Chapter 21

Du Fu.

A Tang poet venerated as near‑legendary across the Confucian sphere, to the point that, in Joseon, state‑sponsored translated anthologies appeared; because regulated verse written in logographs developed clear evaluative standards, and Du Fu wrote poems that virtually set all those benchmarks.

Thus Jaheon wrote a poem of Du Fu.

Of course, he chose one whose sentiment Cai Yong could share, given his circumstances:

“…As this aging body gathers only sickness,

I have offered not the least requital to my lord.

When I ride out to the fields and gaze to the horizon,

I can hardly bear the world’s daily decline.”

It was a Du Fu poem filled with concern for the realm. In this way, before sitting any formal examination, Jaheon finished the poem and laid down his brush.

“…Having written a poem by Du Fu, surely they won’t insist on an exam.”

This was because the modern Jaheon did not have many regulated poems memorized; being assigned a theme could prove troublesome. So he intended to trade a few barbs with Cai Yong, then produce an excellent poem as his rebuttal to the debate. If what he wrote was truly outstanding, Cai Yong would hardly be able to demand a separate test.

But who could have known?

“……?”

That Cai Yong, reading Jaheon’s poem, would let foolish, chicken‑dropping‑like tears stream down his face.

“…How do you know my heart so well?”

And tears were not all.

“Why—why only now do you appear before me?! Had you been here, I would not have worked like this…!”

As if forgetting his dignity as a renowned man, Cai Yong seized Jaheon before the crowd, pouring out all manner of mortifying praise—calling him the reincarnation of Qu Yuan, the blessing of the Han. Jaheon had indeed hoped Cai Yong’s recognition would raise his repute, but not to this extent.

“Do you know how many piles of dog‑dung verse I’ve had to read since coming up to Luoyang? All of it must have been the ordeal I had to endure in order to read your poem!”

Even for that eminent Cai Yong, the remarks mixed in were rather lacking in refinement. What is more, he addressed Jaheon by an office not yet officially conferred.

“Im, yirang.”

“Pardon…?”

Jaheon found him acutely burdensome—the old man staring holes through him with eyes bright as a ten‑year‑old’s. At the force of Cai Yong stepping in close, Jaheon involuntarily took a step back.

“Will you not work with this old man for the sake of this realm’s literary world?”

Clasping Jaheon’s hand, Cai Yong spoke. An inexplicable dread rose in Jaheon.

“I am writing annotations on precious ancient texts! If you could set down those notes in your beautiful hand, I would die without regret!”

It was the same dread the twenty‑first‑century Jaheon had felt when a professor urged him toward graduate school.

Cai Yong was overjoyed to have found an excellent—no, a most excellent—talent.

So much so that he forgot how he had felt when first asked to serve as examiner. Hostility toward Jaheon? Long since gone. Had it not been said a gentleman should not heed rumors lightly? The rumors were all lies.

He didn’t even look at anyone else’s poem.

Clutching only Jaheon’s poem, Cai Yong darted like an arrow to the palace, where he prostrated himself and lavished praise of Jaheon before the Emperor.

“Your Majesty, the advent of Im Huaseo is truly a great blessing for the Han…!”

How he had been tormented as the Hongdu‑school literati rose—bringing verses hardly fit to be read aloud and begging for judgment; coupled with His Majesty’s bizarre literary taste, Cai Yong had spent his palace years reading heaps of trash posing as poetry.

But Jaheon’s poem was different.

It was like a tonic that at once healed the wounds of years spent on strange verse. Unwittingly recalling the days of being harried by the Emperor, Cai Yong burst into tears mid‑speech. As he wept and praised Jaheon without stint, the startled Emperor asked,

“What do you mean by this?”

The Emperor knew Cai Yong’s temperament well—how he feigned otherwise yet spoke bluntly, compromised with reality yet, in odd places, refused to bend. Thus he had expected Cai Yong would not favor Jaheon: in truth, Jaheon was as good as an insertion by the Emperor.

“Your Majesty, first read the poem Im Huaseo humbly presents.”

But with hands trembling, Cai Yong offered paper to the Emperor—not bamboo slips, but writing on paper, even backed with fine silk. It was not what the frugal Cai Yong would do. Puzzled, the Emperor shot him a glance, then unfurled the scroll and read the poem set down.

And the Emperor understood.

Why Cai Yong so unstintingly heaped praise upon Jaheon.

He had bestowed the style “Huaseo” in jest—and Jaheon possessed talent commensurate with it.

Even the scandal born of that style could be smothered by calligraphy and poetry of this caliber. In a state grounded in Confucianism, composition skill was prized; crafting regulated verse was among a scholar‑official’s vital duties. And the poem Jaheon wrote was one a “scholar among scholars” would write. From prosody to diction—there was no weak seam anywhere.

With a face full of emotion, Cai Yong cried out,

“Im Huaseo’s poem may rightly be called perfect…! He has the skill to be recommended as yirang without issue!”

