Chapter 73: Beneath the Weight of Fame

After another half an hour, Wang Lingran managed to scrape together ten tokens, while the other guests each contributed their own, and at last the set of fifty drinking tokens was completed. Yet as these freshly made tokens were placed into the gilded tube, the guests no longer bore the high spirits and confident airs they had shown at the beginning of the drinking game; instead, they broke into small groups, whispering among themselves.

As several rounds of the common drinking game went by, cups clinked and laughter rose, and every face flushed with the warmth of wine. Wang Lingran, whether through ill fortune or some other reason, drew the self-drinking penalty of forty points twice, and with all the wine he drank to mask his embarrassment, his pale cheeks were as red as boiled shrimp.

When the common game ended and the more refined contest was about to begin, Du Shiyi smiled and excused himself from the role of judge, claiming his youth and inexperience, and willingly offered to serve as the cupbearer to urge others to drink. Princess Yuzhen, as hostess, glanced around the room, saw the relief on every face, and readily agreed, passing the role of judge to Miao Jinqing, the eldest present and a native of Luzhou.

Miao Jinqing, ever tactful, chose a poetry contest based on characters related to the sun. Everyone, emboldened by wine, struggled to compose fine lines, while Miao Jinqing’s witty and incisive critiques flowed without pause. Du Shiyi, delighted to be at ease, simply managed the flags and tokens, dispensing penalties only at Miao’s command. Most present were literary men well-versed in poetry, so he had little to do. As the entertainers performed songs and dances, he chose to enjoy his wine, the music, and the beauties, watching the others labor over their verses.

The Fuping Stone Spring wine was already down three jars. Though, with Princess Yuzhen’s noble presence, no one dared to shed their outer robes and abandon propriety, most could not help but loosen their collars. After returning from changing her attire, Princess Yuzhen appeared in a gauzy robe that half-revealed her creamy skin, making her all the more striking in the chamber, still aglow with dozens of beeswax candles despite the daylight outside.

As another round of the game concluded, Miao Jinqing caught a glance from the princess and, smiling, announced that they would stop here. The scribe-maid, Huo Qing, quickly presented a sheet of white hemp paper filled with the guests’ poetic lines to the hostess. Princess Yuzhen glanced over it with swift, practiced eyes and then broke into laughter.

“In all the feasts I have hosted here, never has the drinking game gone through so many rounds of elegance and vulgarity. I imagine you gentlemen must be weary. The music and dance you barely had time to enjoy, so now, let us appreciate a performance of sword and acrobatics!”

Du Shiyi saw Huo Qing clap softly at the princess’s side. Soon after, the musicians began with pipa and flute. Suddenly, a figure shot in from beyond the hall, landing gracefully on one leg, sword in hand—a vision of poise. At first, the hall was silent, then thunderous applause broke out.

The sword dancer, wielding a blade adorned with a crimson tassel, leapt and whirled about the hall. Sometimes she was like a wild goose alighting on a sandbank, sometimes like a dragon rising from the water; now swift as lightning and thunder, now slow as an old ox pulling a cart. The variety dazzled the eyes. While the audience watched the dance, Princess Yuzhen observed Du Shiyi thoughtfully. Though he watched, his smile was faint, and recalling the events of two years ago when Imperial Censor Liu Zhao returned to the capital, she was now certain.

The fame of Lady Gongsun was greater than ever, not only for her sword dance but for the heroic verses that accompanied it. The three sisters of the Feng family were but embellishments; the one who wrote those stirring words could only be the young man before her. After all, Lady Gongsun’s pairing of heroic verse with sword dance began at Dengfeng!

When the music ended, the young dancer, blushing, saluted with her sword and received her reward. Someone at the table praised her, “Your noble lady’s sword dance tonight is not inferior to the legendary Lady Gongsun herself!”

Upon hearing these words, the dancer’s cheeks grew even redder as she bowed repeatedly in thanks. Wang Lingran, who had drunk the most, was clearly intoxicated, yet at these words, he could not help but sneer, “This dancer’s swordplay is indeed first-rate, but her moves are still a bit soft, lacking the chilling edge that can only be appreciated up close. I saw Lady Gongsun’s sword dance last year after passing the civil service exams in Yanshi; the entire town gathered, the streets emptied, and her dance shook heaven and earth—none could match her! Moreover, when Lady Gongsun came to Dengfeng two years ago to encourage the people during the locust plague, someone composed a half-finished ballad in praise of her sword dance. Though incomplete, it spread far and wide, but no one has ever managed to finish it!”

Having only managed to save face earlier with others’ help, Wang Lingran’s conceited manner had already irked many. Now, someone could not help but retort, “If you cannot finish the poem, must you assume no one else can?”

