking of Peach Blossom Island, he couldn’t help but recall the mischievous Rong’er from Jin Yong’s novels. Alas, clever girls would never be so easily won over as Huang Rong was by Brother Jing with two flattened pastries. They demand not only his loyalty but also Yang Kang’s handsome looks, Ouyang Ke’s gentle tenderness. If you possess none of these qualities, it’s best to keep your distance and avoid being disliked.

“At least Brother Jing had a blood-sweating horse—in modern times, that’d be a top-tier supercar. But as for me, Zhang, I can barely even ride a trained horse!” He mocked himself again in his thoughts, twisting around with a bitter smile to glance back.

Through bamboo groves and trees, the figure of the ruby-clad girl was already lost to sight. Yet faint laughter drifted on the autumn breeze—whether from her or her cousin Zhang Qingheng, he couldn’t tell.

“Yongzhao, where did you go just now? I’ve been searching all over!” Before Zhang Qian could decide whether to linger under the side doorway or go admire the calligraphy of Zhang Xu, Wang Zhihuan’s voice called out from nearby.

“Huh? I was just wandering around!” Zhang Qian replied, turning towards the voice, “After returning from Dr. He, I didn’t see you. I’m not familiar with the others, so I just strolled a bit. Was there something you needed?”

Having blurted all this at once, he realized his explanation was rather unnecessary. He quickly smiled, strode over to Wang Zhihuan, and offered a polite salute, “Thank you for your concern, Jiling. I am ashamed.”

“You’re too courteous, Yongzhao!” Wang Zhihuan, noticing nothing amiss, stepped aside and returned the salute. “Actually, Daoist Baiyunzi heard you were here today and wished to meet you. But you needn’t go over now—he’s renowned for his health teachings and is adored by the elders. You’d hardly get a word in.”

He gestured toward the distant spot where He Zhizhang and others were seated, indicating Zhang Qian should take a look. Following his gaze, Zhang Qian saw a white-haired Daoist surrounded by a dozen elders, all vying for his attention.

The old Daoist was clearly unfazed, waving his horsetail whisk and speaking eloquently. If only there were cameras and microphones, he’d outshine all the so-called “masters” of the twenty-first century combined.

Given how modern “masters” see followers as fodder, Zhang Qian firmly believed monks and Daoists, once ordained, should be detached from worldly affairs. Those who linger in the mundane or pose as national advisors were frauds best avoided.

On this point, Wang Zhihuan seemed to share his sentiments. Noticing Zhang Qian’s lack of interest in the master’s performance, he readily brought him back to where the young talents gathered. With a sympathetic smile, he greeted Weidao, then began introducing Zhang Qian to Zhang Jiuling, Zhang Xu, Wang Han, Mu Nanfeng, and other luminaries.

Having been well prepared, Zhang Qian’s mood was no longer as excited as when he first heard their names. With Wang Zhihuan’s introductions, he greeted everyone with poise. Zhang Jiuling, Zhang Xu, and the others, though famous, had no airs about them, nor were they surrounded by bodyguards. Seeing Zhang Qian’s composed manners and hearing Wang Zhihuan praise his friendship with Zhang Ruoxu, they naturally accepted him into their circle.

“Today, everyone has brought out new works for our chrysanthemum feast. I wonder if Jiling and Yongzhao would care to share their own to join in our merriment?” Among those present, Zhang Jiuling was eldest and most attentive. Noticing the scroll was missing the signatures of Wang Zhihuan and Zhang Qian, he smiled and issued the invitation.

“Indeed, Jiling has been busy assisting Commander Zhang and hasn’t had time to leave a poem here. Now that there’s a moment of leisure, let’s have him share a piece for all to read!” Wang Han, long acquainted with Wang Zhihuan and appreciative of his talents, chimed in with a smile.

However, Wang Zhihuan wasn’t feeling particularly poetic at the moment. Seeing the conversation turn toward him, he deftly shifted the attention. “Let Yongzhao compose; I won’t embarrass myself! My inspiration has run dry—I hardly dare pick up the brush, let alone write poetry!”

“Don’t use me as your shield, Jiling—I truly am not skilled in this art.” Zhang Qian, already discouraged by Zhang Shuo earlier, had lost confidence in his poetry. Before the others could turn their gaze to him, he waved his hand with a laugh. “I’ll write for Jiling instead; Brother Bogao has been busy enough and deserves a break.”

“Then we’ll leave it to you, Yongzhao!” Zhang Xu, whose fingers were stiff from copying poems for everyone, quickly handed over the brush.

