Chapter Twelve: The Still Waters Poetry Gathering

In the Tortoise and Crane Garden of the Pan Residence, the Zhishui Poetry Gathering had already reached its height.

Music drifted through the air as slips of paper passed from hand to hand. The singing girls, their voices clear and nimble, performed the evening’s finest verses. Compared to the gathering at Puyuan, the atmosphere here was more solemn, owing to the presence of several eminent figures; yet the array of performances kept the mood lively without losing its air of refined antiquity.

The Tortoise and Crane Garden was exquisitely laid out, imbued with ancient charm—rockeries, winding streams, pavilions, covered walkways, and terraces. Lanterns painted with riddles hung throughout, and the guests feasted among the garden’s splendor. The women sat to one side, the scholars to another, while the host and distinguished elders occupied another area. There was no formal stage, yet the dancers and singers who appeared now and then amongst the foliage performed with such natural grace that the audience could not help but be impressed. Those invited to this gathering were all of considerable repute—clearly, a great deal of thought had gone into the evening.

The event naturally included lantern riddles, performances, moon gazing, and speeches from learned guests. As host, Pan Guangyan had opened the evening, and even the Prefect of Jiangning had made an appearance, praising the guests as pillars of the realm—a testament to the prestige of the Zhishui Poetry Gathering. Of course, with the city in revelry, the prefect was obliged to return to the yamen to oversee order, and so he departed in haste.

Whenever a talented guest composed an outstanding work, he would rise to share it. At regular intervals, several new poems of sufficient quality would be brought forth, passed among the guests for appreciation. If a poem was truly excellent, or if someone wished to discuss it, they would recite it aloud and enter into debate. Pan Guangyan and the other elders would naturally offer their critiques.

Master Qin sat on one side of the banquet, beside him the ever-elegant Kang Xian—the same Elder Kang who had sparred wits with Ning Yi earlier. His courtesy name was Mingyun, thus many addressed him as Lord Ming. His background was complex and wealthy, but even judged solely on his literary and Confucian accomplishments, he was worthy of respect. Among the dozens of young scholars present, two or three had been his students and called him teacher; yet Kang was known for his severity, and most held him in some awe. Tonight, however, he had not criticized anyone—the standard of the Zhishui gathering had indeed satisfied him.

Now he was quietly conversing and laughing with Master Qin. By this hour, most of the evening’s best poems had already been unveiled, and the two discussed them at leisure.

“...‘One night at the equinox, the lunar soul most bright. ’ A fine composition indeed. Born of the vast sea, it drifts through the distant night. The sky seems washed clean, myriad phantoms hidden from sight. No night quite like this, to the crow of dawn's cock, one cannot listen... Qin, at the Lichuan gathering, Li Pin’s Mid-Autumn Ode to the Moon truly shines with talent. Though there is no absolute in literature, I think this poem will steal the show tonight.”

“It speaks of ghosts and phantoms, to be sure, a bold and unorthodox approach, yet it conveys grandeur and stirs the soul, without a trace of eerie gloom. This poem carries the spirit of the Tang dynasty. Li Pin, or Li Dexin, has indeed joined the ranks of the greats. But Lord Ming, you are ever strict with yourself, and there have been several fine pieces at Zhishui tonight as well. For example, this one just now.”

Master Qin smiled, picking up a poem: “The azure heavens are like water, the Milky Way gleams, golden waves shining clear. Perhaps Chang’e hangs her jeweled mirror high in the cold palace. Autumn whispers in the leaves, painted scenes flicker behind curtains, and the scent of osmanthus drifts on the breeze. Every year on this night, in Yu Tower, such delight is rare indeed... Surely you are not biased?”

“Haha, you and I are not judges, merely appreciating as we please—there can be no question of bias. Hm, this is indeed a fine verse...”

“In my view, these two are the best of the night.”

Master Qin was always modest and had made almost no public remarks this evening, discussing only with friends in private. In truth, Cao Guan of the Zhishui gathering and Li Pin of Lichuan were among the most renowned poets in Jiangning at this time, and the guests below were comparing their works, for all that ‘there is no first in literature’—the rivalry of reputation was always keenly felt.

As the guests discussed the poems, Pan Guangyan was smiling and conversing with Cao Guan. Before long, new verses were delivered and passed out in three copies among the crowd.

By this hour, it was unlikely for a truly transcendent work to appear, but there were still good ones to be found. The slips were passed around with laughter and commentary. One page was passed to Master Qin and Elder Kang; Master Qin picked it up and, upon reading, began to chuckle.

“Oh? What is it?” Kang Xian inquired.

“Heh, I simply didn’t expect that Puyuan could produce something decent at this hour. Have a look.”

“Oh? Puyuan.” Elder Kang grinned, read the poem, glanced at the name below—‘Xue Jin’—then shook his head and set it down. “Mediocre. Pleasant enough, but nothing new.”

Just then, someone in the crowd called out, “Gentlemen, who would have thought that Lichuan could still produce a fine lyric at this hour? I dare say, this one is rather good.”

A friend grinned and urged him, “Then recite it!” He nodded, and after a moment, began: “‘This tune follows ‘Prelude to the Water Melody.’ Listen, friends: The autumn sky is pure as water, the moon a mirror unsteady on its stand. At a lonely height, music rises, laughter and conversation brushing away the dust...’”

