Chapter 81: Of All the Talent Under Heaven, Jade Lad Holds Eight Parts Out of Ten (Part Six)

Today, Zhang Yu seemed determined to shock the world with his words.

The moment he spoke, Cai Yong fell into silence, Wang Tang was so tense he nearly burst into tears, and the entire assembly’s expressions changed at once.

Even Wang Can and Xu Gan, who had just found a kindred spirit in Zhang Yu, began to feel his words were perhaps too bold.

“Excellent!” Ruan Yu stood up with a smile, though whether his praise was genuine was plain for all to see.

He bowed to Zhang Yu and then said, “Since you are so confident in your literary talents, why not compose another impromptu classic in seven-character verse?”

“Very well. What shall be the theme?”

“When you arrived earlier, Brother Wei Chang composed a five-character love poem. With your great talent, why not confine your subject to the theme of love as well?”

Ruan Yu sat down, adding pointedly, “In Brother Wei Chang’s poem, he used many images and objects as metaphors for his own feelings—truly brilliant.”

This was clearly meant to put pressure on Zhang Yu.

Some whispered quietly, others sneered.

“To produce a masterpiece in seven-character verse is much harder than with five. Five-character lines are easily polished like pearls, but seven can seem muddled and mixed.”

“If he can match even half the quality of that love poem, it will be impressive.”

“I have to hand it to Ruan Yu—just moments ago, the three of them acted as if they were soulmates, but with this suggestion, he’s set them at odds!”

Yet Zhang Yu remained serene, his expression as unmoved as if Mount Tai were collapsing before him.

“This poem is called ‘The Brocade Zither.’

The brocade zither, for no reason, has fifty strings,
Each string, each fret, recalling youthful years.
Zhuangzi’s morning dream confused with butterflies,
The yearning of an emperor’s heart entrusted to the cuckoo.
In the vast sea, the moon shines on pearls with tears,
In blue fields, sunlit jade gives rise to mist.”

At this point, Zhang Yu paused slightly, feigning thought, giving the crowd a moment to respond.

And they did not disappoint him—

Before he had even finished reciting, the hall was already in uproar!

First, the sound of the zither returned after a long silence. This time, not only was the melody as beautiful and moving as before, but the technique had also advanced remarkably.

Among instruments, the qin has three or five strings, the zheng thirteen. Yet the musician now seemed to truly summon forth the deep emotion of fifty strings.

But at this moment, silence was more powerful than music; Zhang Yu’s poem left no room for anyone’s ear to linger on the zither’s wonders.

“The brocade zither, the brocade zither. The ‘Rites of Zhou: Catalogue of Musical Instruments’ states: the elegant zither has twenty-three strings, the hymn zither has twenty-five. One adorned with jewels is called a treasure zither, one patterned like brocade is called a brocade zither. Thus, the opening of this poem is matchlessly splendid!”

“These fifty strings, each recalling youthful longing—makes me, Liang Cheng, regret all the time I have wasted.”

“He is still so young, yet his sentiments are so deep. It puts us all to shame!”

“And that’s not all. Look at the second couplet: Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream, the cuckoo weeping blood—four allusions in four lines, yet seamlessly woven together. I confess I could not have done it so well!”

“My knowledge is limited. I understand Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream, but what is this about the emperor’s heart and the cuckoo?”

The young scholar asked softly, and Wang Can replied, “That emperor refers to Du Yu, the legendary ruler of Shu at the end of the Zhou dynasty. He abdicated and retired, but after his country fell and he died, his soul became a bird. In late spring, its plaintive cry could even draw blood from its beak—a sound so mournful it moves the soul. Thus, it was called the cuckoo.”

“So that’s how it is. Such sorrow is truly moving!”

Wang Can continued, “A beauty with a brocade zither, a song full of strings—tonight’s dream broken, sleep never to return. The sense of loss, of parting, leaps straight into my heart. In the realm of seven-character verse, Brother Zhang surpasses me by far!”

Xu Gan added, “The brocade zither’s many strings, its plaintive and aggrieved song, such bitterness and injustice—just like the cuckoo’s mournful cry bidding farewell to spring. For that line alone, Zhang Yu deserves to be called a master of both feeling and brush.”

