WSMTATMC C87

Chapter 87

“Untitled: Parting is hard when love is true, meeting is hard as well; the east wind loses strength and a hundred flowers fail. The silkworm spins its thread until the moment of death; the candle weeps until it burns to ash. At dawn the mirror fears the clouded change of temple hair; by night, chanting, one senses the moonlight’s chill. From here lie many more rivers and hills to cross; O diligent bluebird, go forth and inquire on my behalf.” Note 1

The moment this poem was recited, it landed like a trump card.

Everyone present forgot to find fault, savoring it word by word, line by line.

“O diligent bluebird, go forth and inquire”—too perfectly wrought, so perfect it made some wonder if someone as young as Chen Qingyan could truly have composed it.

“The silkworm spins its thread until the moment of death; the candle weeps until it burns to ash…” Liu Changyi murmured, eyes unexpectedly wet with tears.

Even Fang Wenke conceded the poem surpassed his own, yet he could not quite believe it was original to Chen.

“May I ask, Brother Chen, for whom this poem was written?”

“For my husband,” Chen replied. When he wrote it, his mind was filled with Wang Ying; the words poured forth like a spring, set down in a single sweep.

“You’re already married?” Fang asked, astonished. It was no wonder he doubted—Chen looked very young, and with only children’s-exam status, most assumed he was seventeen or eighteen.

“I have been married for more than three years.”

Perhaps unconvinced, a friend at Fang’s side whispered, “Could it be borrowed from Master Liang’s poems?”

Qinghuai sprang to his feet, bristling: “Our teacher never wrote this—my elder brother did!”

Chen gently pulled his brother back. “Not everyone pads out a gathering with borrowed verse.”

These were the very words Fang himself had used earlier when others suspected him of reusing an old poem; Chen gave them back, unchanged.

Fang flushed crimson, snorted, flung his sleeve, and left.

After he departed, Scholar Zhu clapped. “Truly worthy disciples of the great Master Liang—Untitled must be the laurel!”

Being last, Liu Changyi all but forgot to read his own poem. Compared with the Chen brothers, it was heaven and earth apart. In the academy he hadn’t felt their prowess so strongly; now he saw the gulf clearly.

A throng gathered around Qingyan and Qinghuai to ask questions. The two answered humbly, and their surprise mingled with joy—who would have thought their verses would be so loved.

The gathering did not end until close to the Xu hour; Chen Guang brought the carriage to take them back.

After that night, the names of Chen Qingyan and Chen Qinghuai resounded through Jizhou; everyone knew Master Liang had taken two exceptionally gifted disciples.

Their two poems spread among scholars and litterateurs, recorded like Liang’s own from years ago, destined, decades hence, to be counted among enduring masterpieces.

Invitations fell like snow. Many hoped to host them at their homes.

Some wished simply to befriend them and glimpse the bearing of young talents.

Others had subtler aims: both were promising youths with futures likely bright; if they could link them to their own sons or daughters, would that not be an easy advantage later?

All such invitations were declined—Master Liang intended to continue on to Laizhou with them.

—

The third day of the sixth month was Wang Ying’s birthday; neatly enough, Chen Qingyan’s birthday fell on the sixth day of the third month—their dates reversed.

In his previous life, Wang Ying’s birthday had also been on this day; after his grandparents passed, no one celebrated for him again. Ironically, after crossing time, every year his birthday was remembered.

At first light,Madam Li arrived with a bowl of hard-boiled eggs and rolled one over his body to “roll away ill luck.”

“Roll the egg across the brow, and each day will be at ease; roll it across the back, and illnesses will be gone.” After rolling, Wang Ying had to eat the egg.

Little Yuanbao lay across Wang Ying’s legs, watching in fascination. “Grandma, Yuanbao wants to roll the egg too.”

“Aiyo—hahahaha…” The two couldn’t help laughing.

There were a few eggs left, soMadam Li rolled one over Yuanbao as well, then peeled and handed it to him. “Alright then—eat along with us.”

Yuanbao loved egg whites but not yolks; every time, he quietly gave the yolk to Mutou and Chunsheng.

Normally, Wang Ying let it pass—so long as food wasn’t wasted. But with both playmates present today, Yuanbao stealthily shoved the yolk into his pillow.

Wang Ying didn’t notice and sent him outside to play. Only when changing the bedding did he see the crushed yolk smeared everywhere. Furious, he snatched up the feather duster and gave chase.

“Chen Ze!”

The moment Yuanbao heard his full name, he knew doom had arrived. He tugged on Chunsheng’s sleeve to carry him away.

But both Chunsheng and Mutou obeyed Wang Ying; they stood frozen in place.

Soon Wang Ying found them. “What did you do? Say it yourself!”

Hiding behind Mutou, Yuanbao whispered, “I didn’t do anything bad…”

“Now you’re lying!” Wang Ying raised the feather duster to swat his bottom.

Chunsheng turned white and hurriedly stood in the way. “Please don’t be angry, Langjun—punish me instead.”

With a shield in front of him, Yuanbao grew bold. He stuck out his tongue: “Lululu—Yuanbao did not do anything bad!”

Wang Ying stepped around them, plucked Yuanbao up, carried him inside, and barred the door. Soon crying echoed from within.

The boys outside didn’t dare plead—fearful that the more they begged, the heavier the scolding would be.

Wang Ying did not beat him hard—only two light swats on the bare bottom, hand held back. Such a little one, if truly hurt, would break his heart more than anyone.

The tears were half from fright, half from wounded pride—toddlers have fierce egos.

