The pleasure boats drifted along the Qin Huai River, both banks ablaze with lantern light. On Mid-Autumn night, the city gates of Jiangning stayed open, and the festivities and revelry would carry on through the entire night, not dying down until dawn the next morning. By now the streets inside the city were thick with people; not long after finishing their evening meals, people streamed out from every household, converging from every lane and alley toward the most bustling streets centered around the Confucius Temple and Mingyuan Tower. The roads were woven through with festival lanterns like an endless, unquenchable river of fire. Peddlers called out loudly, dragon and lion dance troupes passed by to the beat of gongs and drums, street performers and acrobats gathered in clusters, and from every pleasure house came the faint strains of song meant to draw in customers, with dancers sometimes visible inside and people constantly coming and going—altogether a scene of tremendous liveliness.
Every courtesan of any renown already had somewhere to be that night, though seats could occasionally still be found in the main halls. Word would periodically travel the streets that such-and-such gathering, or such-and-such young gentleman, had just produced a new work—one of the night’s central attractions—and soon after, word would spread that some renowned courtesan at some pleasure house was performing that very poem in song, followed in turn by news of yet another fine piece emerging from yet another gathering. The talented young men vied with one another, and the beautiful women lent their talents an extra layer of romantic glamour. Most people simply strolled about admiring the lanterns and taking in the spectacle, and in an atmosphere like this, one could sense something of the lingering spirit of the Wei-Jin era, the refined elegance of the Tang—not so very different from that, in the end.
The art of poetry had flourished since the Tang dynasty, and after several more centuries of development since then, it held a place all its own. Although Ning Yi and Old Qin, chatting idly, might say things like “greater or lesser talent is hard to say,” that was only because their own perspective had already moved beyond the ordinary frame of reference. In truth, even the upper echelons of the court had, by this point, begun to reckon with the practical uselessness of poetry as such; over the past century or so, the proper standard by which to select officials had been repeatedly debated, with the imperial examinations sometimes excluding poetry from the criteria for selecting officials and sometimes bringing it back in, weighed and reconsidered again and again without ever settling firmly one way or the other.
Even so, despite such considerations at the top, poetry’s standing had, on the whole, reached a genuinely glorious peak in this era. If you could truly write a fine poem, you would never lack for respect and courteous treatment wherever you went—this air of refinement was a defining mark of the age. Since the Tang dynasty, the vast, flourishing culture of Chinese poetry had settled here as the very bedrock of society, one of the most brilliant chapters in the whole history of civilization’s development, with countless celebrated works, as numerous as the stars or the grains of sand, forming one of the most essential threads running through Chinese civilization.
In the city of Jiangning at this time, places like Wuyi Lane and the area around the Confucius Temple counted among the busiest commercial streets, lined with display boards set up by various merchants, gradually filling with the standout poems produced by each gathering that night. Sometimes someone would recite one aloud, and some establishments arranged for singing girls to perform a piece in song. Up and down the streets, in the nearby teahouses and restaurants, in gathering after gathering both large and small, scholars swayed their heads back and forth as they critiqued the finest poems, debating whose work would be remembered longest. Even ordinary townsfolk who had never studied could still feel something of this spirit in such an atmosphere, chatting and critiquing with those around them, picking up a bit of that refined air for themselves.
The six connected boats of the Pu Garden gathering had long since left the shore, drifting slowly along the most beautiful and lively stretch of the river. Even so, the gathering wasn’t entirely closed off—over a dozen small boats trailed along both banks of the Qin Huai River, occasionally ferrying people up to the large boat, occasionally carrying people or passing poems back out, like little fish accompanying some floating palace on the water. Those who boarded would pass up the night’s finest new works, along with bits of gossip and news—word, say, that some important figure at one banquet had just announced his daughter’s betrothal to so-and-so, or that some famous personage had praised the fine verse of some promising young scholar.
