Chapter 80: If Yingda Were Here, She Would Stand Against the World

When they drank, although Ye Chang also raised his cup to join in, he merely sipped, never truly swallowing the liquor. He was waiting for the show to begin—especially to see Jiao Sui make a spectacle of himself.

Indeed, Jiao Sui, unable to resist the craving in his belly, drained half his cup in a single gulp. The Tang dynasty boasted many famed wines—Dew Nectar, Osmanthus Elixir, Pear Blossom Spring, Baxian Clear, and even Shule Wine from the Western Regions. Yet, Tang wines were never strong. Even the grape wine brewed from mare’s milk during Emperor Taizong’s reign was called “fragrant and intense,” suggesting how mild the others were.

But the liquor Ye Chang produced was different. Before heading to Chang’an, he had his brother-in-law, Liu Kun, craft a simple set of ceramic distillers. Following the method recorded in the Compendium of Materia Medica, he distilled the spirit and obtained only five jars in total. It was meant as an experiment, unexpectedly successful at the first attempt. Though not particularly high in proof—Ye Chang estimated about forty degrees—it was far stronger than any wine known to the Tang people.

As expected, Jiao Sui had not yet swallowed when his throat erupted in fiery discomfort. He almost spat the liquor out, but thinking how rare and delicious it was, he forced it down. The result, inevitably, was a fit of violent coughing—his face reddened, neck bulged, and breath shortened. He was not alone; except for He Zhizhang, who drank sparingly for his health, nearly half the others were also seized by coughing.

“This liquor is fierce, unmatched in our times. One must not drink it hastily, lest it harm the throat.” Ye Chang spoke calmly, watching Jiao Sui’s contortions, and the others could not help but stifle their laughter. Zhong Wei, ever sharp-tongued, had been irked by Jiao Sui’s rudeness and now muttered, “Truly, it’s harmed the monkey.”

Jiao Sui, oblivious to Ye Chang’s mockery, finally caught his breath, exhaled deeply, and gave a thumbs up. “Good wine! Excellent wine! What is its name?”

“It is called Sweet Dew.”

“Indeed, a nectar fit for the heavens—such a drink is rare on earth!” On the other side, He Zhizhang, himself a lover of wine, tasted it and was soon flushed and merry. He sighed, “To be welcomed with such fine liquor—what a pity, what a pity! If only Li Taibai were here! With him, the words would flow like pearls, inspiration would surge forth!”

He steadied himself, then laughed, “I am old and frail, yet in my twilight years I have met the Banished Immortal, Li Taibai, and the Sage Ye the Eleventh. It is a joy of my life! Come, gentlemen, drink with this old man again!”

“This wine is not only strong but has a lingering effect. Drink if you must, but don’t be greedy,” Ye Chang cautioned, knowing it was likely futile. “Especially you, Master He—small sips strengthen the body, but excess will harm you. Moderation is key.”

He Zhizhang, hearing his earnestness, smiled and nodded. Thereafter, he drank only a little each time. As the group relished this rare brew, suddenly the sound of weeping arose.

It was Jiao Sui.

“Why do you weep, Jiao Langjun?” He Zhizhang and Ye Chang, familiar with Jiao Sui’s temperament, paid him no mind, knowing that attention would only encourage him. But Du Fu, less acquainted, immediately inquired.

“For thirty years I fancied myself the champion of the wine realm, the governor of the land of drunkenness—never did I realize how wrong I was! Only today, tasting Sweet Dew, do I see that the past thirty years have been wasted… Such marvelous wine, why only now?”

His words sobered the gathering. Though his tone was aggrieved, it was genuine; it was less about never having tasted such wine and more about talents meeting no opportunity.

“Eleventh Lord, where did you obtain this wine? Alas, after tasting it, all other wines must seem dull.” After venting, Jiao Sui sighed and asked.

“Home-brewed, not for sale,” Ye Chang replied with a smile.

Jiao Sui paused, then leapt from his seat and bowed deeply. “Eleventh Lord, I would sell myself—my hundred-odd pounds—for just a daily taste of this wine…”

“Impossible! I have but five jars in total—one opened today, four remain. How could I let you drink your fill every day?” Ye Chang shook his head. “Besides, too much wine is harmful. Small sips are fine; daily drunkenness is no way for a gentleman to conduct himself!”

