Springtime at the Imperial Music Academy
In the tenth year of the Tianqi reign, Yu Xuanji entered the Xianyi Temple and took the name "Wangji Daoren" (Taoist of Forgetfulness).
The morning dew from Xianyi Temple dripped onto the moss on the steps, and she bent down to pick up the manuscript of poetry that had been blown away by the wind.
The rustling of the bamboo outside the window blurred the laughter of the women in the music hall. Looking at the sign for poetry lessons outside the hall, she felt that life was nothing but a dream.
Sunlight streamed in at an angle, casting dust motes floating in the beams of light. She squinted, and for a moment, she seemed to be transported back to that spring day at the Jingxian Jiaofang (a music academy in Jingxian County). Back then, she was just a fourteen-year-old girl.
A ray of spring sunlight shone through the branches into the attic. Xuanji blinked, shielded her eyes with her hand, turned over, hugged the brocade quilt, and continued to sleep.
Last night was the day the Imperial Music Academy selected its new "Nei Ren" (lead dancers who could perform before the emperor). The sisters made a ruckus all night, singing, dancing, composing poems, and writing essays. In the end, Liu Qianqian won first place with her self-choreographed and directed dance, "Spring Gaze," and became the new "Nei Ren."
But none of this really concerns Xuanji. She's only 14, and her nanny doesn't let her entertain guests; she's only asked to help out when things get busy. Right now, all she needs to do is study music, chess, calligraphy, and painting with her sisters of similar age every day. Then she'll choose one she's best at and practice diligently, preparing for the selection of a concubine two years from now.
So, she only had two more years of good days left. She bit her lip and thought to herself.
The maid Qingxing came to wake her up. "Miss! Han Xuejiu's morning class is going to be late! Last time you were late, he punished you by making you copy 'Admonitions for Women,' and you copied it for three days!" Xuanji buried her face in the embroidered pillow and mumbled, "He said I had menstrual cramps."
She tossed and turned in bed, thinking of a poet who wrote of the lingering spring days, the sorrowful heart of a woman, and the near impending return with her beloved. Xuanji didn't want to return with her beloved, but her heart was heavy with sorrow. She didn't want to get out of bed.
Qingxing combed Xuanji's hair, gently combing it with a fine-toothed comb. Then she asked her, "Miss, what hairstyle do you want today?"
Xuanji was still dozing off, nodding her head. Suddenly, her scalp tightened, and she woke up. "Just leave it in a hanging bun. You have more time to comb your hair, you might as well sleep a little longer." After Qingxing finished combing her hair, Xuanji finally woke up.
After breakfast, Xuanji asked Qingxing to fetch the poem "Spring View" written by Liu Qianqian. Xuanji slowly read it aloud: "The spring waters flow gently, not yet old; the wind is light, the willows droop gracefully. Climbing to the top of Chaoran Terrace, I gaze upon half a moat of spring water and a city of flowers." It seemed alright; Xuanji quite liked the last line, "half a moat of spring water and a city of flowers."
Today, it was that same old scholar lecturing on poetry, focusing on its structure—the oblique beginning and level ending, the oblique beginning and oblique ending—and I was starting to doze off. The other maids were saying that this old scholar used to be the old lady's lover. She even funded his studies for the imperial examinations, but after decades, he only became an old scholar, neither rich nor handsome.
Xuanji rested her chin on one hand, twirling a calligraphy brush in the other, her eyes fixed on the cherry blossom tree in the courtyard. Two sparrows were fighting happily in the tree. Xuanji recalled the line, "Half a moat of spring water, a city of flowers." It had rained the past two days, and the spring sunshine was perfect. So, Xuanji raised her hand to make an excuse to urinate. The old scholar waved his hand dismissively, as if to say, "Go quickly."
Xuanji pulled Qingxing out through the side gate, and Qingxing reluctantly urged her to go back to class. Xuanji said, "Sister Xiuer said there's a new snack shop that opened at the east end of Chang Le Fang. They recently started making qingtuan (green glutinous rice dumplings), with red bean paste, jujube paste, and sesame fillings. Let's go try them."
Qingxing licked her lips, the words of persuasion on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them back. Xuanji chuckled inwardly; Qingxing was the easiest girl to fool. As long as you gave her some food, she would immediately forget her stance.
