According to Ning Yi’s earlier plan, he had originally meant to go straight to Yushan Academy after his run around the outskirts. But by now he was soaked through, and had no choice but to turn back and change his clothes. It was already the first ten days of the eighth lunar month, and being drenched to the bone made the walk home anything but pleasant. His physical condition didn’t seem to have improved much either—he’d probably catch a cold by tomorrow. Fortunately, before he had gone far, he ran into someone he knew: the concubine of Old Qin’s household, whom he had met a few times before.
When Ning Yi went out to exercise, he naturally didn’t head toward the bustling parts of town. The street he knew best was the one where he often went to play chess with Old Qin. Old Qin’s concubine was named Yunniang, a woman in her thirties who had spent her early years as a courtesan, though she carried none of the coquettish airs one might expect. Ning Yi had run into her a few times bringing lunch to Old Qin, always composed and dignified, capable of exchanging a few lines of poetry with the old man in conversation. Today, out on the road, Yunniang was dressed plainly like a farmwife, a thorn hairpin in her hair, a wicker basket on her arm holding fresh vegetables and fruit just picked from a nearby plot. When she caught sight of Ning Yi, her face showed open surprise.
After a brief greeting, Yunniang asked what had happened. Ning Yi pointed toward the Qin Huai River not far away. “Fell in,” he said. Yunniang smiled faintly and didn’t press further, only telling him to come with her to the house nearby. “The autumn wind is strong. If you walk all the way home like this, young master, you’ll surely catch a chill by tomorrow. You’re a friend of my husband’s—there’s no need to stand on ceremony. He’s home right now too… oh, just yesterday he was remarking that you hadn’t come by to play chess these past few days.”
Ning Yi and Old Qin had always played chess out on the street nearby; he knew roughly where the man lived but had never actually visited. Following Yunniang in through the gate, he found in the sitting room an old man holding a scroll of ancient bamboo slips, reading. At that moment the old man’s expression was stern and serious, carrying even a faint air of authority quite unlike the look he wore at his chess stall by the river. Hearing someone enter, he looked up, squinting for a few seconds before he seemed to register who it was, and let out something like a stifled laugh. Yunniang walked over smiling, and before she could say a word, he had already nodded—after all, it was plain enough what needed to be done first.
“Have Xiaohong prepare hot water. Yunniang, go fetch a set of Dalang’s clothes… Ha, Liheng, my young friend, whatever happened to you?”
Once the practical matters were settled, the old man finally burst out laughing, a laugh tinged with the same gloating pleasure he wore whenever he pulled off a clever move at chess. In truth, after all this time playing chess together, they’d grown fairly close—usually the old man addressed him bluntly as “young Liheng,” but seeing him in such a sorry state, he’d switched, laughing, to “young friend,” his expression rather pleased with himself. Ning Yi could only give a wry, helpless laugh and spread his hands, since with the man’s concubine present he could hardly say outright, “You old rascal, taking pleasure in my misfortune.”
Compared to the sprawling Su family estate in Jiangning, the Qin household was not large, nor was it anywhere near as wealthy, but it could still be counted a fairly well-off family. Everything front to back was kept in careful order, giving the place a sense of fullness—a household steeped in both literary refinement and the warmth of daily life, with a grounded, substantial feel to it. Though it had been Yunniang herself out picking vegetables that morning, the household did in fact keep a few maids and servants; a family that could afford several servants was, in economic terms, doing quite well.
Old Qin’s principal wife was a remarkably even-tempered and amiable woman, originally from a farming family, yet without any of the pettiness or sharpness sometimes associated with ordinary farmwives. Now in her fifties, she spent her days running the household and tending to melons and vegetables. The very patch of overgrown garden where Ning Yi had just seen Yunniang picking produce had been reclaimed and cultivated by Madam Qin herself, leading the household staff to do it by hand—Old Qin himself had probably lent a hand as well. Perhaps it was precisely this temperament that let her keep the household running so smoothly. Madam Qin and Yunniang got along well with each other too; a household like this, of husband and two wives, could probably be counted a model family under the practice of polygamy.