“I once heard the tale of ‘pearls with tears’—it’s said that beyond the southern sea lives a race of mermen, who dwell in water and weave without ceasing. When they weep, their tears become pearls.

And you all know, jewels have spirit—yet it is intangible, visible only from afar, never to be grasped. So beautiful, and now Zhang Yu has combined two images never before joined, creating an excellent allusion of his own.”

“And then, the character ‘cang’ means blue, so Blue Fields and the Sea are perfectly balanced, showing Zhang Yu’s true scholarship and talent.”

Just as the discussion grew more fervent, it was cut off abruptly.

“Wait.”

“Why are there only three couplets?”

“Zhang Yu, have you not finished?”

“Quick, recite the final line!”

For scholars, a great verse is like wine to a drunkard—impossible to resist, regardless of whether it’s five or seven characters.

Cai Yong looked at the young man before him, holding back the emotions stirred by the poem. He felt both joy for him and a deep sense of awe.

“Perhaps he is right? Whether poem or prose, the form is just a vessel. True genius will shine through any structure!

If he maintains such heights all his life, he may well become the master of the seven-character verse, raising this neglected form to new glory.

At the very least, the first three couplets of his ‘Brocade Zither’ have given me hope.”

“Zhang Yu,” Cai Yong said, “may we hear the final line?”

Cai Yong had already composed his praise, for this poem surely stood as the finest seven-character verse he had ever heard. And as a man of great literary reputation, it was only right to use this chance to support Zhang Yu.

The scholars held their breath, the music behind the curtain swelled to its climax, and all listened as Zhang Yu said:

“This feeling could await recollection, but at the time, it was already lost in confusion.”

The strings seemed to snap—the music stopped!

Sighs, gasps of amazement, and a tide of emotion surged through the hall.

Ruan Yu’s wine cup slipped from his hand, soaking his sleeve without him noticing.

Wang Can and Xu Gan exchanged glances, each seeing admiration and delight in the other’s eyes.

Wang Tang, Liang Cheng, and the others were lost in thought, their expressions as if transported to another world.

“A mind of exquisite conception, craftsmanship born of nature, not a trace of contrivance. Seven-character verse is now the equal of five!”

No one knew which scholar had already been won over by Zhang Yu, but his words met only silence.

Most were still too moved to speak.

Suddenly, one man rose from his seat and bowed deeply to Zhang Yu. “I, Liu Ti, am now thirty-three. In the years of maturity, I achieved nothing—unable to save my country, unable to bring peace to my home, squandering my days and worrying my parents. It was only after my father’s death that I awoke as if from a dream. I studied bitterly for three years and finally gained a small reputation in Chang’an.

But this feeling could only be remembered in regret—if only at the time! Thank you, Zhang Yu, for this poem!”

Liu Ti’s words woke the entire assembly from their reverie.

“I once fell in love with a woman in Zhāngtái,” said a young nobleman. “But with the power of my Chen family, it was utterly impossible for us to be together.”

His voice caught, “When she learned my family had arranged a marriage for me, to spare me any difficulty, she… she hanged herself—”

He sighed deeply, “She left a letter for me on her desk. She said, if we are fated never to be together in this life, then let me remain in your heart, and I will be content… Hui’er!”

Wang Tang, having heard the poem, tossed all his earlier objections aside. “This aching sense of loss—does it only arise from reminiscing about the past? Perhaps, from the very moment love is born, one is already beset by longing and regret… ‘The Brocade Zither’ will henceforth be among my most cherished poems.”

For the first time, Ruan Yu showed a truly solemn expression. Lifting his wine cup, he toasted Zhang Yu. “Forgive my earlier rudeness, Master Zhang. With ‘The Brocade Zither,’ all my poetry to this point is but dust.

With your talent in the literary world, seven-character verse is destined to flourish. At this level, ten such poems would suffice.”

However—

“Cai Zhonglang!”

His face, lined with age, was streaked with tears.

They glistened like the legendary pearls from a merman’s eye, steeped in the dust and storms of the mortal world.