This was a rare chance for Ye Chang to put on a stern face and thoroughly lecture Jiao Sui. Jiao Sui, stunned into silence, could only grin foolishly and say, “If you’d grant me a cup each day, I’d gladly accept your lectures daily…”

“I can’t deal with you!” Ye Chang was speechless. For a wine addict to such a degree—truly a rarity. Ignoring him, Ye Chang turned to the others, “Please enjoy your drinks slowly. Only by savoring this strong wine can you fully appreciate its flavor. I must see to matters in the kitchen. Uncle, please ensure our guests enjoy the dishes.”

By the time the last course—chicken stewed with chestnuts—was served, night had fully fallen and lanterns shone brightly. Without realizing it, the guests had eaten and drunk for over an hour! Enthralled by the wine and food, He Zhizhang, Du Fu, and the others could not help but take up brushes, composing poems in praise of the banquet. When Ye Chang returned, the atmosphere grew even livelier; the only regret was the lack of beautiful dancers to perform.

The elderly usually sleep lightly, but He Zhizhang did not wake until the sun was high, a testament to the wine’s effect—he had drunk moderately, and it aided his rest. Upon waking, he learned the magistrate and county captain had left early for official duties, while he and Du Fu remained at Wolong Valley, their attendants lodged at Wuze Marsh.

“Well, a good night’s sleep indeed.” After washing with the help of his attendants, He Zhizhang was eating rice porridge when Ye Chang arrived. He smiled, not bothering with courtesy, and greeted him with a mouthful of porridge.

“Food should have accompaniment, Master He—behold this,” Ye Chang said with a laugh, handing over an object.

He Zhizhang set down his bowl and saw it was a scroll. On its cover, in bold script, were the words: “Collected Farewell Poems for Director He.” The calligraphy was a personal imitation of Yan’s style, the ink still fragrant. Smiling, He Zhizhang opened it, then exclaimed, “Oh! This is…”

The first poem was an imperial farewell by Li Longji. Yet what surprised He Zhizhang was not the text, but the writing. These were not hand-written characters! Nor did it resemble current block printing; the characters were clear as if penned in ink, and, strikingly, the lines were horizontal, not vertical.

“Eleventh Lord, what is this?” He Zhizhang murmured, looking up at Ye Chang.

“Look further,” Ye Chang replied, producing another scroll, identical in content and script but lacking a cover. Then a third, a fourth. By now, He Zhizhang understood—these were printed books. Yet he was puzzled: printing required carved blocks, and carving a block was slow and error-prone. To print so many volumes overnight was impossible!

“I have a new printing method. If you’d stay here a few more days, I wish to print and preserve your poems, hopefully to circulate them in the future. Naturally, you will receive a fair share of the proceeds,” Ye Chang explained.

He Zhizhang laughed, “You have a merchant’s mind, Eleventh Lord?”

“I do not see it as commerce, but as the art of Tao Zhu,” Ye Chang replied gravely.

“And what’s the difference?”

“It is said that Tao Zhu Gong was Fan Li; with the seal of office, he strengthened a nation; as a merchant, he enriched his family. He thrice gave away his wealth, roaming among springs and forests—how can an ordinary merchant compare?”

He Zhizhang pondered this in silence for a long time.

In the Tang, scholars were esteemed above merchants, agriculture the foundation, though trade flourished, especially with the Western Regions. Yet merchants’ social and political status was low. He Zhizhang was one of the Four Gentlemen of Wu, influenced by both Confucianism and Daoism; expecting him to accept Ye Chang’s view after a few words was unrealistic.

Ye Chang did not expect to convince him at once; their discussion was brief, soon turning to the books themselves. Curious, He Zhizhang asked, “Eleventh Lord, this printing differs from block-carving—what new craft is this?”

He had seen Ye Chang introduce cement and football, so he knew he liked to “innovate.” Ye Chang nodded, “It is a new technique. Where once a block for a single page took ten or fifteen days to carve, now it can be done instantly. Even the ink is different, giving a brightness and clarity resembling handwritten characters.”

He Zhizhang could see this himself; hearing Ye Chang’s explanation, he could not help but feel that Ye Chang was truly a man of national talent—pity that, having offended certain people, he was not favored by the Emperor.

At this time, Ye Chang was already using copper movable type. Clay type had its flaws; upon realizing this, he increased the cost, making copper type based on the clay ones.

