By the time word came that Liu Xianglian had fled, Xue Pan’s anger had finally begun to cool. A few days later, the pain from his beating had eased, though the marks had not yet faded. Embarrassed to face relatives and acquaintances, he stayed home pretending to be ill.
Before long, the year had turned to the tenth month. Some of the clerks from the family shops were preparing to return home for the annual settling of accounts, so a farewell banquet had to be arranged. Among them was Zhang Dehui, a man over sixty who had managed the Xue family pawnshop since boyhood. He had done well enough for himself, with property worth a few thousand taels, and planned to go home for the winter and come back in the spring.
At the banquet he remarked that paper offerings and incense were scarce this year and would certainly grow expensive the next. He was thinking of sending his sons ahead to help watch the pawnshop, and before the Dragon Boat Festival he meant to bring paper goods, incense, and fans along the way to sell for a good profit after duties and expenses.
Hearing this, Xue Pan began to calculate for once with some seriousness. He had just been beaten and was in no mood to show his face. He had already been wishing to disappear somewhere for half a year or longer, yet had nowhere to go. Feigning illness day after day could not go on forever. Besides, he had grown up without becoming either scholarly or capable. Though he belonged to a merchant family, he had never really handled scales or abacus, and knew nothing of routes, distances, local products, or regional customs. Why not take some capital and spend a year traveling with Zhang Dehui? Whether he made money or not, at least he could get away from the shame—and see some mountains and rivers besides.
Once he had fixed the idea in his mind, he spoke to Zhang Dehui after the feast and told him to wait a day or two so they could leave together.
That night he told his mother. Aunt Xue was pleased on one level, but she was even more afraid that if he went abroad he would stir up trouble again. Losing some capital was nothing; the real danger was his behavior. She refused at first and told him it was enough if he simply stayed by her side so she could have some peace of mind. The family did not depend on a few hundred taels of profit. If he would only behave himself at home, that would be worth far more.
But Xue Pan had made up his mind and would not yield.
He argued that everyone always said he knew nothing of the world and had learned nothing useful. Now that he wanted to cut off his old bad habits and try to become a proper man by learning business, they still would not let him. Was he to be shut up at home like a girl forever? Zhang Dehui, he insisted, was an elderly, respectable man and an old family associate. Traveling with such a person, how could things really go wrong? If Xue Pan were about to wander into some improper place, surely Zhang would advise and restrain him. Zhang also understood markets and prices, and everything could be asked of him on the road. If the family still refused, he threatened, he would simply make his preparations in secret and leave without telling them, then return the next year rich and successful.
After saying all this, he went off to bed in a fit of temper.
Aunt Xue then discussed the matter with Baochai. Baochai’s reply was measured and clear-eyed. If her brother truly wanted to take up something serious, she said, that was a good sign. Of course, she did not trust him completely: while at home he could speak very nicely, but once outside he might easily relapse into his old habits, and then he would be even harder to control. Still, there was no use worrying endlessly. If he truly changed, it would be the blessing of his life. If he did not, there was no other remedy anyway. One had to do half what human effort allowed and leave the other half to fate.
She went on to say that a man of his age could not be kept at home forever for fear he did not understand the world. If he stayed confined all this year, next year he would still be exactly the same. Since he had presented his case so properly, they might as well reckon that eight hundred or a thousand taels were being risked and let him test himself. There would be clerks with him; they would hardly dare cheat him openly. Besides, once he was away from home, he would have no entourage encouraging him and no family standing behind him. On the road, if he had money he would eat, and if he had none he would go hungry. With no one to depend on, perhaps he would actually become more manageable than he ever had been at home.
Aunt Xue thought it over for a long while and finally agreed. If spending some money could teach him a little sense, it would be worth it.
Preparing the journey
The next day Aunt Xue sent for Zhang Dehui and had Xue Pan entertain him in the study with wine and food. She herself remained under the rear corridor, talking through the window and charging Zhang again and again to keep careful watch over her son. Zhang agreed readily. After the meal, he took his leave and added that the fourteenth would be an excellent day to begin the trip, so everything should be packed at once and mules hired in time for an early departure.
Xue Pan was delighted. He relayed the news immediately, and from then on Aunt Xue, Baochai, Xiangling, and two elderly nursemaids busied themselves for days with travel preparations. One old wet nurse, two experienced household servants, and two of Xue Pan’s regular attendants were assigned to accompany him, making six servants in all. Three large carts were hired just for luggage and supplies, along with four long-distance mules. Xue Pan himself would ride a large dark mule raised by the family, with a second saddle horse kept in reserve.