Stung by the rebuke, Wang Lingran shot to his feet and retorted coldly, “Since Lady Gongsun left the capital over two years ago, she has not returned, and the incomplete ballad is not known here. But talent is not confined to the capital alone. If someone truly could finish it, would it remain incomplete to this day? Since you imply that I cannot continue the poem, you must mean you can. Very well, let everyone hear this ballad, so widely known in Hebei and the capital region!”

With that, he ignored his challenger, picked up the wine cup before him, and drank it down in one gulp. Then, in a sonorous voice, he recited:

“Now there is a beauty, Lady Gongsun,
One dance, and the sword’s spirit stirs the four directions.
Onlookers crowd like mountains, their spirits subdued,
Heaven and earth bow and linger in awe.
She moves like Yi shooting down the nine suns,
She soars as the imperial dragons in flight.
She comes like thunder seizing wrath and rage,
She rests like the clear light pooled in rivers and seas.”

He paused, looking down with a half-drunken, almost mocking smile at the scholar across from him. “Since you boast so, here is the ballad—please continue it.”

Princess Yuzhen, seeing Wang Lingran once again locked in a contest of words, could not help but glance at Du Shiyi. The young man, who clearly ought to have been the center of attention, seemed more absorbed by the white sand fish dish just served to him; he ate heartily, chatting with Huo Qing as if oblivious to the dispute. The princess, withdrawing her gaze, looked again at Wang Lingran, who now sat alone in his defiance, and found her opinion of him was slightly altered.

Arrogant he may be, but at least he speaks his mind—there is a certain straightforwardness to him.

As expected, no one could continue the poem. Whether prose or verse, to pick up the thread of another’s work is the hardest thing in the world; the attempt risks ridicule, and all present were men of letters. Examining those eight lines, each felt the poem already complete, leaving nothing to add. Miao Jinqing, ever the peacemaker, was about to change the subject when Yao Hong, sitting beside Wang Lingran, cleared his throat.

“If you hold that unfinished ballad in such esteem, what would you say if I knew who wrote it?”

“Are you serious, Yao?”

Though eldest grandson of the Yao family, Yao Hong was, at best, a middling poet. At this banquet, he had kept mostly silent, save for the necessary rounds of the drinking game. Now, seeing Wang Lingran’s delighted surprise and the guests’ astonishment, he replied unhurriedly, “Far away as it may seem, the answer is right before our eyes.”

Now even Sun Di’s curiosity was piqued. He prided himself on his learning, but since coming to the capital, he had found more talent than he ever imagined. Wang Lingran’s recitation had already stirred his interest, and now he pressed, “What do you mean, Yao? Do you mean—the author is among us?”

Yao Hong smiled warmly at Du Shiyi. How could Du not realize? After Liu Zhao’s return to the capital, he must have told Yao Chong the whole story, or Yao had learned it through other means. Even though Yao Chong had resigned his post, Du had no wish to attract the attention of the old chancellor. Yet, since Yao Hong had revealed it publicly, Du Shiyi raised his cup with a calm smile. “It’s an old tale now, Yao—surely this is not the time to rake up the past.”

With these words, he all but admitted he was the author of the half-finished ballad. The guests exchanged glances, amazed. Yao Hong raised his cup in response, “That half-ballad of yours has stumped so many. Now, to hear the sword dance once more at the noble lady’s pavilion, even if it cannot compare to Lady Gongsun’s of old, can you not finish the poem?”

Finding himself again the center of attention, Du Shiyi felt keenly the need for vigilance in such company. He gestured for Huo Qing to refill his cup, took a measured sip, and answered crisply, “I cannot.”

Seeing the varied expressions around him, he continued, “That day, it was the sight of Lady Gongsun’s matchless sword dance that inspired those eight lines. Later, as I took my leave, I told her that the poem had already captured all the grandeur of her dance; if it were ever to be continued, it would have to wait until twenty years had passed and the world itself had changed.”

Yao had revealed the truth, Du had acknowledged it, and all present sighed in admiration. Though there were more songs and dances that night, none lingered in anyone’s memory. As the guests departed, men like Miao Jinqing, Sun Di, and Kou Zhao inquired where Du Shiyi was staying. Learning he was lodging at the Persuasion Inn and was a disciple of Lu Hong the Mountain Recluse, each kept their own counsel. Discovering that Du Shiyi would soon leave the capital to return to the mountains, Yao Hong, who had meant to extend another invitation, changed his mind and instead hurried after the brooding Wang Lingran, who had just taken his leave of Princess Yuzhen.

Du Shiyi, as was his wont, was among the last to go. As he made his farewell, Princess Yuzhen suddenly asked, “Du, is your uncle Du Fu, known as Du Ruoxu, now the magistrate of Xiping in Xianzhou?”