“But why is the printing horizontal, and what are these odd marks?” He Zhizhang asked.

“The new plates have a limitation—they are suited to horizontal, but not vertical, layout,” Ye Chang replied with a smile.

This, of course, was a lie. If one could print horizontally, one could print vertically; technically, there was no difference. But in Ye Chang’s view, horizontal printing saved paper and was better suited to certain symbols and punctuation.

“I still think vertical printing is best,” He Zhizhang muttered.

“Speaking of which, do you know why our writing is always vertical?” Ye Chang was unconvinced. “It’s simply because, in ancient times, there was no paper—characters were carved on bamboo and wood slips. If carved horizontally, it was hard to unroll and read; vertically was more convenient. Now that we have paper, we should use whatever method is easiest—why cling stubbornly to old ways?”

He Zhizhang shook his head, finding Ye Chang’s explanation dubious but not worth disputing. He pointed to the marks again. “And these?”

“Punctuation marks. I call them ‘points and pauses.’ For those who can read but do not understand the divisions, these make the meaning clear,” Ye Chang explained.

He Zhizhang was silent for a long time, then sighed, “If Kong Yingda were alive, you would surely be branded the enemy of the scholars.”

This remark startled Ye Chang. He had adopted these two reforms only for convenience—he saw them as trivial matters, unrelated to politics or economics, affecting only reading habits and expecting little resistance.

But He Zhizhang’s words—“enemy of the scholars”—were like a bucket of cold water, making Ye Chang uneasy. Kong Yingda, a renowned scholar in Emperor Taizong’s time, had been ordered to compile the Correct Meanings of the Five Classics, ending the chaos of conflicting interpretations in Confucianism. He was upright and stubborn, always citing the ancients. If he were alive, he would indeed attack Ye Chang and brand him the enemy of the scholarly world.

Even though Kong Yingda was gone, men like him were hardly few. Even He Zhizhang, famous for his open-mindedness and support of the young, clearly rejected Ye Chang’s innovations.

“If it is convenient, print mine vertically and omit the punctuation,” He Zhizhang said slowly.

Having retired to seek the Way, he wished no part in fresh turmoil. Yet Ye Chang’s innovation would surely stir up storms among the scholars. Were it not for his pity for Ye Chang’s unappreciated talent, He Zhizhang might have considered severing ties with him.

This left Ye Chang rather embarrassed.

The poetry collection was meant both to thank He Zhizhang for his regard and to spread his own ideas through the older man’s fame. Yet with a single sentence, He Zhizhang had dashed his hopes. Ye Chang always thought of him as an amiable elder, and now, preparing to pursue Daoist cultivation, he supposed He Zhizhang would not mind being used in this way.

But though these were all figures from history, none were fools. Ye Chang realized his little scheme had been seen through. Though He Zhizhang did not show anger, he refused to cooperate. Ye Chang, thinking quickly, did not insist, but nodded. “You’re right, Master He. I was too rash and frivolous.”

“Eleventh Lord, you are but seventeen—outstanding in talent and wit, visited by immortals in dreams. Just nurture your virtue for forty years, and you’ll rival Kong Yingda as the literary master of the age,” He Zhizhang comforted him.

But how could Ye Chang not feel disappointed? All his plans had collapsed simply because He Zhizhang would not play along.

Then he realized He Zhizhang’s meaning.

At seventeen, if he nurtured his reputation for forty years, he would be fifty-seven—still in his prime—and could enter court as a minister. Then, as the leading literary figure of the age, his reforms would be much easier to promote.

But Ye Chang could not wait. Even if he could, the An Lushan Rebellion would not. After the Tang’s brief golden age, deep-seated problems had taken root; even without An Lushan and Shi Siming, other crises would erupt. The root cause was economic: the vast empire needed strong armies on its borders, but the weak central finances could not support the military to control the regions—thus, strength outside but hollow within.

Nor did Ye Chang expect a long life; if he waited until fifty, he might die before his work bore fruit.

“Master He, you jest. To become the literary master of the age, with all those years of study—just the thought chills me. I only wish to live freely, refine some elixirs, play the qin, enjoy poetry and wine—that is enough for me.” Thus Ye Chang could only let the matter drop, giving a light excuse and turning his thoughts to other means.