Chapter Thirteen: In the Garden of Turtles and Cranes

At this very moment, in the rear quarters of the Pan residence, the women set to perform this evening were either applying their makeup or resting in their respective rooms. The garden hosting the Still Waters Poetry Gathering was separated from them by only a single wall; if they stepped out into the corridor, they could peer through the gauzy drapes at the proceedings of the gathering.

Most of the women invited to perform tonight were already well-known along the banks of the Qinhuai River, each possessing her own alluring qualities. At an ordinary poetry gathering, any one among them could have taken center stage, but tonight was different. Not all the attendees of the Still Waters Poetry Gathering were men; many arrived with companions. Old Master Qin, for example, had brought his concubine Yun, who was learned in poetry, while others were accompanied by their wives or young ladies from distinguished families. On such occasions, the courtesans could not hope to be the focus of attention; even to linger after their performance and draw eyes was out of the question.

Still, even if they were only to perform music and dance, a display of true talent was enough to leave a lasting impression. Women like them, when surrounded solely by men, would carry themselves with greater pride and restraint. Here, they had to quietly play the supporting role, nourishing the scene with subtle grace, so that their names might linger in memory. Pride and reserve were but tools; true fame was the ultimate goal.

Of all present tonight, the most celebrated were Yuan Jiner from Golden Wind House and Lu Caicai from Spring Pavilion. In her room, Yuan Jiner was holding her face in her hands, admiring her made-up reflection in the bronze mirror. Her maid Kou’er stood nearby, watching and conversing with her mistress in a playful tone. “Miss, when you went out to perform just now, Young Master Cao couldn’t take his eyes off you. He didn’t even blink!”

Yuan Jiner glanced at her with a smile. “I was performing; of course they all looked my way. What’s so strange about that? But you, Kou’er, only noticed Young Master Cao, which is rather curious.”

“Miss, I mean it!” Kou’er protested, cheeks flushed. “He was staring so intently!”

“If you weren’t staring at him yourself, how could you know he was staring at me?” Yuan Jiner teased, still smiling. The little maid pouted, resolving to ignore her mistress, but after a moment sidled back over. “Miss, who do you think will win the poetry contest tonight?”

Yuan Jiner tilted her head, tucking a small flower into her hair. “Literature has no first, and poetry contests have no true standard. There’s really no such thing as a champion—you're always asking these questions. But as for which poems will be most remembered, that much is clear.” She picked up a few slips of paper from the table. “Young Master Wang’s, Young Master Xi’s, and your favorite, Young Master Cao’s—‘The azure sky like water, the wide Silver River shallow and clear’—that’s probably the best. Are you happy now? And then there’s Young Master Li and Young Master Tang from Lichuan…”

Kou’er pouted. “Who says I like Young Master Cao?”

“Oh? Do you dislike him, then?” Yuan Jiner’s gaze sparkled with mischief.

“Not really. But I’m thinking of you, miss—if Young Master Cao likes you, and you arrived together tonight, with his help, next year’s Flower Queen of Qinhuai might be you. And if he passes the spring examination next year…”

The maid prattled on, and Yuan Jiner laughed, tapping her on the nose. “All right, I understand.” She then picked up the poem written by Cao Guan. Between herself and Lu Caicai, Lu was skilled at the pipa while Yuan excelled at the guzheng; in singing, Yuan was the better. She was to perform this particular poem shortly, and as she read it over and sang it softly to herself, a smile lit her face—a smile that might have belonged to a woman courted by a great scholar.

In truth, most of the professional courtesans on the Qinhuai claimed tragic pasts, though these were often fabricated. The details might be false, but the concept was usually not far from the mark. For the likes of Yuan Jiner and Lu Caicai, women of considerable renown, learning poetry and prose naturally led them to admire talented men. Occasionally, there were tales of famous courtesans marrying poor scholars out of pure admiration, but such cases were rare indeed. Yuan Jiner had attended tonight at Pan’s invitation, arriving with Cao Guan, which seemed quite intimate. She admired his talent, but whether she liked him in the way Kou’er suggested—even she could not say for certain. For women like them, acclaimed as they might be, the real opportunities for choice were few.

If she could set aside such thoughts, she realized that tonight’s gathering had already been rewarding enough.

