Chapter Six: Elder Qin

According to Ning Yi’s original plan, he intended to circle around outside before heading straight to Yushan Academy. Now, however, he was thoroughly soaked, and had no choice but to turn back and change his clothes. It was already early August on the lunar calendar, and the discomfort of walking home in drenched clothes was unmistakable. His constitution wasn’t likely to improve from this ordeal—he’d probably catch a cold by tomorrow. Fortunately, he hadn’t gone far when he ran into someone he knew: the concubine from the Qin household whom he’d met a few times before.

Ning Yi always chose to exercise away from the crowded market streets, instead favoring the quieter lanes near where he often played chess with Old Qin. Qin’s concubine, known as Yun Niang, was in her thirties. She had once been a courtesan, but lacked the seductive airs common to that profession. Whenever Ning Yi encountered her, she was usually delivering lunch to Old Qin—her manner gracious and dignified, their conversation sprinkled with poetry. Today, she was dressed as a simple farmwife, hair pinned with plain wooden sticks, carrying a wicker basket filled with fresh produce just picked from the nearby fields. Upon seeing Ning Yi, her face was one of surprise.

After a brief greeting, Yun Niang asked what had happened. Ning Yi pointed to the nearby Qinhuai River. “I fell in,” he answered. Yun Niang smiled slightly, asked no further, and invited him to her house. “The autumn winds are strong, sir. If you walk home like this, you’ll surely catch a chill. Please, as a friend of the master, don’t stand on ceremony. The old master is home as well… Oh, just yesterday he mentioned you hadn’t come to play chess in days.”

Ning Yi had played chess with Old Qin on these streets but had never visited his home. Following Yun Niang inside, he found the old man in the parlor, reading an ancient scroll. There was an air of solemn authority about him, quite different from his demeanor at the riverside chess stall. When they entered, the old man looked up, squinted for a moment, then broke into a bemused smile. Yun Niang approached, but before she could speak, he nodded—clearly understanding what needed to be done.

“Have Xiao Hong prepare hot water. Yun Niang, fetch a set of Da Lang’s clothes… Haha, Liheng my friend, what on earth happened to you?”

With matters arranged, the old man burst into laughter, the sound carrying the same mischievous satisfaction as when he’d made a clever chess move. Over these past weeks of playing together, they’d become familiar. The old man often called him “Liheng boy” without formality, and seeing him in such a state, he couldn’t help but laugh all the more. Ning Yi could only smile wryly and spread his hands—after all, with the concubine present, he couldn’t very well say, “You old man, delighting in my misfortune.”

Compared to the sprawling Su family estate in Jiangning, the Qin residence wasn’t large or particularly opulent, but it was clearly the home of a well-off family. Everything was tidy, filled with a scholarly air and the warmth of daily life—a house with a solid foundation. Although Yun Niang had gone out herself to pick vegetables that morning, the household employed several maids and servants; any family able to afford such help was comfortably situated.

Old Qin’s wife was a kindly, approachable woman of peasant stock, lacking any pettiness or harshness. Now in her fifties, she managed the house, tended the gardens, and had even led the family in reclaiming the small orchard where Ning Yi had seen Yun Niang gathering produce—a project in which Old Qin himself had likely participated. Perhaps it was this temperament that kept the household so well-ordered, and allowed for genuine affection between the wife and the concubine. The three of them formed what could be considered a model household under the polygamous norms of the time.

After a hot bath and a change of clothes, Ning Yi emerged to find Mistress Qin appraising his appearance with approval. “Husband, with these clothes, Mr. Ning looks quite like our Da Lang.” Ning Yi glanced down; the clothes were indeed a young man’s style, made of new fabric—likely belonging to Old Qin’s son, both of whom were away. At this, Old Qin nodded and asked Ning Yi what had befallen him at the river. After hearing the tale of his misfortune, the old man burst into laughter once more.

“You rascal, smearing someone’s good name—truly outrageous.”

“That’s turning the tables on me…”

“Haha… But—‘turning the tables’? Is there a story behind that phrase?”

Speaking with a learned man could be trying; he was always asking for sources and references. During chess matches, Ning Yi would explain with a laugh, but now he just replied, “It’s a long story.” Soon after, Mistress Qin had breakfast ready, and she and Yun Niang called the men to the table. Conversation turned to Ning Yi’s first days teaching at Yushan Academy. To Old Qin, Ning Yi was a complete novice as an instructor, and he couldn’t resist a few jests about him misleading the students, before the talk shifted to the upcoming Mid-Autumn Festival.

“The Puyuan Poetry Gathering, eh… The six connected boats of the Pu family, that’s always lively. But as for true poetic talent, it’s the Zhishui Gathering at the Pan family that draws all the renowned scholars…”

“Oh, talented scholars… The truly accomplished sort?”