He loved egg whites; Ah Fu… forced Yuanbao to eat the yolk… Ah Fu is bad!

“If there’s something you don’t like, you may give it to someone else—but not hide it and waste it! Many families can’t even afford proper meals. You eat egg custard with minced meat daily and don’t treasure it. Since you dislike your Ah Fu so much, go be someone else’s son!” He pushed the child toward the door.

“No! Yuanbao was wrong!” The little one thought he truly was being thrown out. He clung to Wang Ying’s arm and sobbed until he nearly fainted.

Angry and heartsore, Wang Ying gathered him close and patted his back to soothe him.

When the crying ebbed, he spoke gently. “Ah Fu isn’t forcing you to eat what you hate. Next time, if there’s something you don’t want, you can give it to Ah Fu, to Grandma, to Chunsheng and Mutou. That’s better than wasting it—is that clear?”

Sniffling, Yuanbao nodded. “Clear…”

Wang Ying knew the child was too young and had grown up in comfort. He would not understand why his father became angry over a small egg yolk.

So, on his birthday, he decided to let the boy experience how ordinary people lived—to pass a different kind of birthday.

It wasn’t making mountains of molehills—Yuanbao had wasted food more than once. At meals, he always left a bit.

Once, when the family had stewed a chicken,Madam Li saved the best leg for him. After two bites, he turned away and tried to feed it to the dog. Ordinary families might not taste meat in a whole year.

Just then, Chen Rong passed by and, seeing the two little attendants kneeling at the door, asked what had happened. Learning that Wang Ying was teaching the boy a lesson, she didn’t knock.

Waste might seem small, but if not checked in youth, it could destroy a household in adulthood.

The senior cousin’s eldest was just such a case. As a child, Chen Qingfeng loved to ruin things; any food he disliked, he took one bite and tossed it on the ground.

If he disliked clothes, he’d climb trees to tear them. His mother never disciplined him; she even praised him for “having his own ideas.”

When grown, he squandered the family’s property. Was that “having ideas”?

After a while, the door opened and the two came out. Yuanbao’s nose was red and eyes swollen. He hid his face in Wang Ying’s neck, embarrassed.

Chen Rong took out a kerchief to wipe his face. “What’s with the golden beans?”

“Gu-nai…”

“Hey now—let Great-Aunt hold you.”

She kissed his cheek. “Wasting food isn’t what good children do. Listen to your Ah Fu—don’t waste again, alright?”

“Yuanbao knows.”

Wang Ying said, “Tell Third Aunt and Mother that we won’t eat lunch at home. I’m taking Yuanbao out to eat.”

“Out? Where?”

“To Uncle Chen’s.”

As the manor’s master, wherever he went he’d be lavishly treated; thus, he did not announce it ahead. Near noon, he took Yuanbao to Chen Xi’s home.

As soon as the master arrived, Chen Xi ordered his son to fetch wine and meat.

Wang Ying stopped him. “No need to buy anything—whatever your family has, we’ll eat.”

“How… how could that do? We’ve only got millet-and-bean gruel for lunch—the young master can’t eat that…”

Wang Ying bent close and whispered a few words. Chen Xi nodded immediately.

“You two sit and eat with us—just as usual. Pretend we aren’t even here.”

Yuanbao pouted still—his first time eating at another’s home; Wang Ying held him on his lap, wooden spoon in hand, waiting quietly for the food.

Soon, Da Shun’s wife carried in a basin of bean-and-millet rice. Beans were cheap, and mixed with millet they filled the stomach.

There was a bowl of watery radish-and-cabbage soup—hardly a trace of oil—and a small dish of salted shreds.

This was the daily fare of ordinary manor families.

Wang Ying picked up his chopsticks and started eating; Yuanbao also scooped a spoonful of rice into his mouth.

The millet was soft, the beans hard; with his little milk teeth he chewed for ages before swallowing.

“Ah Fu…”

“Eat, now. Look—everyone else eats the same.”

Chen Xi’s wife watched with concern. “Master, shall I steam an egg custard for the young master? He’s too small and not used to bean rice.”

“What did Huzi and Erya eat when they were small?”

“The… the same as us.” Manor children were not raised delicately. They ate whatever the family had; once weaned, they ate with the adults.

“Then Yuanbao can eat it too. Don’t worry.”

The little boy’s mouth drooped, but he forced down the spoonful.

He glanced up—everyone else seemed to be eating with relish, so he forced another bite. It was still hard to swallow.

He had no appetite at all and quit halfway through.

Wang Ying did not stop him. He finished his own bowl and then took Yuanbao to leave.

On the road back, he asked, “Was the bean rice good?”

Yuanbao shook his head. “Too yucky. The cabbage is yucky too. Why doesn’t Grandpa Chen’s family make meat stew?”

Wang Ying’s steps halted. The child had asked the essence: why not eat meat?

“Because Grandpa Chen’s family cannot afford meat. The food you find yucky is what ordinary people eat every day. The food you waste is a rare delicacy to them. Do you feel ashamed of wasting now?”

After a moment’s thought, Yuanbao nodded solemnly. “Ah Fu, Yuanbao understands. I won’t waste food again!”

The seed of this lesson took root in his heart, and many years later—when he held high office—he would still remember his Ah Fu’s teaching.

Footnotes:

1. The poem labeled “Untitled” is rendered in regulated-classical style. Phrases like “silkworm to death” and “candle to ash” are conventional metaphors for unending devotion and self-consuming love. “Bluebird” is a classical messenger in Chinese poetry, symbolizing faithful news-bearing between separated lovers.