The usual admonitions from mother and sister went on late into the night and need hardly be repeated.
On the thirteenth, Xue Pan first went to bid farewell to his maternal uncle, then to the Jia household. There, too, people naturally spoke of seeing him off with parting drinks. Early on the morning of the fourteenth, Aunt Xue and Baochai accompanied him as far as the ceremonial gate. Mother and daughter stood watching him go with tears in all four eyes before turning back.
Xiangling moves into the Garden
Aunt Xue had brought only a few family households with her to the capital, plus some old women and little maids. Now that so many had gone off with Xue Pan, only one or two men remained outside. Because of this, she immediately had the furnishings, decorative objects, curtains, and hangings from the study moved inside for safekeeping. She also ordered the wives of the men who had gone away to sleep indoors with them. Then she told Xiangling to lock up her own room securely at night and come sleep with her.
Baochai suggested something else. Since Aunt Xue now had people around her, would it not be better for Xiangling to stay with her in the Garden? The rooms there were empty enough, and the nights were long. Baochai often worked late, so an extra companion would be welcome.
Aunt Xue agreed at once and even remarked that she had recently told Xue Pan that Wenxing was still too young and Yinger alone was not enough to attend Baochai; perhaps another maid should be bought for her. Baochai objected sensibly that bought girls came with unknown backgrounds. If they turned out badly, the money would matter least. Better to ask around slowly and wait until someone with known origins could be found.
So Xiangling packed her bedding and dressing things, and with the help of an old nurse and a maid had them sent over to Hengwu Court. When that was done, she and Baochai returned together to the Garden.
Xiangling laughed and confessed that she had long wanted to ask permission to move in once Xue Pan left, but had feared Aunt Xue would suspect she only wanted to come into the Garden for amusement. Baochai replied that she had long known Xiangling envied the place and had simply been waiting for an opportunity. Coming for hurried daytime visits was no fun; now she might as well stay for a year, which would give Baochai company and Xiangling her wish.
At once Xiangling seized the chance to ask for something more: since she would be staying there, would Baochai teach her to write poetry?
Baochai laughed that this was a case of wanting Shu after already gaining Long—asking for more the moment one got what one wanted. She told Xiangling that on this first day she should go out through the eastern side gate of the Garden and pay her respects everywhere, beginning with the Dowager Lady, greeting each person without making a point of announcing that she had moved in. If anyone asked, she need only say that Baochai had brought her in as a companion. Afterward she could visit the rooms of the other girls inside the Garden.
Pinger brings news of Baoyu
Just as Xiangling was about to go, Pinger came hurrying in. After the greetings, Baochai mentioned that she had brought Xiangling to stay with her and had been meaning to send word to Wang Xifeng. Pinger said politely there was no need for such formality, but Baochai insisted that even in an inn there was an owner, and in a temple a presiding monk; small as the matter was, someone ought to be told. If the people who locked the gates and kept night watch knew two more people were staying there, so much the better. Pinger agreed to carry the message back.
Then, teasing Xiangling, she asked whether she would not go pay respects to her new neighbors. Baochai answered that she had just been sending her out for exactly that purpose. Pinger added that Xiangling need not go to their side just yet, because Baoyu had been beaten and was lying ill at home.
After Xiangling left, Pinger drew Baochai aside and quietly asked whether she had heard the latest news. Baochai had not. She had been too occupied these past days with seeing her brother off to know what had happened in the Jia household.
Pinger then told the story.
The master had recently become obsessed with acquiring old fans. He had seen some somewhere, returned home dissatisfied with all the fine fans already in the house, and at once sent people searching in every direction. There happened to be a poor eccentric, known to everyone by the nickname Stone Dullard, who owned twenty old fans yet lived in extreme poverty and refused to part with them at any price.
Baoyu had gone in person after much persuasion and was invited in to look at them. According to him, they were truly exceptional—made of Xiang bamboo, palm bamboo, elk-horn bamboo, mottled bamboo, and so on, all bearing authentic calligraphy and paintings by old masters. After hearing this report, the master ordered that the fans be bought no matter the cost. But Stone Dullard said he would sooner starve or freeze than sell them; not for a thousand taels each would he let them go.
The master, unable to force the sale directly, kept scolding Baoyu for being ineffectual. He had already offered five hundred taels for the lot, silver ready in advance, and still the man refused, saying that whoever wanted the fans must first take his life.
