On New Year’s Eve, pine logs were stacked and set ablaze in the courtyard, and a faint scent of pine smoke drifted through the air. The capital city was alight with flames and candlelight reaching toward the sky, and the sound of firecrackers rose and fell, near and distant, popping and crackling.
The hall’s doors and windows were thrown wide open; the glow and warmth of the pine fire streamed into the room, reflecting on the faces of the Pei Family as they gathered together. The table was fragrant with fine dishes and aged wine, and the family sat in idle conversation, quietly keeping vigil through the long New Year’s Eve night.
The next time they would gather so completely would likely not come for another three years — when spring arrived, Pei Bingyuan was to travel south, returning to his post at the Taicang Prefecture.
On the fifth day of the new year, Shaohuai and Shaojin went to the Xu Family to pay their new year’s respects to their teacher. The Xu Family had been most attentive in caring for Teacher Duan, and the old ailment of joint pain that had plagued him through the winters had eased considerably over the past two years.
Shaojin and Yancheng had performed very well in the autumn provincial examinations, and in another household, one might expect them to go directly for the following spring’s metropolitan examinations, striking while the iron was hot.
Teacher Duan did not advise them to rush into the spring examinations. Instead, he urged them to travel south and study for a year or two, saying: “Spring growth and autumn fall make one full cycle of the year — the trunk of a tree thickens by the barest fraction in that time, and it takes decades before it grows stout enough to withstand wind and rain. Your learning is still too thin at present. You might pass the spring examination, but you may not achieve a high placing. In my view, there is no harm in waiting two or three years — go to the Jiangnan region, travel and broaden your horizons, and then return to sit for the examination.”
One had only to place Shaojin’s and Yancheng’s essays side by side with Shaohuai’s and compare them carefully to perceive the gap between them.
It was not a gap in the embellishment of language or the deployment of literary allusions, but in the holistic, unified bearing that suffused a well-wrought essay.
It so happened that Senior Xu was also present, and Teacher Duan asked for his opinion.
Senior Xu laughed heartily and said: “Elder Duan understands Yancheng’s temperament better than I do as his grandfather — on matters of learning, naturally I defer to you.”
The matter of Shaojin and Yancheng travelling south to study was essentially settled; the specific timing was left to be discussed further.
After returning from paying his respects to his teacher, all the various joyous occasions and family affairs of the year’s end and the new year’s beginning came to a close.
Pei Shaohuai threw himself into his studies.
Natural talent is a rare gift; diligent effort is within everyone’s reach. Only when a man has read broadly and deeply can he carry any real learning in his breast. Although Teacher Duan and Elder Zou had both said his essays were already mature and polished in their literary force, more than sufficient for the spring examinations, Pei Shaohuai knew that any complacency brought uncertainty.
Learning is a thing that, once lodged in the heart, is like a wisp of smoke — if one does not revisit and review it constantly, it disperses quietly away.
In short, before the spring metropolitan examination and the palace examination, the feeling for composing essays must not be allowed to slip away, must not be allowed to grow rusty; otherwise, it would not be something that a few days and nights could recover.
Every morning and evening he composed one essay each; during the day he read classical texts and kept abreast of current affairs at court; whenever a fine insight occurred to him, he copied it down immediately so that it could be drawn upon when writing essays.
His fourth brother-in-law Chen Xingchen and his good friend Jiang Ziyun were also sitting for the spring examinations. The books Pei Shaohuai had brought back from the Jiangnan region, he made a point of sending a copy to each of them, and Chen Xingchen would also come by from time to time to discuss policy essays with him.
When the twelfth day of the first month arrived, Lin Shi sent him a new set of garments, asking him to try them on.
The fabric was a jade-green color — plain yet with a quality to its texture, and when worn, it gave the wearer a quality of refined jade, very well suited to Pei Shaohuai’s appearance and bearing.
Sent along with it was a set of jade accessories — a jade hair crown and a jade pendant sash piece.
Seeing such an occasion being made of this, Pei Shaohuai only then realized, somewhat belatedly, that the Lantern Festival was just two days away — he was to go out into the streets for the lantern gathering and meet that Miss Yang of the Yang Family.
He had always kept this matter in the back of his mind; it was just that sometimes, sunk deep in his books, he lost track of what day it was, and in a blink, the Lantern Festival had crept up on him.
As for where they would “happen to meet,” the elders would have made proper arrangements.
Lin Shi looked at her elegant, graceful son with a smiling, narrowed gaze, feeling both joyful and proud; she straightened his collar for him and said: “Very good — a perfect fit.”