The poetry produced at the Pu Garden gathering was actually respectable enough by now. A few years back there had been instances of buying poems from others just to get through the day, but these days there was no longer any need for that—with enough money, one could always hire a few genuinely talented people. It still couldn’t compare to the most famous gatherings, like the Zhishui or Lichuan gatherings, but through a steady stream of publicity and buzz, its reputation had slowly been building all the same.
Mid-Autumn gatherings mostly took the moon as their theme, though naturally no one spent the entire night writing only about the moon. Some gatherings imposed restrictions; where the host was more assertive, once everyone was in high spirits a topic might simply be tossed out on the spot. These gatherings were, after all, literary circles, and there was no shortage of quiet rivalry or outright sniping between them—between the Zhishui and Lichuan gatherings, for instance. Upon hearing the topic set at one gathering, someone at the other might remark, with studied nonchalance, “Speaking of which, this humble scholar happens to have composed something along those lines as well…” before offering it up for everyone’s appraisal with a carefully neutral expression, careful never to let any trace of competitive spirit show on the surface. When poetry truly reached the highest level, it became genuinely difficult to rank one piece above another—but when the gap was wide enough, the difference between a fine work and a poor one remained plain to see.
It wasn’t yet the most intense part of the night—these gatherings would run until the small hours of the morning. A truly outstanding poem was never simply dashed off on the spot; every scholar generally had one or two prized pieces prepared in advance, and only those who felt their own talent wasn’t quite up to par would release theirs early, unwilling to embarrass themselves in front of the truly top-tier figures. The moment when the most brilliant talents finally unveiled their best work—their trump cards, so to speak—usually didn’t come until around midnight. Earning a good reputation at this point in the evening could smooth the path considerably for one’s future prospects.
As the night deepened in this atmosphere, the moon rose to its peak, and the city’s mood only grew more spirited still. Back in the small Su household, Ning Yi and Xiao Chan had already returned to his room; they’d seen what liveliness they could from there, and the wind outside had begun picking up.
The faint sounds of the outside commotion still drifted in now and then, and master and maid held a small Mid-Autumn celebration of their own. Since Ning Yi didn’t remember the details of the Romance of the West Chamber very well, and considering that its plot involved a young lady sneaking off for a secret romance, he ended up telling Xiao Chan a story from Journey to the West instead. Afterward, Xiao Chan sang him a couple of little tunes, along with some not-quite-polished dancing—apparently something she’d seen at some performance and taught herself afterward. Su Tan’er had never considered giving the three maids away in marriage or having them entertain others in the future, and so had them learn to read, write, do embroidery, and help manage the other servants to assist her—but had never taught them any instruments or dance. So while they could manage a bit of singing, none of them really knew how to dance properly; still, the way she moved came off as light and rather endearing.
Xiao Chan loved playing Gomoku, but with Ning Yi still recovering, that kind of mental exertion was best avoided. After she finished her singing and dancing, Ning Yi performed a simple magic trick for her instead—making a chess stone vanish in his hand, then pulling it out from her hair or her pocket. The little maid watched, thoroughly astonished, and Ning Yi laughingly explained the trick to her. As she clumsily tried to repeat it, Ning Yi finally said, “I should get some sleep. It’s still early, though—why don’t you go enjoy the Pu Garden gathering, Xiao Chan… oh, and the invitation’s on the table…”
“I’ll go once you’ve fallen asleep, young master,” Xiao Chan said with a smile.
“Ha, how about singing me one more song, then?”
“All right—which one would you like to hear?”
The songs of this era were, for the most part, classical verses—each set to a fixed melodic pattern tied to its tune-title, though by modern times these melodies had long since been lost. Xiao Chan didn’t actually know many of them by heart, so the two of them took a collection of poetry and sat by the bed picking out songs together.
A few titles came up that she didn’t know, and a few she knew but Ning Yi wasn’t in the mood for, until finally he landed on a tune-title he liked well enough to hear again: “Prelude to the Water Melody.” As it turned out, Xiao Chan already knew a poem set to that same tune, which surprised him a little—she seemed to know rather more than he’d expected.
