Chapter Eighteen: Hanging Myself on the Southeastern Branch

Ever since the events of the Mid-Autumn night, when the poem “Prelude to Water Melody” was let slip by Xiao Chan, Ning Yi had secluded himself at home, feigning illness under the pretext of reading, passing the tedium with the occasional game of Go with Xiao Chan. Today was the first day he ventured out; he attended class at the academy in the morning, fetched the whitewashed wooden boards he’d commissioned, bought some charcoal sticks, and made his way to this side of town, where he found both Elder Qin and Kang Xian present.

As for poetry and such, Ning Yi had no psychological barrier about using what came to hand. The poems and verses he recalled were, in this era, a strategic resource of no small value. Should he ever grow restless and wish to make something of himself, he could easily employ them to build a reputation. For now, though, using them served nothing but a little vanity. The scholars of these times spoke with constant reference to the classics, and if one wished to win fame, one could not avoid being tested on their learning. The local prodigies, even if they memorized all the poetry of the Tang and Song dynasties, would find it of little use. With works like the Analects and The Great Learning before him, he might explain them in plain language and even add some new interpretations, but beyond that, his scholarship was limited. To offer up verses now was premature, but since the matter had already occurred, he accepted it with equanimity, true to his character.

For him, the problem was minor. There were countless ways to solve things—by unorthodox means or the proper path. The other day, Old Master Su and Su Boyong had summoned him and Su Tan’er to ask about the poem. He’d made up a casual story, claiming the words were not his own, but fate played its hand. The old master had watched him for a long while and then merely smiled, saying, “What’s done is done. You must keep this secret from outsiders…” The old man was shrewd; whether he believed him or not was another matter. In truth, if he were a true prodigy, the Su family’s position would be awkward; everyone was still guessing at the truth.

Being a scholar was far less comfortable than being a live-in son-in-law. He needn’t do much, carry no heavy responsibility, and no one had high expectations of him, so there was no pressure. The old master even looked after him. Only a fool would want to escape such a leisurely life. After finally enjoying a few months of ease, he was determined to cling to his current status until something truly important came along. He found it amusing—though even telling Xiao Chan, she would hardly believe him.

Rumors were bound to circulate over these days; he could imagine their nature. It was only when Xiao Chan told him of the goings-on at the Zhishui Poetry Society that he was startled by the mention of Kang Xian, and in the end, couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. He’d long known the old man was no simple figure, but hadn’t imagined his reputation was so illustrious.

After the days of proper rest, he cast the affair from his mind and returned to his normal routine. Yet that very morning, while teaching at Yushan Academy, he was approached by Yu Zixing—the one scolded by Elder Kang—and several other scholars, who had come to apologize.

In a way, being reproved by Kang Xian at the poetry society had nearly ruined Yu Zixing’s reputation as a man of letters—a calamity out of nowhere. Yet Kang Xian still cherished his talent. Before leaving, he’d sought him out for a private, earnest talk. Yu then found time to offer his apology; if word of this spread, it might even restore his name a little. After all, admitting one’s mistakes and seeking forgiveness were virtues of their own.

Since it suited their purposes, Ning Yi played along, acting out a scene of mutual admiration. As for Yu’s invitation to a gathering of scholars that evening, he declined offhand, then took his leave of the others and went to fetch the painted white boards.

“Zixing is a man of decent character,” Kang Xian remarked with a smile. “His learning may not be the very highest, but it is still commendable. It’s just that your ‘Prelude to Water Melody’ is so masterful—now that this poem is out, I fear that in the coming years, no one in Qinhuai will dare write another verse to the moon at Mid-Autumn. Who would have imagined that an idle, unstudious fellow like yourself could possess such poetic genius?”

“I’ve said already, I know nothing of poetry,” Ning Yi replied, sipping his tea. “When I was a child, a shabby traveling Taoist passed by our house and recited this poem. I remembered it, that’s all…”

This was the same story he’d told Old Master Su. At this, Elder Qin burst out laughing. “Even a three-year-old wouldn’t believe that tale.”

Kang Xian said as well, “You’re simply too lazy—you need a good shaking-up. Still, the reputation of ‘prodigy’ is quite useful. That young lady earlier was both charming and refined, strolling with you and deep in conversation. If this leads to a happy union, young man, you’ll owe me a great debt of thanks…”

For a man in Ning Yi’s position, pursuing another woman was hardly a simple matter. Kang Xian’s words were no more than a tease. Ning Yi recounted the rescue at Mid-Autumn, and the others finally understood the full story. By now, their game of Go was done, and the three sat resting. Elder Qin, picking up his tea, nodded thoughtfully and turned to another topic. “Writing on boards? So you mean to use charcoal on those white boards for your classes?”

“Yes,” Ning Yi replied. “The sand tables only allow a few characters at a time, and they’re troublesome to use. This is far more convenient and clear.”

