Chapter Nine: It Is My Deepest Wish, Yet I Dare Not Ask for It!

Elegant Courtyard, famed alongside the Pure Pavilion, was far more than a mere restaurant. Within its walls, ladies of every charm and figure displayed their own unique talents. Beneath the curtained dais, they could sing and dance; upon it, they offered pleasures both in drought and in flood. Together with the Music Bureau, these three establishments were lauded as Dingxing’s dens of indulgence. Those who frequented these places were all either wealthy or noble, or else famed scholars of literary renown.

Though it was only just past noon and still broad daylight, the Elegant Courtyard was already bustling with patrons. Some came for the allure of the ladies, some for wine and merriment, and others—poets and scholars—simply for the company and the verse. In plain terms, it was a gathering of lecherous sorts, with a few noble exceptions shining through.

But daytime pleasures came at a price, dearer than those of the night. The ladies, having toiled through the hours of darkness, greeted the morning’s guests with sleepy eyes and practiced charm, justifying the higher charge.

At this moment, in a refined private chamber on the second floor, Liu Shilin was drinking with five fellow scholars. The six were not classmates, but their bond surpassed that, for each belonged to the Society of Poets.

What was the Society of Poets? A gathering of poetry lovers, unarmed and unbound, united by the pursuit of poetic knowledge. Founded in Linjiang and flourishing now in Dingxing, it had, in merely three years, spread to nearly two-thirds of the Xu Empire, if not the entire realm. Its members were scattered across the land, connected and yet developing independently, under the guidance of a single leader.

The current head was said to still be in Linjiang, soon to arrive in Dingxing, there to hand over the reins to a local luminary.

Liu Shilin, once hailed as the greatest poetic talent of the Xu Empire, was the undisputed leader among Dingxing’s poets, unanimously chosen as the next head of the society.

Earlier that morning, the Zhou family had held a contest; Han Fu had emerged from obscurity, astounding all with his brilliance, as dazzling as the midday sun—impossible to gaze upon directly. From that moment, Liu Shilin conceived a single thought: to invite Han Fu into their society and yield the position of leader to him.

Yet, fate had other plans. When the emperor intervened, turning a noble marriage into a humiliating arrangement, and Han Fu accepted without a trace of dignity, that idea died in Liu Shilin’s heart.

He had just shared these thoughts with his companions, and, as lovers of poetry, they too felt regret. What a fine talent—how could he willingly become a mere son-in-law, content with mediocrity?

On one wall hung seven sheets of paper, each bearing a poem by Han Fu, their calligraphy and cadence mesmerizing.

Wine in hand, already tipsy, Liu Shilin staggered to the display, pointing and reciting, “To cling steadfast to the green hills, never yielding, to root oneself in shattered stone, to endure a thousand trials and still remain unbroken, unmoved by the winds from any direction... Gentlemen, study this verse—its spirit is resolute and unyielding. The character revealed is both strong and upright, lofty and proud. And yet the author—he shows not a shred of backbone! Ha... to long for what one dares not ask for—what a pity, what a waste!” Liu Shilin laughed wildly, his heart aching with disappointment, his anger for Han Fu’s lack of ambition bringing tears to his eyes.

He staggered to another sheet, gazed at the characters, and murmured, “May we live long, and share the beauty of the moon from a thousand miles apart... I once thought I might meet a true kindred spirit in this life. Alas, it was not to be...”

He drained his cup and hurled it to the floor.

Liu Shilin loved poetry as life itself; he was driven nearly mad by it. To find a kindred soul in verse was a joy beyond words, and yet Han Fu’s proud spirit in poetry was not matched by his actions. Such a gap left Liu Shilin shattered as if mourning a death.

His five friends, well acquainted with his nature, understood his pain. In truth, they too felt indignant.

Tong Le sighed deeply. “The ancients said, ‘Poetry records the eternal will.’ Why does Han Fu act so contrary to the spirit of his own verse?”

Zhao Zongsheng said, “That may be, but the temptation to rise into the ranks of the nobility is hard to resist.”

Sun Kaihang shook his head and lamented, “Though Wang Li of the previous dynasty was not Han Fu’s equal in poetry, he was far above us. Yet did that stop him from abandoning his family and betraying the loyal? Clearly, judging a man solely by his poetry is unreliable.”

“One cannot judge a man’s character by his poetic talent,” agreed Li Shenhe.

Wu Ziyong, who had yet to speak, simply nodded, “A-ba, a-ba...”

He was mute, but his ears were sharp, and not only was he gifted in poetry, his calligraphy was unmatched in the society. For this reason, he was also a member of the Calligraphy Society.

Truly, a man with a foot in three boats!

For he belonged to the Restoration Society as well...

“Brother Liu, we understand and share your feelings. But this is not entirely Han Fu’s fault—the emperor’s will is not easily defied.”

“What pains you most, Brother Liu, is Han Fu’s eager, even grateful acceptance, is it not?”

“It is indeed galling, a disgrace to the dignity of a man of letters.”

“It is as though a maiden, having been ravished, not only made no effort to resist but seemed to welcome it... I have never seen such a thing—astonishing!”

“Ah, what’s done is done. Han Fu may possess unearthly talent, but now as a mere son-in-law, he is no longer one of us. If you ask me, let’s not trouble ourselves over him any longer.”

“Yes, Brother Liu, too much wine is harmful. Best not to drink more.”

“If we are to drink, let it be together, and speak only of cheerful things.”