Qingxing was queuing to buy qingtuan (a type of glutinous rice dumpling), while Xuanji chose a seat on the second floor. She ate the fruit while waiting for Qingxing. The second floor of this wine shop had a good location; looking out, one could see peach and apricot blossoms everywhere. Truly, Chengdu was a city overflowing with flowers.
In the next room, there seemed to be two scholars talking, and Xuanji listened to their conversation intermittently. Suddenly, the first scholar's voice rang out, "You've never heard of Mr. Wen Tingyun? You're simply unworthy of calling yourself a talented scholar from Jiangnan. Have you ever heard the 'Bianjia Tune'? The northern flute welcomes the autumn, the wild geese arrive early in the shadows. The yellow clouds of Shangjun are hidden, and the white grass blows across the Tianshan Mountains."
Yi quickly chimed in, "I've heard of him, I've heard of him. Mr. Wen is a great talent from our Jing County. Even the Emperor has praised his quick wit and poetic talent. Wasn't he supposed to be in Chang'an? How come he's in this small place like ours?" Their voices gradually faded after that, and Xuanji didn't listen carefully.
However, this kind of poem, "Bian Jia Qu," is indeed unlike the soft, sentimental poems written by Liu Qianqian; it is full of a sense of vastness and desolation. I long to travel across mountains and seas, to see the Shuoguan (a type of ancient Chinese wind instrument), the great eagles, and the scenery of the white grass blowing across the Tianshan Mountains.
When Qingxing arrived, she saw Xuanji slumped over the table, looking utterly dejected. He was perfectly fine just a moment ago; how did he suddenly become like this? Qingxing was a little confused.
Qingxing handed Xuanji a red bean-filled rice dumpling. Xuanji took a bite from Qingxing's hand and found it sweet. She thought of the old man named Wen Tingyun, who had traveled extensively, unlike her, a frog in a well, who was overjoyed at the sight of peach blossoms on the back hill—truly unsophisticated. Xuanji lost interest in seeing the apricot blossoms in the Hibiscus Garden and secretly returned to the music academy with Qingxing.
Because Liu Qianqian won first place in the selection of court ladies last night, many guests came to the court to watch her dance today. The nannies couldn't keep up with the demand, so Xuanji, Linglong, and several other newcomers accompanied Liu Qianqian with music.
Today, Liu Qianqian danced the Zhezhi Dance, a rich and varied display of movements that was both vigorous and graceful. Each step was like a dragon soaring through the clouds, soft and full of spirit. After the dance, everyone cheered loudly, and thunderous applause erupted.
Liu Qianqian turned and left, while Xuanji, Linglong, and the others were taken to Tingyu Pavilion by the nanny. Tingyu Pavilion was one of the most prestigious private rooms in the music and dance hall, with its eaves sloping and upturned. Those who could afford to patronize this place were either wealthy or noble.
While helping to deliver the fruit platter, Xuanji secretly glanced at the three people sitting in Tingyu Pavilion. At the head of the table was a middle-aged man, probably around 50 years old, dressed in a wide black robe with embroidered sleeves. He had thin eyebrows, a high nose, and an expression that conveyed worldliness and composure. He held a cup of tea in his hands, taking sips from time to time, his gaze deep and wise.
Two young men, not yet twenty, sat beside him. One wore a crisp blue robe, the other a loose white robe. The young man in the white robe appeared to be older and more composed than the one in the blue robe.
The young man in blue ignored the hidden meaning behind getting him the drinks and, in a coquettish tone, said to the middle-aged man, "Uncle, please introduce me to Mr. Wen. It's so rare for Mr. Wen to come back to pay respects to our ancestors. If we miss this opportunity, who knows when we'll get another chance?"
It was Mr. Wen again. Xuanji's heart skipped a beat, and her hand trembled as she poured the wine.
The middle-aged man glanced sideways at the young man in blue and said, "I told you to study poetry and literature properly, what have you been doing? Should I introduce you to Mr. Wen and have him teach you how to write doggerel?"
The young man in blue pursed his lips and didn't dare to reply.
This time, it was the young man in white who spoke up, “Uncle, I heard an anecdote about Mr. Wen, but I don’t know if it’s true or not. It is said that once, Prime Minister Li asked Mr. Wen a question, and Mr. Wen replied that the problem that you need to solve can be found in the Zhuangzi. You know, it is not an obscure book. So, in addition to governing the country, you might as well read more books.”
The middle-aged man replied, "I've heard about that too." He then shook his head and said, "If Changqing doesn't change his personality, his career will be difficult."
