The misty clouds under the brush
The festive hustle and bustle of the New Year celebrations receded like the tide, and the Wen family mansion returned to its usual order and tranquility. The morning bell rang again on time, and the study was once again filled with the fragrance of ink and the faint, aged scent of books.
Xuanji's mind was firmly gripped by the heated discussion about Li Bai, Du Fu, and Bai Juyi the day before, and her thoughts lingered on it for a long time, unable to find peace.
During his lecture that day, Wen Tingyun did not confine himself to the appreciation of the poems themselves. Instead, like a skilled painter, he used poetry as a brush and history as ink to depict the three masters' three-dimensional figures and spiritual struggles in the torrent of the times.
When discussing Li Bai, Wen Tingyun's gaze seemed to be tinged with a magnificent glow: "Everyone says that Li Bai is a 'banished immortal,' 'when he's in high spirits, his brush shakes the Five Sacred Mountains; when his poem is finished, he laughs and soars above the vast ocean.' His poems are indeed 'like a lotus emerging from clear water, naturally beautiful without artifice,' unrestrained and imaginative. However, if you carefully read his 'Letter to Han Jingzhou'—'I don't need to be enfeoffed as a marquis, I only wish to meet Han Jingzhou,' how fervent, even bordering on flattery! And look at his 'The Road to Shu is Hard'—'I stop drinking and eating, I draw my sword and look around, my heart is filled with confusion. I want to cross the Yellow River, but the ice blocks the way; I want to climb Mount Taihang, but the snow covers the mountain.' Where is this a transcendent immortal? He is clearly a mortal trapped in the mortal world, his ambitions unfulfilled!"
He tapped the table lightly, his tone heavy: "Throughout his life, he sought immortality and visited Taoist masters, indulging in the beauty of nature. He seemed carefree, but in reality, he never truly relinquished his ambition to 'discuss the theories of Guan Zhong and Yan Ying, and devise strategies for imperial rule.' In the first year of the Tianbao era, he was summoned to the capital, where he sang, 'Laughing loudly, I go out the door; how can we be mere commoners?' He thought he had finally met a wise ruler. But what was the result? He was nothing more than a literary jester in Xuanzong's eyes, embellishing the peace and writing 'clouds remind me of her clothes, flowers remind me of her face.' In the end, he was 'granted gold and sent home.' His arrogance was rooted in immense loss and indignation."
When Du Fu was mentioned, the air in the study seemed to grow heavy. Wen Tingyun's voice was deep and powerful: "Du Fu and Li Bai are a perfect contrast. Li Bai was an 'immortal' who could not obtain an 'official position,' while Du Fu was a 'scholar' who was trapped by 'chaos.' In his youth, he also had the ambition to 'ascend to the top of the mountain and look down on all the mountains,' but when the An Lushan Rebellion broke out, he was like a drifting tumbleweed, swept into the turbulent waves of the times."
“When you read his ‘Three Officials’ and ‘Three Separations,’ every word is written in blood and tears, every sentence is filled with sorrow. ‘At dusk I arrived at Shihao Village, where officials were arresting people at night. An old man jumped over the wall and ran away, while an old woman came out to see what was happening’—this is not literary imagination, but a bloody record of reality! He himself had ‘heard wailing upon entering the house, and found his young son had died of hunger,’ and had tasted the bitterness of ‘hardship and resentment have turned my temples white, and I have stopped drinking wine in my destitution.’”
He tightly bound his personal fate to the calamities of the nation, thus his poetry became a kind of 'poetic history.' His greatness lies in his magnanimous spirit—the sentiment of 'If only I had ten thousand mansions, I could shelter all the poor and needy and make them rejoice'—and in the fact that even in dire straits, he never forgot his country and its people.
Finally, when talking about Bai Juyi, Wen Tingyun's tone became slightly complicated, with a hint of insightful understanding of the world: "Letian was the most 'intelligent' of the three, and also the most 'adaptable'. In his early years, he was ambitious and advocated that 'writing should be for the times, and poetry should be for the events.' He wrote 'New Yuefu' and 'Qin Zhong Yin,' such as 'The Charcoal Seller' with the lines 'Pitiable is his thin clothes, he worries that charcoal is cheap and wishes for cold weather,' which directly pointed out the ills of the time and was full of sharpness. He truly 'sings about the people's suffering, hoping that the emperor will know.'"
However, after the "Ganlu Incident," the political situation became treacherous, and he deeply felt that "the world is none of my business" and "there is no righteous voice in the world; what pleases the ear is entertainment." As a result, a large number of "leisurely" and "melancholy" works emerged. He said, "Whether at the ends of the earth or at the corners of the sea, home is where the heart is," and "Whether rich or poor, be happy; to not laugh is to be a fool." Seemingly detached, this was actually a form of self-protection and wise choice after experiencing the turmoil of officialdom.
His poems strive for simplicity and accessibility, so that "even old women can understand them," and thus "children can recite the Song of Everlasting Regret, and barbarian children can sing the Ballad of the Pipa," resulting in widespread popularity. While his achievements are undoubtedly remarkable, compared to the pure and tragic pursuit of life and poetic art by Li Bai and Du Fu, Bai Juyi is more like a sober "master of life," finding a delicate balance between ideals and reality.
Wen Tingyun concluded: "These three men are like three peaks, each with a different path and scenery. Li Bai is the 'wind of heaven,' yearning to ascend to the heavens and grasp the bright moon; Du Fu is the 'earth,' unable to bear witnessing the suffering of the people, he took up his pen to record history; Bai Juyi is the 'flowing water,' winding around mountains and through rocks, both irrigating fields and protecting himself wisely. Those who study poetry should know their poems, but even more so, they should know the man and the world, only then can they glimpse even a fraction of the essence of poetry."