“A-ba, a-ba...”

Each offered his own counsel, some gentle, some sharp, while Wu Ziyong could only lift his cup and utter his mute toast. But Liu Shilin, ever perceptive, understood his friends’ intentions. After a moment’s daze, he composed himself, bowed deeply, and said, “I have behaved poorly and spoiled the mood. Please forgive me.”

The five quickly rose to return the gesture.

“Say no more, Shilin, we understand.”

“We are friends—no need for such formality.”

“Haha! If you know your fault, then three cups as penance!”

“Indeed, so it should be.”

“A-ba, a-ba...” Wu Ziyong raised his cup, offering to drink in solidarity.

So moved by his friends, Liu Shilin managed a smile, then suddenly recalled a phrase and burst out laughing, “Ha ha... To long for what one dares not ask for!”

With that, he returned to the table and drained three cups in quick succession.

Wu Ziyong and the others drank with him, their spirits lifting.

Just then, from the next room, the sound of drunken conversation drifted in, unrestrained and loud.

“What use is unrivaled talent in poetry? Han Fu still ended up as a son-in-law.”

“And what is a son-in-law but—pardon the phrase—not even as good as a dog...”

“Alas for Baili Mingsu, such a fine woman, forced to marry a commoner.”

“A commoner is a commoner—he can write a few lousy poems, that’s all.”

“What’s the use of poetry? Ha ha ha...”

“I can’t stand those scholars, showing off their scribbles as if they were something special—it makes me sick.”

“Truth be told, I recently got hold of Liu Shilin’s plum blossom manuscript. Used it in the privy—ah, the comfort far exceeds that of bamboo slips.”

The men next door were speaking of Han Fu, jealousy their only cause, mocking his origins, his poetry, and even dragging Liu Shilin into their scorn. The faces of the six darkened.

Zhao Zongsheng spoke coldly, “That’s Cao Dezhen, son of the Vice Minister of Rites, Cao Shen. When Han Fu took the stage today, he was the loudest in his abuse.”

His father, too, was an official in Dingxing, so Zhao knew the man well. Cao Dezhen, true to his name, was anything but virtuous, a notorious idler who harassed respectable women with impunity, protected by his father’s status.

“This is insufferable! Let’s go set him straight,” said Tong Le, rising in anger.

“A-ba, a-ba...” Wu Ziyong was never one to stand aside.

“Wait,” Liu Shilin interjected, and the others sat back down.

The five looked at him in puzzlement. Sun Kaihang asked, “Why stop us? Can you swallow this insult?”

Sun Kaihang fumed, “To scorn Han Fu is none of our concern, but to defile poetry and destroy your manuscript in such a foul way—how can you bear it?”

“Even if I can’t bear it, I must,” Liu Shilin sighed. “He is drunk now. If we confront him, it will only lead to quarrels, perhaps even violence. We are men of letters; brawling is beneath us. Let us pretend we never heard it.”

The friends exchanged glances—resentful, but seeing the sense in his words.

If the one insulted chose to ignore it, what could they do?

And yet... their hearts still seethed with indignation.

Liu Shilin looked up and said calmly, “Wild dogs bark—can you reason with them?”

At this, the five were taken aback, then all flushed with shame.

Of course. At this moment, Cao Dezhen was no different than a stray dog—what reasoning could reach him?

Tong Le clasped his hands in salute. “Brother Liu, your poetic gifts are matchless, but your self-mastery is even more impressive. I am ashamed by comparison.”

The others all bowed in agreement.

“A-ba, a-ba...”

Liu Shilin managed a wry smile. “Now that Han Fu has appeared, you mustn’t call me the greatest poet—such praise I no longer deserve.”

“Ah... though we have endured, the mood for drinking is lost. I’ll take my leave—until we meet again.”

“I’m heading home as well.”

“I’ve no money for the bill—I’ll slip away too.”

“A-ba, a-ba...”

Clearly, the pleasure of the gathering was gone. One by one, the friends departed.

Only Liu Shilin remained, sitting for a time before rising to pay the bill and leaving the Elegant Courtyard alone.

But he did not go home. Instead, he made his way to the East Market, chose a shop at random, and bought a burlap sack and a sturdy cudgel.

After paying, Liu Shilin wrapped the club in the sack and, stepping out, ran straight into Tong Le.

The two stared at each other for a moment; Tong Le glanced at the object in Liu Shilin’s arms and grinned, “I’ll go buy a stick myself.”

Liu Shilin smiled back, unembarrassed, and nodded. “Very well.”

As Tong Le entered the shop, Sun Kaihang arrived.

He looked at Liu Shilin, then at Tong Le’s retreating back. “Didn’t get one for me? I’ll buy my own.”

“And get one for me,” came Li Shenhe’s voice from behind.

The two entered together, leaving Liu Shilin waiting outside.

As they emerged, just as they greeted Liu Shilin, Zhao Zongsheng could be seen waving from five paces away.

He approached silently, said nothing, and went in to make his purchase.

A moment later, the five left the East Market together, about to part ways, when a distinctive call sounded behind them.

“A-ba, a-ba...”

“A-ba, a-ba...”

Wu Ziyong came hurrying after them, club in hand.

Liu Shilin, warmed by this sight, laughed and said, “Let’s not go home—let’s continue our revels at the Pure Pavilion.”

“To long for what one dares not ask for!” Tong Le and the others chimed in, laughing.

“A-ba, a-ba...”

“And so they all laughed together.”