Then Jia Yucun heard of the matter and devised a vicious solution. Stone Dullard was falsely accused of withholding government funds, hauled to the yamen, and his property was confiscated to make up the supposed debt. The fans were seized, appraised at an official price, and sent over. Whether the poor man was still alive or dead, no one knew.
When the master asked Baoyu how the fans had been obtained, Baoyu replied only that ruining a man and wrecking his household over such a trifling matter was no great accomplishment. That angered the father immediately; he took the words as insolence. There had also been several smaller offenses in recent days, and together they led to the beating. It was not done with the usual boards and rods, Pinger said, but with something snatched up on the spot, delivered in a wild flurry while he stood there. His face had been broken in two places.
She had come, in fact, to ask for one of the medicinal pills Aunt Xue’s household kept for wounds from beatings. Baochai at once sent Yinger to fetch one for her. Then she said she would not go visit Baoyu herself after all, but asked Pinger to convey her regards.
Xiangling asks to learn poetry
After Xiangling had made the rounds and dined, Baochai and the others went to attend on the Dowager Lady, while Xiangling made her way to the Bamboo Lodge. Daiyu, now much recovered, was delighted to hear that Xiangling had come into the Garden to live.
Xiangling immediately repeated her request with cheerful earnestness: now that she finally had some free time, would Daiyu please teach her to write poetry? If she could learn, it would be her great good fortune.
Daiyu replied in the same playful spirit that if Xiangling truly wanted to write poetry, she should take her as her teacher. She was no great master, Daiyu said, but could at least teach the basics. Xiangling agreed on the spot and begged that Daiyu not grow impatient with her.
Daiyu then began explaining. Poetry, she said, was not such a terrible mystery. There were the usual parts—opening, continuation, turn, and close—and in regulated verse the middle couplets were two sets of paired lines, level tones matched against oblique, empty words against empty words, solid words against solid words. But if one truly had a marvelous line, even perfect conformity of tones and categories could be bent.
Xiangling said this answered doubts she had long carried. She often stole moments to look through old poetry books and noticed that some couplets matched with exquisite neatness while others did not. She had also heard the rule that in five- and seven-character lines the first, third, and fifth positions were flexible while the second, fourth, and sixth had to be exact—yet in ancient poems she still saw seeming exceptions. Now, hearing Daiyu explain it, she understood that these patterns and rules were secondary after all, and freshness of wording mattered more.
Daiyu corrected her gently: even wording was not the first thing. What mattered most was the conception. If the meaning and feeling were true, then even without elaborate diction the poem could still be good. One must not let wording injure meaning.
Xiangling said she especially loved Lu You’s lines about curtains holding fragrance and an old inkstone gathering ink in its shallow hollows. Daiyu at once told her she must not begin from such poems. People who did not yet understand poetry were too easily drawn to what was smooth and easy. Once trapped in that mold, they could never really advance.
Instead, Daiyu laid out a course of reading. If Xiangling truly meant to learn, she should first take Wang Wei’s collected poems and read a hundred of his five-character regulated verses until she had thoroughly absorbed them. After that she should read a hundred or two of Du Fu’s seven-character regulated poems, and then a hundred or two of Li Bai’s seven-character quatrains. Once those three had formed the foundation in her mind, she could go on to Tao Yuanming and others from earlier ages. Xiangling was quick and intelligent by nature, Daiyu said; within a year, she need not fear becoming a genuine poet.
Overjoyed, Xiangling asked for the book immediately, saying that if she could take it back and read a few poems at night, that alone would be a blessing. Daiyu had Zijuan bring her Wang Wei’s five-character regulated verse. She told Xiangling that all the poems marked with red circles had been specially selected by her: read one if you have one, she said; if something is unclear, ask your mistress, or ask me whenever you see me.
Xiangling returned to Hengwu Court with the book and forgot everything else. Under the lamp she read poem after poem. Baochai urged her to sleep several times, but she would not stop. Seeing how single-minded she was, Baochai let her continue.
Learning to taste a poem
A few days later Xiangling came smiling to return the Wang Wei volume and ask to exchange it for Du Fu’s regulated verse. Daiyu asked how many poems she remembered. Xiangling answered that she had read all those marked with red circles.
Daiyu then asked whether she had gained any sense of their flavor. Xiangling said that she had, though she did not know whether her impressions were correct, and asked to speak them aloud.
What she said pleased Daiyu at once. The finest part of poetry, Xiangling said, was that it conveyed something the mouth could not fully explain, yet when one turned it over in the mind it became vividly real. At first some lines even seemed unreasonable, but the more one thought on them, the more one saw that they were full of reason and feeling.