The young man in blue looked on with longing and said that Mr. Wen was a man of true character.
Xuanji remained in a daze until the banquet ended. Linglong waved her hand in front of her eyes, asking, "What are you thinking about?" Xuanji replied, "Mr. Wen." Linglong was taken aback. Xuanji quickly added, "I was thinking about what that scholar said at the banquet." Linglong covered her mouth and laughed, "This Mr. Wen is much more sharp-tongued than the old nanny." Xuanji nodded hurriedly.
That night, Xuanji had a dream in which Han Xuejiu suddenly transformed into a handsome figure, his face obscured, but holding a ruler in his hand. He told her, "This isn't some obscure book, so while you're feeling sentimental, young lady, you might as well read more books." Xuanji woke up in a cold sweat.
Xuanji decided to buy two poetry collections to make a good impression. In the afternoon, she asked her nanny for half a day off and went to the book market on West Street with Qingxing to wander around aimlessly.
"Do you have a collection of poems by Mr. Wen Tingyun?" Xuanji asked.
The shopkeeper, seeing a girl of about thirteen or fourteen, smiled and replied, "Miss, you're too late. These past few days, all the young men of Jing County have been coming to buy Mr. Wen's books; they're all sold out." Xuanji, unwilling to give up, went to every bookstore, but none had Wen Tingyun's poetry collection for sale. She lowered her head, looking utterly dejected.
Qingxing asked, "Miss, is Mr. Wen very famous? Why are all his books sold out?" Well, before buying the books today, Xuanji didn't think Wen Tingyun was very famous, but now she knows.
That evening, Xuanji lingered in her room, unwilling to leave, until the nanny sent her to Liu Qianqian's room to help her choose clothes. Xuanji looked at the room filled with silks and satins, but felt no envy. She casually pointed to a lotus-root-colored ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress) and said, "Qianqian, this looks good on you."
Liu Qianqian was drawing her eyebrows when she glanced back at Xuanji. "Is there anything you like? I'll give you a set." Xuanji quickly shook her head, saying she didn't need it. Her gaze swept across the table and she saw a copy of "Wolan Collection" on it. Looking at the author, she saw that it was indeed by Wen Tingyun.
So she coaxed Qianqian, "Sister Qianqian, can I borrow this book for two days?" Qianqian replied, "You can borrow it, but remember to return it." Xuanji nodded hurriedly in agreement. "Sister Qianqian, do you know Mr. Wen? How old is he? What does he look like? Is he older than Han Xuejiu?"
Liu Qianqian's lips twitched. "I've never met Mr. Wen, but from what other guests have said, he should be in his prime. His ancestors were prime ministers, and he himself is quite talented in poetry, but he is aloof and dislikes the powerful and wealthy." In Xuanji's mind, Wen Tingyun transformed from the unshaven old scholar Han Lao Xueji into the self-important, poor scholar from the neighbor's second aunt's house, who always carried a fan with him in the dead of winter.
But for some reason, Xuanji suddenly developed an interest in poetry. Besides reading Mr. Wen's poetry collection, she also collected collections of other poets from her sisters. She read them while eating, while combing her hair, and even while the scholar was giving a lecture. Everyone laughed at her, saying she wanted to be a talented woman like Zhuo Wenjun. Xuanji didn't want to be like Zhuo Wenjun; she wouldn't linger or try to win back an ungrateful and heartless man.
Before they knew it, it was Qingming Festival. Xuanji and her girlfriends went for a spring outing in Qujiang, south of the city. Suddenly, they heard someone mention that Mr. Wen was lecturing at Chongzhen Temple, and their hearts skipped a beat for no reason.
Pulling Qingxing along, they secretly made their way to Chongzhen Temple. Finally, they arrived, but it was already late. The people in the temple said that Mr. Wen and his students had gone to Qujiang, and they had truly missed each other. Xuanji was filled with regret. Looking up, she saw the temple walls covered with countless poems and signatures left by the students.
Yu Xuanji also wrote a seven-character quatrain to express her feelings.
The clouds and peaks are bathed in the spring sunshine, and the silver hooks of the clouds are clearly visible beneath my fingers.
I regret that my fine clothes conceal my poetic verses; I raise my head and vainly envy the names on the list.
Then I drew a small fish next to it.
Xuanji never imagined that this poem, written on a whim, would change his destiny.
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