Nor was it perfect only in form. In content as well it was flawless—a poem of an official concerned for the country, irreproachable in Confucian terms. And it was not only poetry.

“…The hand is unusual,”

the Emperor said, running his fingers over Jaheon’s script on the scroll.

“But is it not beautiful? This foolish servant has never seen so beautiful a hand…! Only now do I understand why Your Majesty bestowed the style ‘Huaseo’ upon him!”

Brimming with feeling, like a boy meeting his first love, Cai Yong delivered a full oration on Jaheon’s calligraphy.

“Your Majesty, for years I have pondered how one might write quickly and beautifully. Today, upon seeing Im Huaseo’s brushwork, I have attained enlightenment. Therefore confine him in a room and make him write all day, that we may spread this beautiful hand broadly to later ages…!”

In truth, as ages advance, the art of writing characters naturally develops. The ancient Jaheon, drawing on the modern’s memory, possessed an extremely efficient hand; to the ancients, it was nothing short of a cultural shock.

“And though I behaved rudely at Hongdu, Im Huaseo showed me this beautiful poem and script…”

Listening in silence to praise bordering on rapture, the Emperor smiled and said,

“Enough. Enough—that will do. I have also heard that you did not welcome the recommendation of Hongdu’s literati, and that you censured Jaheon, did you not?”

“……”

At the Emperor’s words, Cai Yong—who had been pouring out paeans—froze, trembling like an aspen. His wandering wits returned. Watching, the Emperor laughed.

“Why tremble so?”

All at once, pale as paper, Cai Yong prostrated himself.

“Your Majesty…! Th‑this servant has committed a capital crime.”

“…A capital crime?”

“To have insulted Your Majesty, the exalted one—how is that not a capital crime?”

At this, the laughing Emperor leaned back and said,

“Insult? At most, remonstrance that took your life in your hands.”

His tone was exceedingly flat for speaking of the death of a man of letters he had always kept and cherished despite eunuch calumny. At that tone, Cai Yong squeezed his eyes shut.

Then, suddenly, Jaheon’s words came back to him.

“I am not so dull.”

“It is the same as your reason for not opposing the recommendation of Hongdu’s literati.”

A gentleman should lead once by deed rather than a hundred words. How had he believed a hundred words and doubted Jaheon, and why had he not acted as Jaheon did? The passion he thought blunted by reality flared up.

With a face wet with tears, Cai Yong spoke.

“…Since Your Majesty has esteemed this servant’s ability, I have no lingering fear of death. Yet, for the last time, I wish to offer remonstrance to Your Majesty as yirang.”

At his words, the Emperor nodded and gestured.

“Then let us hear it.”

A gentleman must not fear what deviates from the Way; a gentleman cannot be deceived by what departs from the Way. Remembering Jaheon’s words, Cai Yong overcame his fear and said,

“Your Majesty, keep your distance from officials trained at Hongdu. The literature of Hongdu is shallow in depth and scant in discernment; they are not those Your Majesty should draw near.”

“……”

“And set far from Your Majesty the eunuchs who veil Your eyes; personally preside over affairs of state in court.”

At this outpouring, a deadly silence fell over the audience hall. A eunuch holding a teacup trembled in terror, expecting a thunderous roar and that Cai Yong’s head would soon be struck from his shoulders in that very hall. But the Emperor was, unexpectedly, quiet. Looking at the poem Cai Yong had handed him, he asked softly,

“Then, Gentleman Cai,”

“……?”

“Whom, pray, should the Throne draw near?”

Startled, awaiting a furious rebuke, Cai Yong lifted his head. The Emperor’s lightless eyes fixed upon him. Shocked, Cai Yong lowered his head again.

“Raise it once more.”

Cai Yong swallowed. A terrible fear swept over him; to face an executioner would surely be less dreadful. Trembling, he met the Emperor’s gaze.

“Now—speak.”

“…Y‑Your Majesty.”

Softly, to the quaking Cai Yong, the Emperor asked,

“If not the eunuchs, and not the literati of Hongdu—whom should the Throne draw near?”

In that instant, a chill ran down Cai Yong’s spine. With it, the events of recent days flashed through his mind like a lantern show. And he understood. He recalled, too, what Jaheon had said to him at Hongdu. He was not so dull; thus, this was no question.

From the start, all had a fixed answer.

Even had Jaheon’s literary skill not been superb, somehow Cai Yong would have had to give this answer.

“…Your Majesty should draw near to Im—Im Huaseo.”

Having grasped the truth, Cai Yong answered the Emperor.

Footnotes:

• Du Fu’s regulated verse became an exemplary standard for form (meter/tones/parallelism) and Confucian moral substance, hence invoking him signals technical and ethical mastery. 
• Qu Yuan is the classical emblem of loyal, morally resolute poetry; likening Jaheon to him elevates the poem’s political‑moral significance beyond mere aesthetics.