She hummed the melody over and over. After a while, Kou’er came to the door. “Miss, there seems to be another fine poem. Shall we go take a look?”

“Oh?” Smiling, she set the poem down and went out with Kou’er towards the corridor draped with gauze. Several women had already gathered there; Lu Caicai had also come. Yuan Jiner asked softly, “Sisters, what’s happening?” She joined them at the drapes and listened as a voice from the other side recited, “I raise my cup to ask the heavens…” Pan Guangyan had already read this poem once; this was a second recitation by one of the scholars.

The atmosphere at the gathering had subtly changed. It was quieter now; earlier, the air had been lively with poetry and laughter, but now it was as if some unseen force had suppressed the merriment. All present were still savoring the lines. The women soon obtained a copy of the poem, clustered together to read it in full—once, then again. Yuan Jiner looked up, her eyes meeting Lu Caicai’s.

“Isn’t this from the Puyuan Poetry Gathering…”

“How can that be…”

“Sufu, Ning Yi, Ning Liheng—who is that?”

“I’ve never heard of him…”

While the scholars outside were the first to be moved by the poem, the women here, upon grasping its depth, became immediately curious about its author. They scrutinized the signature and discussed it among themselves, but none had ever heard the name before. Just then, someone outside asked, “What do you think of this poem?”

“‘There is sorrow and joy in human partings and meetings, the moon waxes and wanes; such things are hard to perfect since ancient times…’”

“This poem…”

“Who wrote it?”

No one offered a judgment at first. Someone nodded mutely, murmuring “exquisite,” while the reciter read out the signature again: “Sufu, Ning Yi, Ning Liheng. Does anyone know who this is?”

A hush fell.

“But if his surname is Ning, why is it signed with ‘Sufu’?”

“Which Sufu?”

“The Puyuan Poetry Gathering—surely not Sufu the cloth merchant?”

“Could he be a steward or advisor for Sufu?”

“I’ve never heard of him before…”

Everyone looked at each other, puzzled and abuzz with speculation, but the name yielded nothing. Pan Guangyan called over the person who had brought the poem from outside—not a servant, but a semi-disciple with some talent. When asked, the young man laughed and shared what he knew.

“Oh, I’ve heard that he’s a son-in-law by marriage at Sufu, having joined the family only a few months ago as the husband of the second young lady, Su Tan’er. Amusingly, I’ve also heard that this Ning Liheng caught a cold today and didn’t attend the Puyuan gathering. While resting at home, he recited this poem to a maid for his own amusement. When someone at the gathering claimed he had no poetic talent, the maid produced the poem in his defense… That’s how it was explained to me, though I can’t vouch for the truth of it.”

“Sufu… a son-in-law?”

The words caused not only those present but the women behind the drapes to exchange stunned glances; soon, a low murmur followed.

“He didn’t even attend?”

“That’s just too strange…”

“I’ve never heard of a son-in-law with such talent…”

“Ning Yi, Ning Liheng—certainly an unfamiliar name…”

Kou’er, behind the drapes, whispered in confusion, “Didn’t the Puyuan Poetry Gathering just buy it to make a name for themselves?”

It was common knowledge that, each year, some would purchase poetry to gain fame at these gatherings. While everyone was aware of these behind-the-scenes dealings, even if one purchased a poem, it was unlikely to be of such quality. Upon learning the author’s identity, everyone harbored such doubts. If someone truly possessed this level of talent, why would he choose to marry into another family? At that moment, someone outside voiced the question.

“It’s hard to believe…”

“Perhaps Sufu bought this poem to promote their name?”

The voice was not loud, spoken tentatively, but all could hear it. After a brief silence, someone was clearly about to agree. “Such things do happen…”

At first, the poem’s power had swept everyone away, leaving little room for doubt, but now, with the details—“son-in-law,” “nobody”—brought to light, the contrast with the poem itself provoked almost uncontrollable suspicion. Some, more composed, said nothing, but the competitive spirit of the gathering ensured that some voiced their doubts. In that instant, a stern voice cut through from the stage: “Zixing! Enough!”

The speaker, named Yu Zixing, was startled and looked up to see Old Master Kang, brush in hand, regarding him with a grave and imposing expression that stilled all conversation at once.

The hall fell into absolute silence.