Qing Dynasty, Thirty-First Year of Kangxi Reign

Xi Mo sat under the lamplight, quietly watching Hong Sheng writing diligently with his brush.

Without realizing it, she had accompanied him for forty-seven years, watching him age year by year, watching his originally young and handsome face gradually show traces of time’s passage, yet also appearing increasingly wise and mature.

Hong Sheng had truly written a masterpiece that captivated the contemporary world—”The Palace of Eternal Life.” When this play was performed, it even created scenes where streets emptied as everyone went to watch. It was also performed in the imperial palace, and Beijing’s Juhe Theater Company, Neiju Company, and other troupes all became famous far and wide for performing this play. Various high officials and imperial family members took pride in being able to invite theater companies that could perform “The Palace of Eternal Life.” Hong Sheng was unrivaled in Beijing for a time. During that period, he became the object of competition among high officials and nobles for invitations. He achieved what he wanted to do—the gold and silver jewelry Huang Hui had pawned didn’t need to be redeemed by herself, as people voluntarily returned them with both hands. Though Hong Sheng hadn’t achieved fame through the imperial examinations, he was more widely known than if he had become the top scholar.

But what brought him success also brought his downfall. Hong Sheng unknowingly became involved in power struggles, becoming a sacrifice in the conflicts between several princes. Because “The Palace of Eternal Life” was performed on the death anniversary of Empress Xiaoyis, Hong Sheng was impeached and imprisoned just the year after becoming famous in Beijing. Fortunately, Emperor Kangxi didn’t pursue his responsibility, only stripping him of his Imperial Academy student status and forcing him to leave Beijing and return to his hometown of Qiantang.

“Cousin, the night is deep and the dew heavy. Please rest early.” Huang Hui entered the study carrying a bowl of soup. After returning to their Qiantang hometown, she had once again removed the pearls and jade from her hair, wearing only a simple sandalwood hairpin—low-key and modest. Though the same age as Hong Sheng, she appeared much younger than him. Whether during their most impoverished times or their most glorious moments, she never complained about fate or became arrogant, always wearing a gentle smile. Though they had fallen into even more difficult circumstances this time, Huang Hui had never spoken a word of complaint. After selling their Beijing house, she followed Hong Sheng back to Qiantang without a second thought.

Xi Mo couldn’t help but look at her.

Perhaps Xi Mo was jealous of her. Though she had been the one initially accompanying Hong Sheng, it was actually his wife who consistently supported him. But such a perfect woman—she had to admit Hong Sheng was blessed to marry her. The two had been childhood sweethearts and grew up to have deep marital love…

Xi Mo watched as Hong Sheng took the soup bowl and drank contentedly while speaking gently with Huang Hui. That warm scene was like an illustration from a book.

Having someone to accompany you, even through the most difficult hardships, would make everything sweet… Xi Mo suddenly felt that though her life was long, most of it was filled with loneliness and darkness.

Huang Hui put away the empty soup bowl, instructed her husband not to sleep too late, and withdrew from the study. Hong Sheng held a Huzhou brush suspended over a blank sheet of paper, lost in thought.

Xi Mo was used to Hong Sheng’s dazing spells, accompanying him in emptying her mind and thinking of nothing. Actually, during countless such moments of silent mutual company between one person and one ink, Xi Mo always had the feeling that Hong Sheng could sense her existence.

“Xi Mo… since returning from Beijing, you seem to have something on your mind…” After a long silence, Hong Sheng had suddenly developed the habit of talking to Xi Mo. Huang Hui had discovered this several times and chided him for being truly foolish. But he needed someone to confide in, even if it was just an ink that couldn’t respond.

Xi Mo was startled. She was actually used to Hong Sheng’s eccentric behavior of always saying inexplicable things to her. But this time… he didn’t seem to be talking nonsense…

“Are you sorry that I was demoted back to my hometown? Actually, this is fine too, Xi Mo. I was too foolish, staying in that man-eating place—sooner or later I would have been swallowed whole.” Hong Sheng smiled. The prosperity of Beijing had blinded him, and the success brought by “The Palace of Eternal Life” had almost caused him to stop creating.

“I promised you I would write a masterpiece.” Hong Sheng reached out to stroke Xi Mo. After years of handling in his palm, Xi Mo had become smooth as jade with a delicate touch that made her hard to put down.