Thus, they could no longer press Zhang Qian to display his own work, and instead turned their attention back to Wang Zhihuan. Wang Zhihuan hadn’t expected Zhang Qian to so cleverly dodge responsibility by exploiting Zhang Xu’s fatigue, and could only resign himself and say, “To be honest, brothers, I’ve just arrived in Chang’an and was pulled in by Shishu to help prepare this chrysanthemum feast, so I’ve made no preparations. If you insist, I’ll share a poem I wrote recently, though it’s barely suitable for the occasion.”

“No matter—just share it. Not everyone is as talented as Cao Zijian, composing in seven steps. How many of today’s poems weren’t prepared in advance?” Wang Han refused to let him off easily, hammering home the point.

“Then I’ll do my best!” Wang Zhihuan, unable to decline further, acquiesced. “This poem was written in Hebei—not truly about chrysanthemums, but a farewell. Still, it does mention the flower.”

He paused to gather his emotions, then his voice rose, “Farewell. In the chilly court of Ji, few friends remain. Where shall we ascend to bid adieu? Today, we share fragrant chrysanthemum wine. Tomorrow, I’ll drift like a broken tumbleweed!”

“Excellent!” Even from afar, Weidao was the first to leap up and cheer. “Though everyone has written fine lines today, in my opinion, this farewell poem, though not strictly about chrysanthemums, deserves first place.”

Clearly, he had been thoroughly disgusted by his confidant Lu Ting; if he didn’t seize this chance to escape, he’d be unable to eat for days, or worse, lose his taste for meat for three months.

Zhang Xu, Zhang Jiuling, Wang Han, and the others, all seasoned poets, applauded in agreement. With so much acclaim, even the most discerning among them dared not criticize Wang Zhihuan’s poem. Everyone added their praise, and the poem “Farewell” was openly declared the day’s champion.

Wang Zhihuan was deeply embarrassed by the praise and hastily protested, “You all flatter me too much. My poem was neither composed on the spot nor suited to the theme—I truly don’t deserve first place. On the other hand, Ziyu’s line, ‘Where are the lotus flowers by the stream now? Wild chrysanthemums smile at the autumn wind by the fence,’ leaves a lingering taste!”

“Ziyu’s ‘Seeking Chrysanthemums’ and your ‘Farewell’ each have their merits. But your poem not only echoes the spirit of ascending heights on the Double Ninth, it also incorporates the wine on our table. If I were the examiner, I’d mark you as champion and make Ziyu runner-up!” In recent years, Zhang Jiuling’s career had been less than smooth, so the sentiment of “Farewell” struck a chord with him, and he added his own endorsement with a smile.

The other young talents joined in, comparing “Farewell” and “Seeking Chrysanthemums.” In the end, they agreed that Wang Zhihuan’s “Farewell” had a slight edge.

Just as everyone was enjoying themselves, a disdainful snort sounded from behind, “Hmph! There has never been a fixed standard for poetry. Like a hundred flowers—spring orchids, autumn chrysanthemums—each has its own fragrance. To insist the summer lotus is best is hardly fair. In my opinion, everyone’s work today has its strengths, but this ‘Farewell’ is far from the best!”

As he spoke, Lu Ting’s bulky form squeezed in, scattering the young talents around him.

Zhang Jiuling, older and seasoned in official circles, ignored him. But Wang Han, about Zhang Xu’s age and backed by the Taiyuan Wang clan, could not tolerate it.

He snorted and smiled, “Spring orchids, autumn chrysanthemums, each has its charm. But if there’s a pile of dog dung nearby, even with blocked noses, everyone can smell its stench. As for poetry, though there’s never been a fixed standard, it’s absurd to declare oneself superior to Cao Zijian and equal to Luo Binwang, just by rallying a handful of half-baked supporters!”

Lu Ting had hoped to use the occasion to showcase his own masterpiece, perhaps even have a musical expert compose a tune and perform it, creating a legend of talent and beauty. But Wang Han’s blunt rebuke left him furious. He immediately pointed a carrot-thick finger at Wang Han’s nose, “You little rascal, who are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about dog dung!” Wang Han shifted slightly, utterly unimpressed by the threat. “As for which stray dog left the mess, there’s no need to jump out and disgust everyone. I admit my poetry can’t match Jiling’s. But if you insist I acknowledge that a certain dog left a beautiful pile, well—am I being insulted, or is the entire poetry world?”