Daiyu smiled and asked what had led her to this insight.
Xiangling gave examples from Wang Wei. In the line “A solitary plume of smoke rises straight above the great desert; the long river sets with a rounded sun,” she said, the word “straight” for smoke seemed almost impossible, and “round” for the setting sun almost too ordinary. Yet once she closed the book and thought about it, the scene stood right before her eyes. No other two words could replace those.
She cited another couplet: “At sunset the rivers and lakes turn white; with the tide, heaven and earth become green.” “White” and “green” again seemed strange at first, yet only those words could fully capture the scene. Reciting them in the mouth felt like holding an olive with immense weight and flavor packed into it.
She mentioned still another line about the remaining sunset at a ferry crossing and solitary smoke rising above a village. The words “remaining” and “rising” struck her as miraculous. Then she recalled a memory of their journey to the capital years before: one evening the boat had moored in a bend, the shore empty but for a few trees and distant households cooking supper. The smoke had been a clear bluish green and gone straight up into the clouds. Reading those lines the night before had carried her back there at once.
While she was speaking, Baoyu and Tanchun came in and sat down to listen. Baoyu told Xiangling that if this was how she understood poetry, then there was hardly any need for her to keep reading in sheer quantity. In the place where true understanding dawned, much was not required; from these few comments alone it was clear she had already grasped something essential.
Daiyu, however, pointed out another layer. Xiangling had praised the line about smoke rising above a village, but did not yet know that it transformed an earlier poet’s image. Daiyu then brought out Tao Yuanming’s line about warm distant villages and softly clinging smoke over the hamlets, saying that this was even plainer and more natural. Xiangling studied it, nodded, and admired it deeply, realizing that the later poet’s “rising” had indeed been drawn from Tao’s “softly clinging.”
Baoyu laughed and declared that she had it already; the more they explained, the more they might only confuse her. Better to start writing at once. Tanchun joked that she would send Xiangling an invitation to join their poetry club the next day.
Xiangling protested that they were teasing her. She had only envied them and wanted to learn for amusement. Daiyu and Tanchun laughed and replied that they all wrote for amusement—did anyone imagine they were solemnly producing great works? If their poems were carried outside the Garden and shown off as serious accomplishments, people might laugh their teeth out.
Baoyu objected. Just the other day, he said, he had been discussing painting with some young scholars outside. When they heard that a poetry society had been formed in the Garden, they begged to see some of the poems. He had copied out a few for them, and all were sincerely full of admiration; some had even copied them down for engraving.
Daiyu and Tanchun were alarmed and asked whether he was telling the truth. Baoyu swore he was, but they scolded him for his nonsense. Whether the poems were good or bad, they said, the writings of girls in the inner quarters should not be passed outside. Baoyu shrugged and said that if such writings had not circulated in past ages, nobody would know of them now.
Just then someone came from Xichun’s rooms to fetch him, and he left.
First attempts at moon poetry
Xiangling then pressed Daiyu for Du Fu’s poems and begged both Daiyu and Tanchun to set her a topic so she could try a composition and bring it back for correction. Daiyu said that the previous night’s moon had been especially beautiful, and she herself had intended to draft a poem on it but never finished one. Xiangling should write on the moon, using any rhymes she liked from the han rhyme group.
Xiangling took the assignment back in delight. But now she was seized completely. She would ponder two lines, then be unable to part from Du Fu and read two more poems. Food and tea no longer interested her. She could not sit still or lie still.
Baochai laughed and said she was only making trouble for herself. It was all Daiyu’s doing. Xiangling had already been absent-minded by nature; adding poetry to it would make her into a real fool.
Xiangling only smiled and begged Baochai not to mock her.
At last she completed a first poem and showed it to Baochai. Baochai read it and told her kindly that it would not do; this was not the right method. She should not be ashamed, but simply take it to Daiyu and see what she said.
So Xiangling brought the poem over. Daiyu read it:
The moon hangs high in the cold night sky,
Its pure light bright, its rounded shadows full.
Poets, stirred to pleasure, long to gaze at it;
Wanderers in the wild cannot bear to look for grief.
Beside jade towers it hangs like a polished mirror;
Outside pearl curtains it seems an icy plate.
Why burn silver candles on so fair a night,
When radiant brilliance already paints the carved rails?
Daiyu said the poem did contain an idea, but the diction was not refined. Xiangling had read too little, and the conventional expressions had trapped her. She should throw this one aside and write another, more boldly.
The fever of composition
Xiangling came back in silence. She would not even go indoors, but wandered beneath the trees by the pond, or sat on a rock sunk in thought, or squatted on the ground scratching at the dirt. People passing by stared at her in surprise.