“I achieved nothing, spent half my life in poverty, experiencing all the separations, sorrows, joys, and worldly attitudes. Those sisters all shed tears together in shared grief. Even my cousin lost her mother in childhood, and though she married me, her father also passed away soon after, accompanying me through a wandering life…” Hong Sheng murmured, his words revealing self-reproaching regret. The Hong family had originally been a prestigious clan—during the Southern Song period, a father and sons had served as three prime ministers, and the three Hong scholars were famous throughout the world for their comprehensive learning. But in his generation, due to involvement in the Rebellion of the Three Feudatories, the family was confiscated by officials, his parents were exiled as soldiers, and his sisters died one by one from depression. Even when he returned home, he faced an already abandoned Hong Garden.

“In the end, everything becomes a vast expanse of white, truly clean…” Hong Sheng sighed with melancholy.

Xi Mo watched him pick up his brush again and slowly write: “Now in this dusty world, accomplishing nothing, suddenly thinking of all the women I once knew, examining each one carefully, I feel their conduct and insight all surpass mine. How is it that I, a dignified man, am truly inferior to those women? I truly feel more than enough shame, but regret is useless on this day of great helplessness. At this time, I wish to compile the past times when I relied on heavenly grace and ancestral virtue, wearing brocade and silk, feasting on delicacies, betraying my parents’ educational kindness, failing my teachers’ and friends’ moral guidance, leading to today’s accomplishment of nothing and half a life of poverty, into a collection to tell the world…”

Xi Mo possessed the spirituality of ink—she could sense all books written with ink, and over the years she had read countless classics. But this novel Hong Sheng was writing greatly interested her. The male protagonist in the book was born with jade in his mouth, which bore the character “guo” (nation). The jade was carved with eight characters, similar to the imperial jade seal He’s Bi, symbolizing the Han dynasty’s realm. In the second year of Shunzhi, there was a “crown prince” of unknown authenticity in Beijing who was beheaded. Xi Mo remembered that Hong Sheng happened to be born in the second year of Shunzhi. Ha, grabbed rouge during his zhuazhou ceremony? Then wasn’t this himself?

Did this person still harbor thoughts of restoring the Ming and overthrowing the Qing? The Southeast, Southwest, Northwest, and Northeast Kings he wrote about clearly alluded to the four non-imperial surname kings of early Qing. The Northern Tranquility King in the text was among the four non-imperial surname kings, the only one to inherit a princely title—the future Pacifying Southern King Geng Jingzhong. She still remembered that Geng Jingzhong was Hong Sheng’s close friend. In the eighth year of Kangxi, they drank and celebrated together in Beijing, and she had seen him several times. The Northern Tranquility King in the book was young, handsome, and humble in temperament—truly a replica of that Geng Jingzhong.

Look, Tanchun in the text who was hinted to be marrying far away as a princess should be Hong Sheng’s sister, who indeed married Geng Jingzhong, traveling three thousand li by boat to Fujian to become a princess.

Hmm, both Daiyu and Baochai in the text were Baoyu’s cousins—which one was Huang Hui? It should be Daiyu, right? Huang Hui also lost her mother in childhood, and her father who held high office also died young…

Xi Mo’s heart surged with emotion as she quietly accompanied Hong Sheng, watching him write down his life stroke by stroke, integrating his blood and tears into the sentences, each word a pearl.

Qing Dynasty, Forty-Third Year of Kangxi Reign

Xi Mo felt somewhat restless. Cao Yin, the Jiangning Textile Commissioner, had gathered famous scholars from north and south for a grand gathering, uniquely placing Hong Sheng in the seat of honor and performing the complete “Palace of Eternal Life,” which was said to run for three days and nights. But counting the days, Hong Sheng should have returned from Jiangning long ago.

Before leaving, she had heard the conversation between Hong Sheng and Huang Hui. This time Hong Sheng would bring the manuscript of “Story of the Stone.” Cao Yin was his good friend who often printed manuscripts for impoverished southern scholars, and he wanted to ask Cao Yin to print this “Story of the Stone.”

It was indeed a masterpiece, but unfortunately not yet finished.

Xi Mo felt her unease was because she hadn’t seen any writing beyond the eightieth chapter for several days.

