Chapter Ten: When Will the Bright Moon Shine?-The Son-in-Law(Angry Banana)

On the Qinhuai River, painted boats drifted in procession, flanked by bright lanterns on both shores. On this Mid-Autumn night, the gates of Jiangning remained open; the city’s revelry and festivities would last until dawn. The streets were teeming with people, just after supper, as families emerged from their homes and flocked toward the most bustling districts centered around the Confucius Temple and Mingyuan Tower. Lanterns lined the streets like an endless stream of living flame. Vendors cried out, troupes of dragon and lion dancers paraded with drums and gongs, street performers gathered crowds, and the enticing songs of courtesans echoed from brothels, their dances glimpsed through the doors as patrons came and went in lively waves.

Tonight, the most renowned courtesans had already been claimed by patrons. Though seats could occasionally be found in the halls, news of new poems from various poetry gatherings and accomplished young gentlemen frequently rippled through the streets. This was one of the highlights of the night: soon after, a famous courtesan would perform the new verses in song, and then another masterpiece would emerge from another poetry society. The scholars competed, and the beauties adorned their talents with a blush of grace. Most people simply admired the lanterns and the merriment, and in such an atmosphere, one could sense the lingering charm of the Wei and Jin dynasties, the elegance of the Tang era—yet, perhaps, nothing more.

Poetry had flourished since the Tang dynasty, and after centuries of development, though Ning Yi and Old Qin would casually discuss “great talent versus small talent,” their perspectives were no longer bound by ordinary standards. In truth, even the nation’s ruling class had come to realize the limited practical use of poetry. The question of how best to select officials had been debated for nearly a century, with the imperial examinations alternately including or excluding poetry as a standard, the criteria constantly weighed and reconsidered.

Yet despite such deliberations among the elite, poetry still held a glorious position in society’s grand scheme. If one could compose a truly exceptional poem, respect and courtesy would follow wherever one went; the air of elegance was the mark of an era. Since the Tang, the vast culture of poetry had become the foundation of society, the brightest chapter in the history of civilization, with countless masterpieces forming a constellation within the Han cultural sphere.

In Jiangning, places like Wuyi Lane and the Confucius Temple were the most bustling commercial streets. There, merchants displayed boards showcasing the best poems, and works from various poetry gatherings converged. Sometimes, a poem would be recited aloud; sometimes, a merchant arranged for a singing girl to perform it. In teahouses and taverns nearby, scholars gathered in circles, nodding and discussing which poems would endure. Even the common folk who had never read a book could appreciate the mood and join in the lively discussions, catching a whiff of refinement.

The six linked boats of the Puyuan Garden had already left the shore, gliding along the river’s most beautiful and lively stretch. Yet even so, they were not closed off; more than ten small boats followed along the banks, occasionally ferrying guests to the main boats or delivering poems, like minnows accompanying a palace on water. Those who boarded brought the night’s new verses, as well as stories and news—for example, at a certain banquet, a dignitary announced his daughter’s betrothal, or a famous person praised a young scholar’s poetry.

The poems from the Puyuan Poetry Society were respectable enough; in earlier years, they had sometimes purchased poems to meet the night’s demand, but now, with enough wealth, they could always invite truly talented guests. Though they still could not match the most famous gatherings, like the Stillwater or Lichuan Poetry Societies, after a round of lively promotion, their reputation gradually grew.

Most Mid-Autumn poetry gatherings took the moon as their theme, though they would not write about it all night. Some gatherings imposed restrictions, with strong-willed hosts suggesting topics as the mood struck. Poetry societies were literary clubs, sometimes competitive or subtly antagonistic—like Stillwater and Lichuan. On hearing another’s topic, someone might say, “Speaking of that, I happen to have composed a verse…” and then calmly present it for discussion, concealing any hint of rivalry. If the poems reached a high level, it was difficult to judge their superiority; but when the gap was wide, masterpieces and mediocrities were obvious.

It was not yet the climax of the night. The poetry gatherings would last until dawn. Truly excellent poems could not be created by mere whim; most scholars prepared one or two favored works, and those who felt their talent insufficient would release theirs early, avoiding embarrassment before the best. The true “killer verses” from the top talents would not emerge until midnight. To earn acclaim at this hour was to accumulate reputation, smoothing the path for future advancement.

As the night deepened, the moon climbed high and the city’s energy grew ever more fervent. In the modest Su family estate, Ning Yi and Xiao Chan had already returned to their room, having seen enough of the festivities. Outside, the wind had begun to rise.

The distant sounds of revelry still drifted in, while master and servant held their own small Mid-Autumn celebration. Since Ning Yi could not recall the details of “Romance of the Western Chamber”—and considering its lessons on illicit romance—he opted to tell Xiao Chan a tale from “Journey to the West.” Xiao Chan then sang him two little songs, awkwardly dancing alongside—she had seen these performed somewhere and learned them herself. Su Tan’er had never considered giving her three maids away or pleasing others; she had them learn reading, embroidery, and management to assist her, but not musical instruments or dance. Thus, while they could sing passably, dancing was not their forte, though Xiao Chan’s movements were light and endearing.