Bored and with nothing else to do, Ning Yi found himself thinking of a certain famous old verse set to that very tune, though it seemed this era’s most celebrated poet hadn’t yet composed that particular piece. He had Xiao Chan bring him paper and brush, and lying propped up by the bed, wrote out the verse in somewhat crooked characters on the rice paper, then had her sing it. Xiao Chan’s eyes lit up as she looked it over. “Did you write this yourself, young master?”
“Mm-hm.” Ning Yi thought it over, and seeing her look so eager, shrugged. “I wrote it. It’s yours now. Go on, sing it.”
Xiao Chan studied the verse for a moment, then began singing it carefully, following the proper melodic pattern for the tune. Her voice was light and delicate, if not entirely polished—she even stumbled once partway through from being too earnest about it—but the mood she captured was lovely all the same. When she finished, Ning Yi smiled. “Let me teach you another way to sing it.”
“Oh?” Xiao Chan blinked. “Another… way to sing it?”
“Mm. I’ll sing a line, you sing it back—should be easy to pick up. Ha, mostly I just want to hear it.”
Though a little puzzled, Xiao Chan brightened immediately at the thought of learning something new. Having spent the most time by his side, she’d gradually come to understand that this young master of hers often had these mysterious, fascinating sides to him. Under his guidance, there in the room, she began learning the poem line by line, following the strange new melody, the two of them trading it back and forth verse by verse until she had it down.
Regardless of anything else, before long Ning Yi found himself, in this era, listening to a version of an old, familiar melody that carried more than a little nostalgia for him. Later on, if the chance arose, he thought he might write down more modern songs from memory and teach them to Xiao Chan alone, or perhaps find someone skilled at composing and playing instruments to set similar tunes to music properly—purely for his own private enjoyment, nothing that needed to see the light of day.
“What do you think? Does it sound nice?”
“It’s lovely…” Though the tune-title carried a fixed traditional melody, songs of this era, much like many forms of local opera, shared a common root in monophonic music, and in terms of melodic richness and variation, they simply couldn’t compare to modern songs. This particular tune leaned gentle and soft, not too jarringly out of place even for this era—had he tried singing something like a saccharine modern pop song instead, poor Xiao Chan would likely have either been disgusted or frightened out of her wits. As it was, though, the little maid was already gazing at him with open admiration and reverence. “Young master can even compose music…”
Ning Yi laughed. “Just hum this one to yourself, don’t go singing it around anywhere. You’re just a young girl—if you start messing with the proper melody of a tune-title, people might well say you don’t know your place. Understand?”
“Mm.” Xiao Chan hugged the sheet of rice paper to her chest and nodded firmly.
“All right… good night.” Ning Yi climbed into bed, then after a moment turned his head to find Xiao Chan still sitting on the stool by the bed, watching him, just as she had those past few days while he was sick. He waved a hand. “I’m fine now, go on.”
Only then did Xiao Chan seem to snap back to herself, and she hurried to her feet and headed for the door.
“Hey, don’t forget the invitation on the table, or they might not let you on the boat…”
After that little outburst, Xiao Chan blew out the lamp, picked up the invitation, and closed the door behind her. Only then did Ning Yi let out a great yawn. The city’s noise still drifted faintly in, the faint glow against the window more than enough proof of the liveliness still going on outside. He smiled to himself. “A whole night of fish and dragons dancing, eh…” And with that, he sank into sleep.
Xiao Chan stood leaning against the wooden post of the room for a good while, making quite sure Ning Yi had truly fallen asleep before finally heading downstairs. Back in her own room, she lit a lamp, took out brush, ink, and paper, and, bent over her desk, copied out again the verse that had come out a little untidy from being written propped up in bed. Her brushwork was small, carrying a certain delicate, graceful spirit. She looked over what Ning Yi had originally written a few more times, then, blushing, tucked it away at the very bottom of a drawer, as furtive as if she were hiding stolen goods.
After that, she stepped out of the courtyard, and once she saw the road was clear, jogged all the way to the front gate, where she asked the steward for a carriage and a free driver, and happily set off to join the crowds at the Pu Garden gathering.
A young girl, after all, could never resist a bit of festive excitement.