When Li Wan, Baochai, Tanchun, and Baoyu heard of it, they stood at a distance on the hillside and watched. Sometimes Xiangling knitted her brows; sometimes she smiled to herself. Baochai said she must be on the verge of madness. The night before she had muttered and fretted until the fifth watch before finally sleeping, and after hardly enough time for one meal, dawn had come and she was up again, hastily combing her hair and rushing to Daiyu. She had spent the whole day in a trance, written one unsatisfactory poem, and now was surely trying another.
Baoyu said that this was exactly why one could never say Heaven gave people their gifts in vain. They had always lamented that someone like Xiangling had been buried in vulgar circumstances, but now her native feeling had broken through at last. It showed that Heaven was perfectly fair.
Baochai replied with a smile that if only he himself could apply such effort, what was there he would fail to learn?
He gave no answer.
Soon they saw Xiangling brighten and head again toward Daiyu’s place. Tanchun proposed that they all follow and see whether the new attempt had any promise. So they went together to the Bamboo Lodge.
There Daiyu was already discussing the new poem with Xiangling. When the others asked how it was, Daiyu said it was certainly impressive for someone at her stage, but still not right. This time the problem was over-elaboration; she would have to try again.
They asked to see the poem and read:
Not silver, not water, yet it chills the window;
Wipe your eyes and see clear sky guarding the jade plate.
Faint plum blossoms seem almost dyed with fragrance;
Fine willow bands seem damp, the dew just dried.
One might think pale powder had brushed the golden steps;
Or light frost had smeared the jade balustrade.
Waking from dreams in the western chamber, no footsteps anywhere—
Its lingering beauty can still be seen through the curtain.
Baochai laughed that this no longer sounded like a poem on the moon itself. If one added the word “light” after “moon,” it might fit better, because every line was really about moonlight. Still, she said, poetry often began in wild talk; given a few more days, Xiangling might well improve.
But Xiangling had thought this second poem excellent. Hearing such judgment, she lost heart for a moment, yet still could not let go. Seeing the others chatting and joking together, she withdrew to pace beneath the bamboo by the steps, searching her heart and brains, deaf to what was said around her and blind to everything else.
At one point Tanchun called out through the window, telling her to take it easy. Xiangling, dazed with concentration, answered absently that the word she had just used belonged to a different rhyme category and would spoil the rhyme.
Everyone burst out laughing.
Baochai declared that she was truly possessed by a poetry demon, all because Daiyu had led her into it. Daiyu only replied that the sages had praised teaching without weariness; if Xiangling came to ask, how could she refuse to answer?
A brief interruption, and deeper obsession
Li Wan suggested they drag Xiangling over to Xichun’s rooms to look at her paintings and bring her back to her senses. So they did exactly that, taking her across to where Xichun was napping in the afternoon. Her painting silk stood against the wall covered by gauze. After waking her and lifting the gauze, they saw that the work was only about three-tenths finished.
Seeing several painted beauties in the picture, Xiangling pointed and laughed, saying that one was their mistress and another was Miss Lin. Tanchun joked that everyone who knew how to write poetry would be painted there eventually, so Xiangling had better hurry and learn.
After some more laughter they all dispersed.
Yet Xiangling’s mind remained full of poems. That night she stared into the lamplight in a trance. After the third watch she lay down, but her eyes stayed wide open until nearly the fifth before she fell into a drowsy sleep.
When dawn came, Baochai woke first. Listening carefully, she heard that Xiangling was at last sleeping soundly and thought to herself that after tossing all night she must be exhausted; better not wake her yet.
Even as she thought this, Xiangling suddenly laughed in her sleep and cried out, “Now I have it! Surely this one can’t still be bad!”
Baochai, half amused and half touched, quickly woke her and asked what she had found. Her sincerity had nearly put her in communion with immortals, she said; if she failed to learn poetry, she would at least make herself ill from trying.
In fact, Xiangling’s determination had grown so intense that what she could not produce by daylight came to her in a dream. There in sleep she received eight full lines. After washing and dressing she hurried to write them down, with no idea whether they were good or bad, and set off once more to find Daiyu.
By the time she reached the Qinfang Pavilion, Li Wan and the others were just returning from Lady Wang’s rooms, and Baochai was telling them how Xiangling had composed a poem in her sleep and talked about it aloud in her dream. They were all still laughing when they looked up and saw her arrive. At once everyone crowded around, eager to snatch the poem and see what she had produced.