By the time Ning Yi had bathed in hot water and come out in fresh clothes, Madam Qin looked him up and down, clearly delighted with how he looked. “My dear, young Master Ning does look rather like Dalang in these clothes.” Ning Yi glanced down at what he was wearing—it was indeed cut in a youthful style, the fabric new. It must have belonged to one of Old Qin’s sons. The old man had two sons, both living elsewhere. Hearing his wife’s remark, Old Qin nodded, then finally asked why Ning Yi had ended up in the river. Ning Yi recounted the unlucky incident from earlier, and the old man burst out laughing all over again.
“You little rascal, dragging an innocent man’s good name through the mud—how despicable.”
“Now that’s really turning the tables…”
“Ha ha… though—turning the tables? Is there some allusion behind that phrase?”
Talking with a learned man had its downsides too—he was forever asking about the origin of some turn of phrase. During their chess games Ning Yi would usually laugh and explain such things, but this time he simply said, “It’s a long story.” Before long, Madam Qin had breakfast ready, and together with Yunniang the two women called Old Qin and Ning Yi over to eat. Over the meal, talk turned to how Ning Yi was finding his first few days teaching at Yushan Academy. As far as Old Qin was concerned, Ning Yi was a complete novice at teaching, and the old man couldn’t resist a few laughing jabs about him leading students astray, before the conversation moved on to the Mid-Autumn Festival.
“The Pu Garden poetry gathering, hmm… those six connected boats of the Pu family—amusing enough, I suppose, though most who attend have little talent for poetry to speak of. If you’re talking about the gathering that draws the truly gifted young scholars flocking like moths to a flame, that would still be the Zhishui poetry gathering hosted by the Pan family…”
“Oh? Talented—truly talented, you mean?”
“Ha ha, as for who counts as greatly or modestly talented, that’s always hard to say for certain. There’s always some poetic talent on display; every year at the Mid-Autumn gathering, the Zhishui Academy crowd always produces a few fine verses. The Pan family has produced Hanlin scholars for three generations running, so anyone with real learning who wants to make a name for himself is always eager to curry favor in that direction…”
On the night of Mid-Autumn along the Qin Huai River, talented young men vied with their writing and beautiful women vied with their singing; gatherings large and small sprang up all along the river, and an unspoken rivalry often ran between them. Whenever one gathering produced a fine poem, another would try to top it, and the whole affair would be the talk of the town that very night, remembered as an anecdote for months or even years afterward. Naturally there was no shortage of promotion behind the scenes from merchants and even officials, but regardless, it was in this kind of atmosphere that the reputation of the Qin Huai River had been built up over time.
The Pu Garden gathering and the Zhishui gathering were among the most influential of that night. Though called a “garden,” the Pu Garden gathering actually took place aboard six large boats lashed together into one vessel, drifting along the Qin Huai River the whole night through, with drinking, poetry, fireworks, and the lantern-lit banks on either side, while various performances took place aboard.
The Pu family had originally made its fortune in trade, but since merchants held low social standing, once wealthy they had tried to move in the direction of scholarly respectability. Unfortunately, such a transformation could not be achieved in a few years, or even a decade or so. Their clan was large, and in recent years had indeed produced a few talented scholars—somewhat better off in this regard than the Su family—yet in the eyes of the world they still fell short of being considered a true family of scholarly pedigree. The Pu Garden gathering on the Qin Huai River was known for its grandeur, extravagance, and lively atmosphere, but most of those who attended were, like the Pu family itself, people with backgrounds or connections in trade—men like Xue Jin, or women like Su Tan’er—there mainly to enjoy the festivities. Those among them who fancied themselves poets might compose a verse or two, but the other half of the crowd was there chiefly to network and discuss business; the quality of the poetry varied wildly. It was the most extravagant of the gatherings, but in terms of literary refinement it simply couldn’t compare with the very top gatherings.
The Zhishui gathering, by contrast, was the true gathering point for the most talented scholars along the Qin Huai. Its host, the Pan family, was a genuine family of scholarly pedigree, having produced Hanlin scholars for three generations. The current head, Pan Mingchen, held a position as Hanlin academician while also serving concurrently as Vice Minister of Rites. The poetry gathering he held was always something that scholars hoping to earn honors flocked to attend. Of course, actually securing an invitation required either an already-established reputation or sufficient talent and connections. Aside from a number of already-famous scholars who received invitations outright, many other aspiring talents would submit their calling cards and poems to the Pan household in the days before Mid-Autumn, hoping to catch the family’s favorable notice. Beyond this, many renowned courtesans from the pleasure quarters also considered an invitation to the Zhishui gathering a mark of honor—something entirely different in meaning from the money the Pu Garden gathering spent every year simply hiring people to attend.