He paused, as if sensing something, and glanced up at the dais where Pan Guangyan and the elders sat. An old man had already risen, slip in hand, hurrying toward Pan Guangyan, fingers tapping the paper, lips muttering as if reciting. This elder was acquainted with Master Qin and Elder Kang; seeing him rise, Pan Guangyan came over, and the elder placed the slip before him, addressing those nearby in a measured tone, “Let us all read this.”

This, too, was a ‘Prelude to the Water Melody.’ Seeing the elders’ attention drawn elsewhere, the man reciting below faltered, but Pan Guangyan gestured for him to continue, smiling, and did not yet look at the slip. After the man finished, Pan Guangyan offered a few remarks, then finally picked up the slip himself. After a moment, he murmured thoughtfully, his brow furrowing. All eyes, even those of the women across the way, turned toward him.

“Crane Elder, if you’ve a fine poem, recite it swiftly, else you’re just teasing us!” Cao Guan, ever genial, joked, and the others laughed. The tension eased, and Pan Guangyan smiled, “Indeed, another ‘Prelude to the Water Melody.’ This lyric... allow me to read it for you: ‘When was the bright moon born? I raise my cup to the heavens. I wonder, in that celestial palace above, what year this night might be... I long to ride the wind homeward, yet fear the jade towers and crystal chambers—how cold it must be up there. I dance with my shadow in the clear light—how can this compare to life on earth?’”

As the words of ‘Prelude to the Water Melody’ sounded through the courtyard, even before the first stanza was done, all conversation ceased. Pan Guangyan, a sage of the literary world, recited the poem with careful attention to its rhythm, not hurriedly, but in a manner that evoked the full atmosphere of the lines, carrying the meaning through with seamless grace.

The audience, all accomplished in the arts of poetry and prose, at once sensed the ethereal, grand, and far-reaching spirit of the piece. The opening question appeared simple enough; in this flourishing age of letters, poets often pursued complexity and innovation, some even advocated that the best moon poems should never mention the moon itself. Yet this lyric began with “When was the bright moon born?”—a direct question—unfolding naturally in the next line, and by the time it reached the celestial palace, the mood transformed from murmuring brooks to soaring rivers and mountains. The lines, “I long to ride the wind homeward, yet fear the jade towers and crystal chambers—how cold it must be up there. I dance with my shadow in the clear light—how can this compare to life on earth?”—these swept the stanza into grandeur like the rivers flowing to the sea, yet with a transcendent clarity, untouched by earthly dust. In a few short lines, the atmosphere of an immortal’s palace was vividly conjured.

Since the Tang dynasty, poetry had developed for centuries, and there were many works with profound and expansive moods. Yet by this time, most poets had wandered into ever more elaborate and ornate forms. Some returned to simplicity, each with their own style. But for a poem’s spirit to reach this level—expanding naturally with the verse, weightless and effortless, reminiscent of the wild, untrammeled grandeur of early Tang poets—was rare indeed. With just the first stanza, the mark of true mastery was already evident in this ‘Prelude to the Water Melody.’ Pan Guangyan paused, glanced at the scholars below, then continued with the second stanza.

“Turning past vermilion towers, lowering through carved windows, the moonlight shines on the sleepless. Surely it bears no ill will—why then is it always full when we are apart? Men have sorrow and joy, parting and reunion; the moon may wax or wane, be bright or dim—this has been so since ancient times. May we all live long, and share the moon’s beauty, though a thousand miles apart.”

“...May we all live long, and share the moon’s beauty, though a thousand miles apart.” The words lingered, and after reciting them, Pan Guangyan softly repeated the last line, gazing at the assembly, nodding slowly again and again. Only after a long time did he sigh, “...A marvelous lyric.” Around the garden, people exchanged glances, some murmuring the lines again, the atmosphere unusually still. If it had been any other lyric, perhaps it would have passed with little note, but this ‘Prelude to the Water Melody’ truly possessed an undying charm, destined to endure for a thousand years. Among poets and lyricists, later generations would even say, “Once this ‘Prelude to the Water Melody’ appeared, all other Mid-Autumn lyrics were eclipsed.” Those present had devoted decades, even lifetimes, to the study of poetry and prose, and at that moment, what they felt was perhaps that very sense of awe.

Within this charged silence, Elder Kang took up the slip, reading it once, nodding slowly. After a while, he looked again, as if noticing something, and blinked in surprise, “Eh?” he exclaimed, frowning in thought, his expression shifting intriguingly. Master Qin, still mulling over the poem, turned to him.

“What is it?”

“Here—see for yourself.”

He passed the slip over. Master Qin squinted, reading word by word—from “When was the bright moon born?” to “share the moon’s beauty, though a thousand miles apart”—finding nothing amiss. It was indeed a superb lyric. He exhaled, shaking his head softly. Then his eyes narrowed and he paused.

At the end of the lyric, a few words were inscribed, which Pan Guangyan had not noticed in his focus on the lines.

In the bottom left, the slip bore a signature—seven characters in all.

—Su Residence.

—Ning Yi.

—Ning Liheng.

Master Qin was taken aback, exchanged glances with Elder Kang, and after a moment, broke into silent laughter.

“Ha...”

In the small tower of the Su Residence, Ning Yi rose to drink some water and suddenly sneezed violently, nearly choking. Drowsily, he returned to bed, pulling the quilt tight.

Hmm, let’s hope this cold doesn’t get worse...