Chapter Forty-Seven: I Am But a Mortal (Part Two)

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The Minor Heat had arrived, and the weather grew increasingly hot, though the rainfall became more frequent. The bamboo house remained cool and refreshing, and both Dou Fengjie, Xu Shiji, and Zheng Hongyi often came to the bamboo grove to escape the summer heat.

Yan Qing had heard the rumors, but he still did not know their origin. Thus, he decided to remain patient for the time being, waiting to observe the situation before taking action.

"But those people, they really are infuriating," Zheng Hongyi said, putting down the fruit and pouting. "Brother Yan Qing, why don’t you just step forward and compose a couple of new poems, so they have nothing left to say? You don’t know—just a few days ago, someone named Wang Tong came to argue with the teacher, claiming he was too tolerant of you."

Wang Tong?

Yan Qing struggled to recall. It was hardly surprising; when he returned to Luoyang, Zheng Weishan had indeed mentioned Wang Tong to him. But three months had passed in the blink of an eye, and Wang Tong seemed to have vanished from the world. Yan Qing had initially been cautious, but as time went on, he forgot. With Li Ji’s departure and more affairs at home, how could he remember this person?

Mao Ya quietly gathered up the fruit pits from the study and left. The young gentlemen upstairs all had unusual backgrounds. She stood inside, unable to understand their conversation, though it sounded as though Young Master Zheng was in trouble again?

Mao Ya sat at the stairwell, scratching her little head. Young Master Zheng was such a good person—why did everyone want to bully him? First it was Steward Cui, and now this Wang Tong, truly hateful.

"Little Ya!"

Mao Ya was deep in thought when someone suddenly called her. She looked up to see Du Ruhui hurrying into the building. "Little Ya, is the imp upstairs?"

"They are. All the young masters are up there."

Du Ruhui nodded and rushed up the stairs.

"Imp, it’s all clear!"

"What’s clear?" Yan Qing, mid-conversation with Xu Shiji, paused, surprised, and looked at Du Ruhui. "Brother Du, what have you discovered?"

Du Ruhui, after all, was the son of officials and not unfamiliar with people in Luoyang. He sat down, caught his breath, and said, "It’s Wang Tong’s doing. A friend told me that two days ago, Wang Tong boasted drunkenly, saying you crave wealth and fame, tarnishing the reputation of scholars. He said he would expose you, ruin you utterly."

Wang Tong, Wang Tong again!

This time, Yan Qing finally remembered.

"I have neither grudge nor enmity with him—why does he target me so?"

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Mao Ya brought a bowl of fresh water, which Du Ruhui took and drained in one gulp, then sighed in relief.

"I don’t know the reason, but my friend said he seemed dissatisfied with your poem about willows. He claimed that poetry is a noble pursuit, yet you use it to accumulate wealth… and that you disrupt the hearts of scholars with trivial verse, unworthy of a gentleman.

Such were his words, and he even compared you to the notorious Shao Zhengmao of old…”

Yan Qing couldn’t help but laugh. "If I am Shao Zhengmao, does that make him Confucius? Truly, arrogance beyond measure."

At this, he suddenly turned to Zheng Hongyi, "Hongyi, you mentioned your uncle had dealings with the scissors shop on the street?"

"Oh, yes!" Zheng Hongyi nodded. "Recently, my uncle asked my aunt about taking over the ironworks on Tianjin Bridge Street.

But my aunt refused, saying that although the ironworks are nominally Zheng family property, the family does not interfere. My uncle was displeased, rebuked her, and claimed she wouldn’t help him, letting the servants run wild."

Du Ruhui suddenly asked, "What’s your uncle’s name?"

"Cui Min."

"Ah, that explains it!" Du Ruhui said. "My friend said Wang Tong and Cui Min have been drinking together often lately, very close."

The implication was clear: Cui Min was deeply involved.

Yan Qing shook his head with a bitter smile—how was it that things always circled back to the Cui family?

Last time, his affairs had led to the deaths of Cui Daolin and his son, and Lady Cui was rebuked by Cui Junsu. Though the Cui family appeared to uphold justice, surely their hearts were uneasy.

And now, Cui Min appeared. If things turned ugly again, the Cui family would be even less pleased, which would not benefit him. Thus, the retaliation must be aimed at Wang Tong… though teaching Cui Min a lesson would not be amiss.