“Haha, as for what counts as real talent, that’s always hard to say. There’s always some at the Mid-Autumn gatherings, and at the Zhishui Academy each year a few fine poems are composed. The Pan family has produced three generations of imperial scholars; those seeking fame and fortune naturally want to make connections there…”

On Mid-Autumn night along the Qinhuai, scholars competed in poetry, beauties in song. There were many such gatherings, and rivalry between them was strong—one gathering would produce a fine poem, another would outdo it, and these stories were talked about for months or even years afterward. Naturally, there were business and government interests fanning the excitement behind the scenes, but the fame of the Qinhuai was built on such festivities.

The Puyuan Gathering, despite its name, actually took place on six large boats lashed together, drifting down the Qinhuai all night—drinking, reciting poetry, watching fireworks and the lanterns on both banks, with various performances on board. The Pu family were wealthy merchants, and, as merchants were held in low regard, they hoped to cultivate a literary reputation. While their family had produced a few talented scholars in recent years—better, perhaps, than the Su family—they still weren’t considered a true scholarly house. The Puyuan Gathering was grand and extravagant, but most of the attendees were businesspeople or those with merchant connections—like Xue Jin or Su Tan’er—gathered more for socializing and business than for high poetry. Despite its ostentation, it couldn’t compare in scholarly spirit to the most prestigious gatherings.

The Zhishui Gathering, hosted by the Pan family, was the true summit for scholars along the Qinhuai. With three generations of imperial scholars, and Pan Mingchen himself both an imperial academician and vice minister of rites, their gathering was the one ambitious students vied to attend. To be invited required either recognized talent or the right connections. Those not yet famous would send their poetry to the Pan residence in hopes of being noticed. For the famed courtesans of the pleasure quarters, being invited to the Zhishui Gathering was a high honor—quite unlike being paid to attend the Puyuan event.

“So, since you’re planning to attend, Liheng, have you prepared any poetry? I have friends among the Pan family’s chess circle—if you wish, I could get you an invitation.”

Ning Yi just smiled and shook his head. “I know nothing of poetry—just going to Puyuan to see the spectacle.”

He refused lightly, so Old Qin didn’t press the matter. Breakfast finished, the morning sun was already high, and Ning Yi took his leave, making his way to Yushan Academy. After seeing him off at the gate, Yun Niang turned to Old Qin with a smile. “Husband, does Mr. Ning truly not know poetry?”

“What do you think, Little Yun?”

Yun Niang blinked. “Was he bluffing?”

“Heh, whether he knows or not, I can’t say for sure. If he’d said that in the early days, I might have believed him. Now, though, it’s not so simple.” Old Qin shook his head, smiling. “I’ve met many people in my life—those who chase fame, those with true learning. The truly learned sometimes follow Confucian moderation, humble and well-mannered; some are brash and unconventional, dazzling in their talent. But whatever their style, it’s mostly of a type. Only this Ning family boy—his thoughts are impossible to read.”

“When I first played chess with him, I thought him bold, sometimes aggressive, but always thought-provoking—a quick-witted, outspoken youth, but nothing especially deep. Yet, as we played more, I found his chess could be orthodox or uncanny, never bound by convention. In conversation, he’s casual, but inside, he’s calm and detached. Occasionally he says things that are novel but, on reflection, grounded in fundamental principles.”

“I remember a few days ago, when he mentioned teaching at the academy. He said, offhand, that teaching isn’t about instructing people what to do, but why to do it. The sages wrote their books to explain the ways of human nature, the workings of heaven and earth. Once you understand these, then you can know what to do—that’s the mark of a true scholar. He said it lightly; shallow people would call him a mad youth, but… the principle is sound. To see a mountain as a mountain, water as water; then, not as mountain or water; and finally, again as mountain and water—only then have you truly understood. Still, best not to repeat his words too widely—they could get him in trouble.”

“I know,” Yun Niang replied.

“We’ve not known each other long, so it’s too soon for grand conclusions. But during chess, he’s quoted a few apt lines of poetry—lines I’d never heard before, and quite good. If it’s just about poetry, I frankly don’t believe he’s ignorant.”

Old Qin turned to head inside, Yun Niang following. “Then why does Mr. Ning keep hiding his light? No matter what…”

“That’s just it—I can’t understand him. But one thing is clear.” Old Qin frowned slightly, then sighed. “As you say, some young men, even if talented, might hide their abilities, enduring loneliness and resisting temptation for the sake of future glory. They hope to leap the dragon gate, to rise high. But such men never become a live-in son-in-law to a merchant family. In all history, how many such men have achieved greatness? If he truly has such talent, it would be a waste…”

At this, Old Qin couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret. For a man to desire fame and fortune—to be ambitious—was normal. From their interactions, he could see that if Ning Yi had even a little ambition, he would never have married into a merchant family. In these times, the difference between the uneducated masses and the literate scholar was stark. Even without great talent, just for someone of his bearing and eloquence, he could have made a living anywhere—why choose to become a son-in-law?