Poetry and Lyrics Inquiry

Beneath the window of Yunqi Academy, Xuanji sits alone with a solitary lamp.

The conversation with Madam Zheng during the day was like a stone thrown into a pool, creating ripples in her heart. Madam Zheng's transcendent insight and affirmation of her title "Forgetful of Worldly Affairs" suddenly reminded her of another person—the gentleman who had once led her into the world of poetry and books, but was now separated from her by thousands of miles.

Xuanji took out a carefully kept brocade pouch from the bottom of the box. Inside, there was no gold or jade, only a stack of yellowed papers.

Those were poems that Wen Tingyun had corrected for her in his early years. She treasured every red-inked circle, every occasional short comment like "This line can be kept" or "The imagery has broadened a bit." What's more, there were also a few pages of her private practice pieces, imitating his handwriting. At that time, she not only studied his theories on poetry but also unconsciously imitated his unconventional cursive script, as if through the strokes of his brush, she could get closer to that erudite, profound man who had led her into a vast world.

What she treasured were not only those poems, but also the self she truly "saw" and was regarded as a "confidant" during that time. It was an important cornerstone for her to affirm her own value in this chaotic world.

Today, we are separated by mountains and rivers, and the world has changed drastically.

She spread out a blank sheet of paper, and after a long while, she picked up her pen and wrote: "Sent to Fei Qing on a winter night." Then she paused, erased the title, and changed it to "Untitled."

I rack my brains to find the perfect poem to recite under the lamp, and spend the long, sleepless night in fear of the cold quilt.

The courtyard is filled with fallen leaves as the wind rises with sorrow; the moon sinks sadly through the gauze window.

The evacuation was not yet complete, but the wish was ultimately fulfilled; prosperity and decline reveal only the true nature of the heart.

I dwell in seclusion by the paulownia tree, where sparrows chirp and circle the empty woods at dusk.

Finally, she put down her pen and blew out the lamp. In the darkness, only the scent of ink remained, along with a barely audible sigh.

The following morning, standing alone in the Xuanji Hall, gazing upon the compassionate, downcast face of Guanyin, her heart was filled with clarity. She no longer feared the rumors, no longer evaded the chaos. Since she was in this world, why not face it with equanimity? Since she held poetry in her heart, why not use it as a bridge to guide those with affinity?

A few days later, a newly made wooden plaque was hung outside the gate of Yunqi Academy, with an inscription personally written by Xuanji:

"Fish. Mystery. Secret. Poetry and Lyrics Await Your Instruction"

There is another line of smaller text below:

"Wangji Daoist is here, quietly awaiting kindred spirits from all over the world. We discuss poetry and philosophy without distinction of gender; we make friends through literature, seeking only true understanding."

This move caused a stir in the literary world of Chang'an. Some praised her for her extraordinary character, while others condemned her for her unconventional ways. Countless literati and scholars came to admire her, and the number of carriages and horses in front of Xianyi Temple gradually increased, while the sound of poetry echoed continuously in Yunqi Courtyard.

As for Wen Tingyun, half a year has passed since he returned south with his beloved wife's coffin in March and buried her in his hometown of Wuzhou.

The old house in Wuzhou, nestled against the mountains and beside the water, was indeed as his wife had wished. But while the scenery remained, the people were gone. Each day, he would either sit alone in his study, lost in thought, staring at a tattered book and a half-empty pot of cold tea; or wander slowly along the mountain paths and field ridges, watching the clouds drift and listening to the birdsong. The world felt empty, and that profound loneliness could not be filled even by the clear sounds of nature. He had truly become a lone crane separated from its flock, lost and adrift, with no place to call home.

That afternoon, as he was tidying up his old paintings as usual, he came across a blank space in one of his ink landscape paintings. He noticed that Xuanji had, with extremely fine brushstrokes, copied a line of his poem. Her handwriting captured seven or eight parts of his style, yet still retained her own delicate, slender form. She had even drawn a small fish at the end. He was slightly moved. He then found several other old drafts he had discarded, and found that they all contained Xuanji's drawing of a small fish. This childlike mischief, at that moment, felt like a soft thorn, gently piercing his heart.

Just after the start of autumn, Wen Tingyun was pruning chrysanthemums in the courtyard. His old servant, Wen Zhong, handed him a letter, saying, "Master, a letter from the eldest son in the capital has arrived."

Wen Tingyun took the letter; the envelope bore Wen Jue's familiar, strong handwriting. He tore off the sealing wax, pulled out the letter, and slowly scanned the words. At first, his expression was relatively calm; it was just some casual greetings and news about the capital. However, when he read about Xuanji's recent situation, his fingers tightened suddenly, making the edges of the letter wrinkle slightly.