How infuriating—didn’t he know this month’s new writing wasn’t ready? How dare he run around everywhere without taking her! There was no excuse for such procrastination!

However, time passed so quickly. It seemed like yesterday he was still that handsome, elegant young master, but in the blink of an eye he was already nearly sixty years old.

Human life seemed so very brief…

Xi Mo thought dazedly, then suddenly heard Huang Hui’s heart-wrenching cries.

“Xi Mo… Cousin… Cousin on his way back, passing through Wuzhen… after drinking, boarded a boat… fell into the water and drowned…” Huang Hui was in a daze. She knew Hong Sheng liked talking to Xi Mo, so now in her helpless loneliness, she unconsciously did the same.

Huang Hui’s tears flowed like springs—she couldn’t accept this terrible news. She had been with her cousin for so long that she thought they would never be separated.

In heaven, we wish to be lovebirds flying together; on earth, we wish to be branches growing from the same root. Ten years ago, she had even prepared their joint burial tomb, but never imagined this day would come so quickly.

Xi Mo watched silently from the side. Human life was truly very brief, like the brilliant fireworks she had seen during New Year—just in the blink of an eye, they completely disappeared.

Why did her heart hurt so much? Was there anything she could do for him? Must she continue through those long and lonely years?

“No, I can’t just follow him like this. The only manuscript was taken by Cousin, but there are still his drafts at home. I must help him transcribe a copy…” After brief sorrow, Huang Hui resolutely dried her tears. She had always been such a woman—poverty couldn’t make her bow her head, and hardship couldn’t bend her spine. Even after so many years, it was the same.

When she came to her senses, she found herself somehow holding an irregular ink block with an unremarkable, even somewhat ugly appearance.

Huang Hui imitated Hong Sheng’s usual habit, cherishing the texture of the ink block with her hands, slowly saying: “Xi Mo, I still remember Cousin’s jest from years ago—now that he has written a masterpiece, will you accompany him?”

Yes. This was their promise.

Xi Mo smiled gently.

“This… this is the manuscript written with ink made from that Tinggui ink?” The doctor looked down at the paper in the shop owner’s hands. The ink marks were black as lacquer and even emitted a generally refreshing fragrance. “But that’s not the point, right? I remember the author of ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’ was Cao Xueqin, right? What does this Hong Sheng have to do with anything?”

“Before Hong Sheng’s death, he went to the Cao family, and the draft was left with Cao Yin. Later the Cao family also experienced a series of troubles, so Cao Yin didn’t have time to print this book. Later, perhaps Cao Xueqin found that manuscript among his grandfather’s belongings. Since it resembled his own life story, he ‘read and revised for ten years, adding and deleting five times’ rather than writing for ten years. However, the last forty chapters might all be from his hand. Because of the ‘Palace of Eternal Life’ incident, Hong Sheng no longer signed his real name on manuscripts. Passed down through later generations, people came to believe Cao Xueqin was the true author.” The shop owner arranged the manuscripts in neat stacks to dry on the bluestone slabs, and for a moment the entire courtyard was filled with ink fragrance.

“That’s not right… this isn’t right…” The doctor clearly couldn’t accept this.

“The book contains so many Jiangnan things—where would Cao Xueqin, born in Beijing, have seen them? And he could write such a masterpiece at twenty? At twenty he called himself ‘half a life in poverty’? He was the Cao family’s only son—where did all those sisters come from? During Yongzheng’s reign, literary persecution began—how dare he write such anti-Qing, pro-Ming material?” The shop owner asked question after question, leaving the doctor, who had never been good at history, completely stunned.

“But why didn’t anyone come forward to clarify? You know, don’t you? How come…” Seeing the shop owner’s half-smiling expression, the doctor stopped mid-sentence. How had he forgotten? In history, even Emperor Qin Shihuang could be painted as a tyrant, so what was impossible about a novel’s authorship being misattributed?

The doctor wisely didn’t pursue the matter further, but when he looked down, he saw the caterpillar still slowly crawling on the ground, reminding him of the question the shop owner had first posed.

“By the way, how does a caterpillar cross a river?”

The shop owner looked at the manuscript in his hands—the ink marks were like new—and smiled slightly: “By becoming a butterfly.”