Xiao Chan enjoyed playing Five-in-a-Row, but since Ning Yi was recovering from illness, mental exertion was best avoided. After her singing and dancing, Ning Yi performed a simple magic trick, making a chess piece disappear in his hand and reappear in her hair or pocket. The girl responded with delight and surprise. Ning Yi explained the secret, and as Xiao Chan clumsily repeated it, he said, “I’m going to sleep now. There’s still time; Xiao Chan, you should go enjoy the Puyuan Poetry Society… Oh, the invitation is on the table…”

“I’ll go after Master has fallen asleep,” Xiao Chan replied with a smile.

“Hah, then sing me another song?”

“Sure! Which one would you like to hear?”

Most songs of the time were set to poetry, with fixed melodies for each tune. By the modern era, these singing methods had been lost. Xiao Chan only knew a few, so they took a poetry anthology to the bedside to choose.

“How about ‘Song of the Fisherman’?”

“I don’t know that one.”

“‘Memories of Jiangnan,’ then?”

“I know that!” Xiao Chan prepared to sing.

“No, I don’t really like that one.”

“Would you like to hear ‘Nian Nu Jiao’?”

“‘Tune: Prelude to the Water Melody’ is nice… Prelude to the Water Melody…”

“I know that one!”

“You know ‘Prelude to the Water Melody?’” Ning Yi considered for a moment. “Oh, you do know quite a few.”

“Shall I sing this one?”

“Hmm… actually, sing another—also ‘Prelude to the Water Melody’…”

Bored, Ning Yi recalled Wang Fei’s “When Will the Moon Be Clear and Bright,” but in this era, it seemed Su Shi had not yet composed that poem. He had Xiao Chan bring paper and brush, then, lying by the bed, scribbled a poem on rice paper for her to sing. Xiao Chan’s eyes sparkled. “Did Master write this?”

“Yeah.” Ning Yi shrugged, seeing her expectation. “I wrote it. Here, sing it for me.”

Xiao Chan studied the lyrics for a moment, then sang it earnestly in the tune’s rhythm. Her voice was light and graceful, not professional but so sincere that she faltered once, yet the mood remained beautiful. Ning Yi smiled, “Let me teach you another way to sing it.”

“Huh?” Xiao Chan blinked. “Another… singing style?”

“Yes. I’ll sing a line, you echo it. It’s easy to learn… heh, I just want to hear it.”

Though puzzled, Xiao Chan was delighted to learn something new. Having spent the most time with Ning Yi, she had come to realize he always had mysterious, fascinating ways. Following his guidance, she learned to sing “Prelude to the Water Melody” phrase by phrase in the new melody.

“When will the moon be clear and bright? I raise my cup and ask the sky…”

“I do not know in the heavenly palace…”

“Hmm, not bad… what year is tonight?”

“…”

“Hehe, Master, sing the next line!”

Whatever the case, before long, Ning Yi found himself hearing a familiar modern song in this era. If possible in the future, he thought, he could transcribe modern songs for Xiao Chan to sing, or find someone skilled in composing and playing instruments to arrange such tunes—just for his own enjoyment, without concern for public performance.

“What do you think? Is it nice?”

“It’s lovely…” Though tune patterns had fixed melodies, ancient songs shared roots with many operatic forms and were mostly monophonic, less varied than modern music. The melody was gentle and not outlandish for the era. Had he taught her “Mouse Loves Rice,” Xiao Chan might have been disgusted or frightened, but now her gaze was full of admiration and worship: “Master can compose music…”

Ning Yi chuckled, “Just hum this to yourself, don’t sing it everywhere. If you, a maid, dared to change the tune’s style, people might accuse you of ignorance, understand?”

“Mhm.” Xiao Chan nodded earnestly, clutching the rice paper.

“All right… Good night.” Ning Yi slipped under the covers, then turned to see Xiao Chan still sitting by the bed, as she had when he was ill, watching over him. He waved her away, “I’m fine now, go on.” Only then did Xiao Chan stand and head for the door.

“Hey, take the invitation from the table or you might not be allowed on the boat…”

After his reminder, Xiao Chan extinguished the lamp, took the invitation, and closed the door. Ning Yi yawned widely. The city’s noise lingered, and the faint glow on the window proved the ongoing festivity outside. He smiled, “A night of dragons and fish dancing…” and soon drifted into sleep.

Xiao Chan leaned against a wooden post, standing quietly for a long time, only descending the stairs once she was sure Ning Yi was asleep. She returned to her room, lit the lamp, took out her writing brush and ink, and at her desk recopied the poem—her handwriting small and delicate, full of graceful spirit. She read Ning Yi’s words several times, blushing, before hiding them in the bottom drawer as if she were a thief.

Then she slipped out of the courtyard, saw the street empty, and jogged to the main gate, where she asked the steward for a carriage and a free coachman, and happily went off to join the festivities at the Puyuan Poetry Society.

After all, young girls loved such lively scenes.