“Since you’re planning to go, young Liheng, have you prepared any poems? The Pan family has a few chess companions of mine as well—if you’re interested, I could get you an invitation.”
Having said this, Old Qin looked across the table at Ning Yi, who only laughed and shook his head. “I don’t know the first thing about poetry. I’m only going to the Pu Garden to see the spectacle.”
He turned down the offer so lightly that Old Qin didn’t press the matter further. After breakfast, with the sun already high outside, Ning Yi had to take his leave for Yushan Academy. After seeing him off at the gate and watching him walk away, Yunniang turned to Old Qin with a smile. “My lord, do you really think young Master Ning knows nothing of poetry?”
“What do you think, little Yun?”
Yunniang blinked. “That he’s lying?”
“Heh, whether he truly can or can’t, even I can’t say for certain. If he’d said such a thing back when we first met, I’d have believed it without question. But now… it’s harder to say.” Old Qin shook his head, smiling. “In all my years I’ve met all sorts of young men—some seeking fame under false pretenses, some with genuine learning. Among those with real talent, some follow the way of Confucius and Mencius, gentle, upright, modest, and courteous; others are unconventional types who take unexpected paths, flamboyant and unrestrained in their behavior, yet with real talent all the same, the kind who never fail to astonish. But no matter how you look at it, all of them still fit into familiar patterns. Only this Ning boy—him I truly cannot figure out.”
“When we first started playing chess, I thought his style unconventional, always pressing hard and forcing the issue, yet somehow always making you think. I took him for simply a spirited, quick-witted young man, someone who didn’t say much beyond what was necessary. But the longer we played, the more I realized his style of play could be both orthodox and unorthodox—entirely unbound by convention. Chatting with him over time, I came to feel that although he speaks casually, underneath he’s calm and unassuming, and every so often he’ll say something thought-provoking—novel to hear, yet never straying far from the deeper principles of things.”
“I remember a few days ago he mentioned offhand that he was going to teach at the academy, and he said something like: teaching shouldn’t be about telling people how to act, but about teaching them why to act. The sages of old wrote and established their teachings mainly to explain the underlying principles behind human affairs and the workings of the world and the human heart—only once you understand these can you know how to act, and that is what makes a true scholar. He said it so casually that a shallow listener might have branded him an arrogant crank. And yet… the principle he stated is exactly right. To see a mountain as a mountain and a river as a river; then to see that the mountain is not a mountain and the river is not a river; and then to return once more to seeing the mountain as a mountain and the river as a river—that is what it means to have truly understood the classics. Well, don’t repeat what he said too widely, or it might cause him trouble.”
“This one understands, my lord.”
“We haven’t known each other long, so it’s too early to draw firm conclusions. But he’s also recited a few fitting lines of verse while we played chess, lines I’d never heard before and which were quite excellent. If it’s a question purely of poetry, ha, I don’t believe for a moment that he knows nothing of it.”
Old Qin turned to head back inside, and Yunniang followed. “Then why would young Master Ning keep hiding his talents like this, no matter what…”
“That’s exactly why I can’t figure him out. But there is one thing I do understand.” Speaking of this, Old Qin frowned slightly, then shook his head and sighed softly. “As you say, little Yun—some young men, even with real talent, might choose to hide their light, to deliberately play the fool, able to endure loneliness and resist temptation for a time. All of this, in hopes that one day they might achieve more, that they might leap through the dragon gate and rise to greatness. But, ah—no man of that sort, of that ambition, would ever choose, before making his name, to marry into a merchant family as a live-in son-in-law. Throughout history, how many men who married in as a matrilocal son-in-law ever went on to achieve great things? Sigh. If he truly does have great talent, then what a shame it would be…”
Speaking of this, Old Qin still felt a pang of regret. It was only natural for a man to have ambitions of fame, achievement, and rank; from what he’d observed these past days, even if Ning Yi had only the smallest shred of ambition, he would never have married into a merchant household. In an age where common understanding remained limited, the gap between an uneducated commoner and a scholar who had studied and received an education was easy enough to spot. Setting aside the question of whether he truly had talent, a man with that manner and bearing could surely have made a living doing almost anything—so why on earth would he go and marry into a family as a live-in husband?