The letter read: "...There is another matter I must inform Father. My junior sister Xuanji left the Li residence this April and has been living alone in a rented house by the Qujiang River, calling it 'Wangji Caotang' (Forgetful Thatched Cottage). However, Li Yi is relentlessly harassing her, and she is in a difficult situation. After learning of this, I secretly sent people to protect her, and she is currently safe. I recently heard that, in order to avoid worldly troubles and seek protection, she has been officially registered in the Daoist community and is now residing in the Xianyi Temple in the west of the city, with the Daoist name 'Wangji'..."

“Enter the Taoist register…Xianyi Temple…Wangji…” Wen Tingyun murmured, each word like a heavy stone thrown into his once calm lake of heart, stirring up a thousand waves.

That night, a sudden downpour began outside the window, pounding against the sycamore leaves outside the study, just like his restless heart.

"Entering the Taoist register... Xianyi Temple... Wangji..."

He repeated those words softly, and many old images involuntarily surfaced before his eyes—the fourteen-year-old girl who, standing before the wall of Chongzhen Temple, "raised her head in vain, envying the names on the list," with stubborn brows and a heart higher than the sky; the cunning girl who, faced with his challenging topic of "willows by the river," wrote "Ode to Willows by the River" and opened her palm to ask him for ten taels of silver; the figure who, in the Wen family's scholarly discussion class, faced Li Yi and Du Mubai's questioning of "women's lack of talent," remained neither humble nor arrogant, citing classical texts with clear eyes; and even more so, the girl who, after his sleeve was burned by the candlelight, silently sewn a pale green bamboo leaf under the lamp, and when he discovered it, blushed and lowered her head...

His gaze fell on the neatly folded, bluish-gray robe. He stood up, walked over, and gently touched the pale green bamboo leaf on the cuff with his fingertips.

The incense in the jade burner on his desk had grown cold, and the red candle wept, casting a lonely shadow on his figure. Outside the window, the night rain on the paulownia trees sounded heart-wrenching. He sat upright before the zither, his slender fingers gently caressing the strings, a thousand emotions transforming into a melody, "The Water Clock," flowing from his fingertips with his low, hoarse chant:

The fragrance of incense in the jade censer, the tears of red candle wax, all illuminate the autumn thoughts in the painted hall.

Her eyebrows were thin and pale, her hair disheveled, and the long night brought a chill to her bed and pillow.

The paulownia tree, the midnight rain, does not know the bitterness of parting.

Leaf by leaf, sound by sound, dripping onto the empty steps until dawn.

The rain pattered on the paulownia trees, each sound reaching my ears, as if trying to transform every drop of this long night into endless longing and regret.

Furthermore, the news that Xuanji had hung up a wooden sign in front of Xianyi Temple that read "Poetry and Lyrics Awaiting Instruction" spread like wildfire throughout half of Chang'an within two days, and naturally reached the ears of Li Yi, who was handling official business at the Ministry of Revenue.

At that moment, he was discussing the canal transport accounts with his colleagues when a trusted attendant quietly stepped forward and whispered a few words in his ear. Li Yi's hand, which was holding a pen, suddenly stopped, and a drop of thick ink slammed onto the open Qingzhou silk account book, quickly spreading into a messy stain.

"Understood, go down."

However, when he lowered his head again, his gaze falling on the densely packed numbers in the ledger, what appeared before his eyes was the glaring wooden plaque outside the Yunqi Courtyard of Xianyi Temple, and the imagined scene of Xuanji chatting and laughing with those so-called "famous scholars," wielding his brush and ink. A flame mixed with jealousy, humiliation, and rage almost burned through his internal organs.

Just then, a hushed chuckle drifted from the veranda outside the window. It was a few other colleagues taking a break.

"...Have you heard? All those ladies in Pingkang Lane are probably jealous of that guy at Xianyi Temple now," a somewhat flippant voice said.

Another person chimed in, his tone full of unspoken ambiguity: "'Poetry and lyrics await your instruction'? Tsk tsk, what a brilliant move. Yu Xuanji is already famous for her talent, and now that she's opened her doors, I'm afraid the threshold of Xianyi Temple will be worn down by the romantic talents of Chang'an."

“Speaking of which, Brother Li…” Someone seemed to want to steer the conversation toward Li Yi, but was immediately stopped by a slight gesture from the others, and the rest of the words turned into a meaningful chuckle.

Those words, like poisoned needles, pierced Li Yi's eardrums with pinpoint accuracy. He sat stiffly in his chair, the veins on the back of his hand gripping the file bulging. He could even imagine how people were gossiping in the corners where he couldn't hear anything else.

A sense of humiliation washed over the flames of anger like an icy tide, chilling him to the bone. Unable to vent his anger on his colleagues, all his hatred was directed precisely at the woman he had once loved, but now loathed.