These words were like opening an unprecedented window to the mystery, allowing her to see the vast and profound spiritual world behind the poetry. This shock far surpassed any previous simple study of poetry, giving her a completely new and lasting reflection on literature and life.
That afternoon, Wen Tingyun assigned the task of copying the "Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion" and then went to the depths of his study to organize his books. Li Yi, Lu Jingxiu, and the others all concentrated their minds and focused on their brushes.
Xuanji held her pen, her mind somewhat agitated. She secretly glanced at Wen Tingyun, who was reading papers not far away, his profile calm and dignified.
Xuanji took a deep breath, trying to bring his attention back to the "Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion," attempting to suppress his surging emotions and transform them into a measured force in his wrist.
However, Wang Xizhi's lament, "Looking up at the vastness of the universe and down at the abundance of all things," seems to resonate with Li Bai's "Heaven and earth are but an inn, we share the same sorrow for the dust of eternity"; "Life and death are indeed momentous, how can we not grieve?"... This grief seems to take on a different weight in the face of Du Fu's reality of "Behind the red gates, meat and wine go to waste, while on the road, frozen corpses lie."
As she copied the text, her mind wandered far away. She realized that true learning wasn't confined to the classics and historical texts, but rather to the choices and laments of life. For the first time, she felt so clearly the immense life force behind the words, and a subtle resonance between herself and those illustrious names.
This realization filled her with inexplicable excitement. She vaguely felt that she had touched upon something deeper than simply writing poetry. Until Wen Tingyun's voice rang out softly, abruptly pulling her wandering thoughts back: "Youwei, this vertical stroke, your mind is restless."
Xuanji trembled slightly with nervousness: "Please forgive me, sir! I... I did not mean to be lazy. It was just that when I was practicing calligraphy, I was moved and thought of... thought of a poem."
Upon hearing this, Wen Tingyun raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes. He could tell that the female disciple had been distracted, but he hadn't expected it to be because of poetry. Knowing that Xuanji was quick-witted, he softened his tone and encouraged her with a hint of inquiry: "Oh? It's a good thing to turn your feelings into poetry. In that case, don't be bound by copying. Just write down your thoughts and feelings first."
Having received permission from his master, Xuanji took a deep breath, trying to calm his turbulent emotions. After a moment's hesitation, recalling the shock he had felt at the fates of the three poets and his own sense of insignificance, he picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, and lines of poetry flowed forth:
Thoughts on Reading the Poems of the Three Sons
Each has its own path in the misty clouds under the pen; the immortal's spirit and the Confucian's ambition both hesitate.
The banished immortal, drunk, embraced the shattered Milky Way; the poetic history, filled with sorrow, swallowed blood and tears until withered.
A broad-minded attitude can never truly dispel pent-up feelings; why must one forget the world of martial arts when one is lost in despair?
The vastness of time and space evokes the same sentiment; the broken monument, battered by wind and rain, knocks on the
After finishing writing, she gently put down her pen and respectfully presented the poem to Wen Tingyun, feeling uneasy, wondering what kind of evaluation her teacher would give to this accidental work filled with confusion and heaviness.
Wen Tingyun took the poem, his gaze sweeping over the verses. Initially calm, he gradually became focused. When he saw phrases like "immortal remains and Confucian aspirations," "shattered Milky Way," and "dried blood and tears," a barely perceptible look of surprise flashed in his eyes. This poem completely transcended the idle sorrows of a young girl's boudoir, directly addressing the core predicament of the literati's spiritual world. It possessed considerable spirit and profound emotion, especially the final couplet, "Throughout history, the same sorrow remains; a broken stele, battered by wind and rain, knocks upon the void," which carried a penetrating power beyond his years, almost a poignant melancholy.
Li Yi, who was standing to the side, had his gaze originally fixed on the books on his desk. His master had been pondering for too long, and he finally couldn't resist glancing at the poem with restraint and speed.
His eyes swept across the paper quickly, almost in one breath. But the words were like icicles, piercing his eyes unexpectedly and striking straight into his heart.
He took a deep breath, as if someone had pushed him in the chest, and his fingers gripping the book tightened unconsciously, his knuckles turning white.
This...this was actually written by her?
That desolate and bone-chilling aura, that questioning that resonated with some secret deep within his heart, made his blood seem to freeze for a moment, then surge even more violently, making his eardrums buzz.
Wen Tingyun's voice rang out: "The poem... is good, even stunning. However, the tone is too desolate and melancholic, and the three words 'knocking on nothingness' especially reveal a state of exhaustion. Youwei, when you read the poems of the ancients, you can feel their joys and sorrows and understand their spirit, but you must not become completely immersed in them and lose your own nature. You are still young, and the road ahead is long. Even if there is fog, you should still have a heart that can see the sun through the clouds."
Li Yi felt his heart pounding heavily in his chest, one beat after another. A strange, burning emotion was growing wildly from the place pierced by the poem.
He raised his eyes again, his gaze falling with complex emotions on the slender figure standing with her head bowed. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time, not as the adopted daughter of the Wen family, not as a courtesan from the music academy, but as a soulmate whose spirit could converse with him and with the past and present—a confidante?
The thought made his throat tighten and his fingertips tremble slightly.
Other senior students also gathered around, praising it one after another.
This poem also quietly spread through the mouths of Li Yi and Wen Jue.
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