The Lantern Festival — the late Emperor had once issued a decree granting ten days of holiday for the lantern season. Officials at court and commoners alike would spend their days gathered with family at home, and venture into the streets at night, celebrating and praising an era of peace and prosperity, abundant harvests, and the contentment of soldiers and people alike — this was known as the Lantern Festival Promenade.
Of all the festivities in the Lantern Festival Promenade, the lantern gathering was the most lively. Every household hung all manner of paper-wrapped lanterns from their eaves and doorways, painted in blue and red, gleaming in reflected splendor alongside the bright moon and myriad stars above.
As night deepened, people thronged the streets. The great mountain-shaped lantern formation began its parade, and the people followed spontaneously behind with their colorful lanterns in hand, so that the main boulevard looked like one long, winding dragon of lantern light wending its way forward.
The multitudes jostled to admire the spectacle.
Women who spent the whole year confined to their homes could on this day go out boldly, arranging to meet their closest friends and stroll through the streets in the custom of “walking away the hundred ailments” — crossing the bridges, walking along the base of high walls, reaching out to touch the iron studs on gates and bricks, leaving illness and misfortune behind in those corners, and praying for a smooth and fortunate year ahead.
With no night curfew in place, this evening — as the saying went, “On last year’s lantern night” and “lovers met at dusk” — the Lantern Festival offered men and women the opportunity to meet in private, come to know one another, and perhaps follow each other’s steps.
On the day of the Lantern Festival, though nightfall was still hours away, Lin Shi had already had the sweet glutinous rice balls prepared early. The slanting sun had barely touched the treetops when the whole family sat down to the evening meal.
After quietly telling Pei Shaohuai the time and location of the meeting, Lin Shi urged him to hurry and change into his new clothes and head out to enjoy the festivities.
Yancheng’s carriage had already arrived, and he was to join Shaohuai and Shaojin on their outing together.
Before they set off, a small mishap occurred — Pei Shaohuai had just changed into his jade-green garments and stepped out of his room when a page boy walking without looking ahead spilled the soup he was carrying onto the hem of Shaohuai’s robe.
With no other choice, he had to search through the wardrobe for another jade-green robe — a plain, straight-cut style, without the elaborate patterns and embroidery of the previous one, and looking instead rather unassuming and simple.
Having lost a little time, by the time Pei Shaohuai and the other two arrived at the flower market streets, it was just the hour when the lanterns were being lit. They watched as the shops and residences on both sides of the street — from their eaves and window shutters to the railings of their upper-floor galleries — lit up one lantern after another, a charming sight that could only be called lanterns glimmering in the dusk.
The capital’s light blazed brilliant against the clouds, a thousand households’ star-lanterns glowing beside the fair moon — Pei Shaohuai held his folding fan and strolled through the flower market with his friends at an unhurried pace, taking in the once-a-year revelry and splendor.
After viewing the great mountain-shaped lantern formation, they moved to Fanyuan Garden, where the noble families were hosting a combined lantern and poetry gathering. Not only would the outstanding young men and noble daughters of the various households attend, but also a good many civil and military officials who had at long last gotten some time off — many had changed into informal dress and come along to enjoy themselves.
The pavilions and towers inside the garden were ablaze with light, and temporary lantern stands had been erected at various points throughout, lending the garden an air of poetic atmosphere in the darkness of night.
As the three of them strolled at their ease toward the venue of the poetry gathering, along the way the brothers Shaohuai and Shaojin were simply too striking in appearance, repeatedly drawing the secret admiration of young women who, upon passing by, turned back to glance again. Handkerchief after handkerchief “accidentally” slipped and fell at Shaohuai’s feet — what should have been a subtle and delicate hint had practically turned into something done in broad daylight — yet throughout it all, Shaohuai’s expression remained utterly impassive, as though he had noticed nothing.
He was even less moved than Yancheng, who was already married.
Yancheng, full of admiration, asked with a teasing smile: “Shaohuai, how do you manage to remain so completely unmoved?”
“Hmm?” Shaohuai turned back, startled by the sudden question, but quickly understood what Yancheng meant, and replied with an awkward laugh: “It is not that I am intentionally ignoring them.” The truth was that his mind was older than his body, and these vivacious young women of fifteen or sixteen — some not yet of coming-of-age — were naturally filtered out of his field of vision.
At the poetry gathering, the talented young men of the capital were putting brush to paper, displaying their poetic gifts, submitting their compositions to the panel of judges for the contest’s evaluation.
Pei Shaohuai sat for a while, drank a cup of tea, and let his gaze rest on the water clock in one corner of the hall, waiting for the water to reach the mark of the end of the Hour of the Dog.
Shaojin, however, was in high spirits — not writing poetry himself, yet paying close attention to the poetry gathering.