In teaching, writing was done on sand tables—each character written, then the sand smoothed over, the teacher demonstrating the form. Most knowledge was conveyed orally, requiring students’ undivided attention, and they had to remember the lesson from their own understanding. Unless a student was especially bright or diligent, keeping pace was no easy feat.

Of course, for men like Elder Qin and Elder Kang, this system had endured for millennia and seemed perfectly natural. Scholarship was for the elite; if one wished to join their ranks, one had to endure hardship. The trial was part of the journey. Elder Qin took a charcoal stick and drew on the white board, then frowned.

“The sand is soft; writing with a twig is like using a brush, but charcoal is much harder to control. This innovation may not be wise.”

Nie Yunzhu had only considered the writing itself, but Elder Qin saw the issue differently and, after two strokes, voiced his objection. On the classroom platform, the teacher was not using brush technique—this could be a small matter, or not. Elder Kang tried it as well, then frowned and said, “One must be cautious with such things.” Had Ning Yi been his disciple, he would have scolded him harshly for such a lapse in seriousness.

Ning Yi understood their concerns. He smiled, squatted down, and took a stick of charcoal himself. “It’s not a great problem. Writing is meant to cultivate the spirit. Besides, these characters still have much in common with brush script. If it’s just for recording, there’s no harm in being flexible—a different approach, that’s all.”

As he spoke, he began to write: “Red soft hands, yellow rattan wine, two orioles sing among the green willows”—this line in regular script, then switched to clerical script: “Beyond the long pavilion, by the ancient road, a line of egrets ascending the blue sky.”

He then wrote in Song style: “Three peaks, half lost beyond the blue sky.”

Song typeface had not yet been invented here, and Elder Qin and Elder Kang exchanged glances. To make his point, Ning Yi liked to introduce a little shock value amid the ordinary. The next line was in the elegant, flowing Slender Gold script: “Two rivers divide at Egret Islet.”

Then he turned to cursive: “In the northwest, there dwells a beauty, who has hanged herself on the southeastern branch.”

Next, in slanting bold: “To gaze a thousand miles, she has hanged herself on the southeastern branch.”

The board was only so large—when he finished, he set the charcoal aside. “Well?”

Elder Qin and Elder Kang were already laughing and scolding him.

“The writing is fine enough, but the verses are nonsense…”

“You disgrace the classics—what a shame…”

“You’re altogether too lazy, always making light of things. What are these verses supposed to be…”

Though they scolded, their eyes never left the white board, occasionally reciting the lines and offering their critique.

“‘In the northwest, there dwells a beauty’—such ignorance! It’s ‘In the north, there dwells a beauty, peerless and unmatched,’ from the Book of Han. Then you add ‘hanged herself on the southeastern branch’—do you think ‘northwest’ rhymes with ‘southeast’?”

“Master Kang, truly, you are wise.”

“If you were my disciple, I’d have someone give you a thrashing. Even your scribbles have to drag in the ancients. ‘To gaze a thousand miles, hanged herself on the southeastern branch’—aren’t you afraid Wang Zhihuan will rise from his grave to haunt you? Every line ends with ‘hanged herself on the southeastern branch’—if ‘The Peacock Flies Southeast’ were a person, it would weep. The southeastern branch never did you any wrong.”

“Haha, one day I wondered—if one stitched together verses like this, perhaps there’d be a novel flavor. Don’t you think, Master Kang? In the northwest, there dwells a beauty, hanged herself on the southeastern branch. I raise my head to gaze at the bright moon, hanged herself on the southeastern branch. In empty mountains, no one is seen, hanged herself on the southeastern branch. Throughout history, sages have been lonely—only those who hanged themselves on the southeastern branch. Since ancient times, who has not died? Better to hang oneself on the southeastern branch…”

Master Kang shook his head. “When it comes to the ancients, one must be rigorous.” There was mirth in his words, but also a warning. On the other side, Elder Qin was studying the other lines, and said, “When will the moon be bright…”

Master Kang chimed in, “Most likely, she too has hanged herself on the southeastern branch…” and they both laughed.

Then Elder Qin took a charcoal stick and pointed to the earlier lines. “These are also patchwork, but I can’t place their source. Perhaps they’re old works of yours—‘Red soft hands, yellow rattan wine…’ The following lines don’t fit; ‘two orioles sing among green willows, a line of egrets ascending the blue sky’ should be one. ‘Three peaks, half lost beyond the blue sky; two rivers divide at Egret Islet’—what an atmosphere. That must be another poem…”

He circled these lines, separating “Red soft hands, yellow rattan wine” and “Beyond the long pavilion, by the ancient road,” then drew a line between them, as if judging that these two also did not belong together. Master Kang nodded. “Likely two poems.” Then they both looked to Ning Yi. He was impressed—had it been him, he might have recognized these twelve characters as lines from different poems, since they were well-matched and the verse long enough for such turns. It was not easy to divide them correctly, yet the two elders did so by intuition alone.

“That must be four poems. I wonder if the full verses exist, or if these are fragments you happened upon?” Elder Qin turned to Ning Yi and asked.

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