Chapter Fifty-Three: Was This Life Destined for a Poet?

The ox cart and the furs had been seized by the county magistrate—of course, it could not simply end there. Xu Wenshan gave Lu Ze and Spider a few instructions and sent the two demons out to take care of things, while he himself rested at the inn until afternoon.

By then, judging from the time, it was about the hour he had agreed to meet Xu Jing. Leisurely, he left the inn, following the directions of the locals, and wandered slowly toward the Ji Family Bookshop.

Before the shop, however, a crowd had already gathered—mostly local scholars and students, from their appearance. Scarlet silk and embroidered balls hung from the shop sign. The shop assistants had scattered fresh wildflowers on the ground and stacked several piles of books on the tables draped in red silk. An elderly scholar stepped out and waved his hand, drawing a round of applause; the atmosphere in the square was lively and merry.

Xu Wenshan scanned the crowd for Xu Jing and soon spotted her standing in a corner, her expression tight with nerves. Xu Wenshan could not help but laugh inwardly—so this devil-may-care woman, dressed as a man, actually had such a proper and decorous side.

The elderly scholar took his seat and gestured for silence before speaking: “Today is a joyous day for your fellow student Wang Haoran—his first poetry collection has finally been published. At this moment, he should be in the capital, presiding over his own book launch. No doubt the scene is grand and bustling. Let us wish that his new book earns him a name far and wide!”

The crowd applauded, many of the scholars showing expressions of envy and jealousy. Who would have thought that Wang Haoran, that rascal, would outpace his peers by so much, managing to have his book sold in the capital at such a young age?

Every year, countless new collections of poetry are published in the capital. To have one’s work stand out among so many renowned masters is to face immense pressure, and only those with truly exceptional collections can emerge from that battlefield of verse.

Wang Haoran, still just a youth, was to go personally to the capital to champion his poetry. Who knew how much pressure he would face?

The elderly scholar continued, “I am deeply honored to have been invited by Wang Haoran to help host the book launch here in his hometown of Sha County. As his teacher, I am truly gratified. If only you all were as promising as Wang Haoran, I wouldn’t be turning gray so quickly.”

Most of the young people present were his students; hearing this, they burst into laughter, and Xu Jing, standing aside, covered her mouth with a smile.

After the scholar’s remarks, he offered some commentary on the collection, followed by a few words from the bookshop owner. Then came the main event: the poetry presentation.

Xu Jing took the stage.

She was dressed today in white robe and cap, two silk ribbons trailing from her headdress—a figure of striking elegance, with brows like willow leaves and eyes bright as stars. In her male attire, she outshone many of the men. Clearly, Xu Jing was well liked; as soon as she stepped onto the stage, waves of cheers broke out. Covering her mouth, she smiled, and it was a good while before the crowd quieted enough for her to speak her poem.

Before reciting, Xu Jing said, “My talents are shallow. When I learned I was to present the first poem today, I was so nervous I couldn’t sleep, fearful that my verse would disgrace Brother Haoran.”

The crowd laughed.

Xu Jing continued, “It was only this morning, with the help of a friend, that I managed to compose a piece, titled ‘Spring Rain Clears at Wanqiu.’”

Clearing her throat, she began to recite:

“In recent years, the worldly flavor has grown thin as gauze—
Who sends the mounted guest to the capital’s throng?
All night in the small loft, listening to spring rain fall,
By dawn in the deep alley, they’ll sell apricot blossoms along.
Short paper, slanting lines, idly penned as grass,
By the bright window, fine milk froths as tea divides among.
In plain robes, do not sigh for the dust of the road—
By Qingming, perhaps, I’ll be home ere long.”

The poem fell, and the crowd grew silent.

The old scholar suddenly spoke: “Zijing, write that poem down for me to see.”

Xu Jing nodded and carefully copied the poem. The elderly scholar took the paper with trembling hands, read it through twice, then swayed his head as he read it a third time, exclaiming, “Good! Good! Excellent!”

He set the paper down. “Who would have thought Zijing could compose such a poem? I thought you cared for nothing but amusement.”

Someone in the crowd called out, “Sir, this poem is excellent, but I do not know what makes it so. Please explain it to us.”

Others joined in, “Please explain it for us, master!”

The old scholar agreed, “Very well, let us pause the poetry presentations and hold a poetry discussion instead. I will not explain it yet—let’s hear your interpretations first. Everyone may speak freely.”

He had clearly turned this into a spontaneous lesson, calling on students at random to expound upon the poem. The crowd had various opinions.

One said, “I believe the heart of the poem lies in the couplet, ‘All night in the small loft, listening to spring rain fall, / By dawn in the deep alley, they’ll sell apricot blossoms along.’ It is elegant and lingering, the kind of line that stays with you.”

Another spoke up, “Brother Zi’an is right, but I would add that the theme is ‘spring,’ yet spring scenery barely appears in the poem—only in that one couplet—yet it captures the spring of the capital perfectly. Usually, when we write of spring, it’s the riverside, the fields, the countryside strolls. Few write of the city, let alone the capital, for urban spring is hard to capture—its scenes are always tiled roofs and blue bricks, showing little of the season. Yet Brother Zijing’s poem is original, keenly observing spring in the capital and capturing it in a single exquisite line. That is most rare.”

A third added, “Rarer still, the spring scene in that couplet is only ‘heard.’ A night of rain, the sound of apricot blossoms being sold—it’s all heard, not seen.”

Another suddenly exclaimed, “Marvelous! Truly marvelous! Listening to you all, I see now—the beauty of the poem is not limited to that couplet, but lies in the entire piece. It is all about being trapped in the capital, suffused with melancholy. With such feeling, how could the poet go out on a spring outing? So the spring is only heard, not seen. For Brother Zijing to infuse even spring scenery with such sorrow—what skill!”

Yet another said, “But perhaps we shouldn’t be so gloomy. While it’s true the poem’s tone is one of melancholy, isn’t there hope within the sorrow? See—in not setting foot outside, spring still comes through the paper window and into the ear. Does that not show how vibrant spring is, and that the poet’s heart still holds warmth?”

The more people discussed, the more interpretations emerged. Those who hadn’t understood before now did, and everyone wanted to share their thoughts. Different people saw different things, and soon they began to argue, some even getting red-faced in their debate over the poem’s interpretation. Yet the consensus remained: this was a superb poem.

The more Xu Jing listened to the praise, the redder her face grew—until, in the end, she simply hid behind her sleeve.

She felt a joy she could not name. She had not written the poem, but the praise filled her with delight all the same. Of course, in her heart, she knew the accolades were not for her, but for “Xu Cong.”

She was happy for Xu Wenshan.

She had intended, once the discussion ended, to tell everyone that the poem was not hers, but Xu Cong’s. Yet as the debate grew more heated, she found herself less and less able to say it. With all this praise heaped on her, would people not turn on her in anger if she suddenly revealed the poem was another’s?

Suddenly, she longed to see Xu Wenshan, to seek his counsel. Yet searching through the crowd, she could not find him anywhere.

Xu Wenshan had broken his promise.

She was instantly furious.

But Xu Wenshan had not broken his promise—he had simply left early.

While Xu Jing was reciting her poem, he had found the bookshop owner.

“It’s not that I don’t want to publish it—it’s that I can’t. I can’t get an official book number, there’s nothing I can do,” the owner said to Xu Wenshan with a wry smile.

In his hand was Xu Wenshan’s own poetry collection, “The Wenli Poems.”