Miss Lu of the Lu Family bore the reputation of a talented woman of the capital — how could she not participate in the Fanyuan poetry gathering? What Shaojin was watching was not the gathering itself, but Miss Lu’s poetic entries.
Drop by drop the water fell from the bamboo spout, and the level in the basin rose slowly, until at last it crossed the boundary between the Hour of the Dog and the Hour of the Pig.
“I am going out for a stroll.”
Pei Shaohuai rose and said.
Along the waterway outside Fanyuan Garden, several small riverside residences stood with their fronts facing the water and their backs against the bank, beneath long overhanging eaves that formed a covered riverside gallery stretching from the small footbridge all the way to the doorsteps of the residences.
No colored lanterns hung from the eaves of these residences — only ordinary lanterns, their light mingling with the moonlight scattered in silver fragments across the water’s surface, each reflecting the other.
Several flat-bottomed boats were moored along the riverside gallery, secured with thick ropes wound tightly around wooden posts.
Compared to the liveliness of the flower market and Fanyuan Garden, this place was rather quiet.
Inside the residence, lanterns stood at various points, their candlelight soft and gentle.
Yang Shiyue sat before the tea table, gazing quietly out the window. Through the window, the spring chill of the night air drifted in and touched her cheeks to a faint flush — a color warmer than pear blossom, but softer than peach blossom.
Well aware that a young woman ought to be reserved, she had nonetheless spent a long while carefully preparing — her eyebrows painted with blue-black pigment like the first crescent of the moon, her dark hair combed smooth and carefully arranged into a drooping-horse bun, secured with two jade hairpins, neat and without a single strand out of place, lending her an air of simple elegance, with only a few strands of hair left loose at her forehead. On her skirt and white silk jacket, delicate pale-toned patterns had been embroidered stitch by careful stitch — not immediately visible at first glance.
On the tea table sat two snow-top tea cups, thin wisps of steam carrying the fragrance of green tea drifting upward, blending with the faint jasmine scent already in the room, the two mingling without clashing.
On the writing table, a sheet of paper had been laid out flat, the writing materials arranged at the ready: brush, ink, paper, and inkstone — the ink in the inkstone had been half ground, not yet thick enough.
Yang Shiyue’s thoughts would not settle — that figure seated upon the fine horse, glimpsed in repeated glances, had been on the verge of turning fully toward her when the lowered window curtain had intervened.
The water clock sounded, marking the arrival of the Hour of the Pig, and the noise gave Yang Shiyue a startled jolt.
The elderly matron at her side reminded her: “Miss, the hour has come.”
The matron walked toward the door, preparing to go and keep watch at the end of the bridge.
Yang Shiyue straightened her collar and sat up properly, her eyes cast downward.
Strangely, at this very moment her heart had grown considerably calmer, and she found herself wanting to gently laugh at herself.
But it was at precisely this moment that a splashing sound came from outside, followed immediately by a woman’s shocked cry, and then, at the head of the bridge, her sobbing and desperate calls for help.
Yang Shiyue rose to her feet, and the elderly matron stopped in her tracks.
Yang Shiyue stepped to the window and looked — at the bridge, a woman was crying out helplessly, while in the river a small figure was flailing about — a child had fallen into the water. Apparently the child had been on the way home from viewing the lanterns and, passing over this small bridge, had missed a step and tumbled in.
The elderly matron put out a hand to hold Yang Shiyue back, saying: “Young Master Pei will be here any moment now, Miss had best stay and wait quietly… Old servant will go and find someone to help.”
Those outside did not know, but the elderly matron knew well that her young miss had taken great care with her appearance today — a clear sign that she was favorably inclined toward the Pei Family’s young master Huai.
Yang Shiyue continued to look out, and she could see that the child was being carried downstream by the current toward the residence, the struggling growing weaker and weaker. Ignoring the matron’s attempt to dissuade her, she gathered up her skirts and hurried along the riverside gallery, trying to push out one of the flat-bottomed boat’s long poles to intercept the child in the water.
Using the buoyancy of the bamboo pole, Yang Shiyue strained with all her strength, and the pole finally extended out far enough — and the child was quick-witted too, latching onto it with both hands and holding fast.
The elderly matron came over and helped Yang Shiyue together pull the child up onto the bank.
The matron fetched a cloak and wrapped it around the little girl, handing her back to the woman, instructing her to hurry home and ward off the cold.
The rescue accomplished — yet Yang Shiyue’s carefully arranged appearance was beyond recovery. The jade hairpins had come loose, and with them the hair bun had come undone; her sleeves and skirt hem were stained with water, large patches darkening with dampness.
And at this very moment, that tall, slender figure came walking from the other side of the bridge, his jade-green robe faintly visible in the moonlight, a jade rabbit colored lantern in his hand.