Yan Qing pondered briefly, then walked to the desk, spread paper, and wrote:

"This humble youth rose from obscurity, unworthy of mention. By a twist of fate, I acquired a modest reputation, and my heart has been ever uneasy. Now, Wang of Longmen wishes to instruct me in the way of sages; I am overwhelmed by the honor. Amid tears, my youthful spirit persists. Raised in the bamboo grove, I take bamboo as my theme—one fragrance inspires ten poems. I wonder, Wang, can you match them?"

He attached a short essay on bamboo for Wang’s guidance:

"The ten voices of bamboo—all spring from a single inch of sprout, yet every joint and leaf grows together.

From cicada and serpent to swords ten feet long, all are born of bamboo. Yet painters render it joint by joint, leaf by leaf—where is the real bamboo?

Thus, to paint bamboo, one must first envision the complete bamboo in the mind. Only then, holding the brush and observing closely, does one see what should be painted—following swiftly, the brush moves as the artist sees, like a rabbit leaping or a hawk swooping; any hesitation and it is lost.

Enough, enough—since so much has been borrowed already, it is best to settle it all at once.

Since Wang Tong is so arrogant, I will use him as a stepping stone, stamping down hard to prevent future trouble."

Yan Qing wrote in the style of Banqiao, introducing the phrase "bamboo in the heart" ahead of its time.

Whatever may come, he would use this to deter those with sinister intentions. Though the essay seemed to discuss painting bamboo, in truth it mocked Wang Tong—without real skill, don’t attempt great feats. If you truly wish to challenge me, bring real talent. I, a humble youth, am not worthy of fame, yet am not to be toyed with.

With the essay finished, Yan Qing tossed aside his brush.

"Brother Du, I will recite the poems—please take them down for me."

Du Ruhui’s eyes shone brightly, and he hurried to Yan Qing’s seat, readying his brush.

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Yan Qing paced before the window, eyes closed in contemplation.

The bamboo house fell utterly silent.

Zheng Hongyi seemed about to speak, but Xu Shiji shook his head, stopping him. At the stairwell, Mao Ya clenched her fists, anxiously watching Yan Qing.

"Sitting alone in the secluded bamboo grove, I play the zither and sing aloud. No one knows me deep in the forest, but the bright moon comes to shine upon me."

Du Ruhui’s hand trembled, but he steadied himself and wrote with determination.

"Green bamboo half sheathed in husk, new shoots just breaching the wall..."

"In southern spring rain, behold its snowy, frosty grace. Though many flourish, only the hollow-hearted stand apart..."

"Dew cleanses the lead-white joints, wind stirs the jade-green branches. Gentle like a gentleman, suitable in every place."

"By the stream, late spring—the yellow birds are few, magnolia flowers gone, apricot blossoms fly. Admiring the secluded bamboo beneath the mountain window, its cool shade unchanged as it waits for my return."

"Sparse bamboo beyond the curtain, rain pattering through the grove..."

Yan Qing, facing away from Du Ruhui, gazed out at the bamboo forest, reciting one five-character or seven-character poem after another, each falling beneath Du Ruhui’s pen.

Unknowingly, Yan Qing had recited nine poems.

But at the tenth, he abruptly paused.

All eyes fixed upon him, burning with expectation.

"Yan Qing, one more!"

Yan Qing turned, smiling wryly. "To be honest, the last is not an impromptu composition—Brother Du should know it."

Du Ruhui paused, "You mean, ‘One can live without meat, but not without bamboo’?"

Yan Qing nodded. "But what I recited before was only a fragment. Now I have four lines more—please write them down."

Du Ruhui quickly wrote, "Without meat, one grows thin; without bamboo, one grows vulgar," and looked to Yan Qing to continue.

Yan Qing thought for a moment. "The thin may be nourished, but the vulgar cannot be cured. Others laugh at these words—they seem lofty, yet foolish. If one still feasts before the bamboo, where in the world would you find the crane of Yangzhou?"

At this, Dou Fengjie stretched lazily, yawning.

Yan Qing laughed, walked over to sit beside Du Ruhui, reviewed the poems, then wrote:

"Admiring bamboo, Fengjie grows idle, and I cannot help but reflect: we are but worldly creatures—why should we not seek wealth? I once heard of a monk who journeyed west to obtain scripture. He received no worldly text, only blank pages. In anger, he complained to Buddha. Buddha replied: ‘Scripture cannot be lightly given, nor obtained without effort.’

If even Buddha says so, why should worldly people not seek wealth?

If even Buddha sees no fault in seeking wealth, then I, a humble being, desiring gold and silver, have no reason to be blamed."

Du Ruhui read and was momentarily speechless.

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The third update will be around five thirty this afternoon. Please recommend.