Chapter Seventy-Eight: Who Stirred the Tranquil Spring Waters?

Chapter Seventy-Eight: Who Has Stirred the Waters of Spring?

Su Mei sat upright before her dressing table, facing a large diamond-shaped mirror.

Within the glass, the beauty’s brows were lightly furrowed, a trace of sorrow slowly spreading like ink on rice paper.

“From time immemorial, affection brings sorrow at parting, and how much more so in the cold autumn festival! Where will I awaken from tonight’s wine? By the willow banks, in the dawn wind and waning moon.”

Reciting this elegant verse, Su Mei gazed at the beauty in the mirror and said, “That reckless man has offered his life as proof—what should you do?”

The beauty in the mirror continued to frown slightly...

Tie Xinyuan disliked his current short stature. Such height put him at a disadvantage when speaking, always requiring him to look up to others, whether they were people or not.

So he straddled the railing, at least able to meet Yang Huaiyu’s angry gaze on equal ground.

“I told you long ago: if you don’t act, I’ll help you.”

“You’re not helping me—you’re ruining me! Su Mei must hate me now.”

“What do you know? Hatred is a powerful emotion. If Su Mei’s heart is filled with hatred for you, it’s better than her idly thinking of other men.

Have you heard ‘love begets hate’? In my view, the phrase works just as well reversed: ‘hate begets love’—there’s a certain lingering flavor to it.”

“No, it won’t work.” Yang Huaiyu crouched, clutching his head. “Su Mei is not an ordinary woman. She will not yield.”

Tie Xinyuan tossed a bean into his mouth dismissively. “Nonsense. I admire Lady Zhuang’s grave-breaking heroics, and the mountain man’s wife who slapped the tomb and waited for her husband—true emotion.

As for Su Mei, since she isn’t capable of such acts, it means propriety and custom still bind her. I dare say, if you ran to the Su family and forced yourself upon her, you two could be wed next month. Whether she hates you forever—honestly, that’s none of my business. My only promise is to get Su Mei into your bed. That’s my success.”

Yang Huaiyu shouted in anger, “I am not as depraved as you!”

Tie Xinyuan, perched on the railing, cackled, “Depraved men rarely lack women. Only those paragons of virtue sleep alone.

Tell me, what trouble has Su Mei set for you? The rumor has spread for ten days now—she ought to make a move. You can’t solve this challenge, can you? Speak up, I’ll think of a way.”

Yang Huaiyu sighed, pulled a pale blue note from his pocket, and handed it to Tie Xinyuan. “Su Mei wants to refuse the marriage, but won’t say it outright. She demands I compose a poem no less exquisite than Liu Sanbian’s ‘Rain Bell’... You know Liu Yong’s verse is unrivaled today…”

Tie Xinyuan glanced at the note and read softly: “The chilling cicadas wail, facing the long pavilion at dusk, the sudden rain has just ceased. Drinking beneath the city tents, unable to feel joy, as the orchid boat urges departure. Holding hands, gazing with tearful eyes…”

“Fine calligraphy, elegant little script like flowers. Your woman is truly troublesome. Don’t tell me she has peach blossom eyes as well?”

Yang Huaiyu’s hands spasmed as he ground his teeth. “The verse is what matters, not Su Mei’s handwriting!”

Tie Xinyuan laughed. “‘Rain Bell’—a tune from the Tang court’s music, they say. Legend has it, after Emperor Xuanzong strangled Yang Guifei, he traveled to Shu, where rain fell for days, and he heard the bells on the plank roads. He composed this song in her memory, later used by Liu Yong.

A heartless emperor who murdered his wife, then dreamed of carnal reunion with her—what’s so great about that? Liu Yong used the tune, so its merit is limited. No wonder His Majesty dislikes Liu Yong; I don’t either. Look at how this scoundrel has corrupted a respectable woman.”

“Ah? It can be interpreted that way?” Yang Huaiyu, learned as he was, had despaired upon seeing Liu Yong’s verse, never expecting Tie Xinyuan to twist the famed song into such strange meaning.

“Hmm. By using this verse, Su Mei has already fallen short. Her family are proper scholars, and Liu Yong is one of those literary degenerates criticized by the Emperor. Her family should follow His Majesty’s example. Using Liu Yong’s verse to trouble you—a promising youth—is a grave error!

If your foundation is unsound, everything you say is wrong. Why worry? If, like me, your canon is ‘The Original Way’—a grand work—then whatever you say will be dignified. That’s what it means to have proper roots.”

The current Emperor’s dislike of Liu Yong was no secret; Yang Huaiyu knew Tie Xinyuan was right. Liu Yong’s work was popular among the masses but would be criticized in official circles.

With renewed hope, Yang Huaiyu felt lighter. He leaned in and whispered, “What should I do?”

Tie Xinyuan smiled. “Reply to Su Mei and tell her her approach is improper. Comparing you to Liu Yong is an insult—ask her to choose another poem.”

Yang Huaiyu straightened his clothes and hurried off to write a letter.

Tie Xinyuan, his eyes flickering, turned and went to Xiaoqiao’s room, where he quickly penned something. Shortly after, he emerged just as Yang Huaiyu finished his own letter and loudly called for Shui Zhu’er, planning to send him to the Su family.

Bribed, Shui Zhu’er was happy to run the errand—the Su family was nearby, just two streets away. Yang Huaiyu watched Shui Zhu’er disappear around the corner, his face full of hope, wanting to talk further with Tie Xinyuan, but found he had already left. He fetched a lance from the weapon rack and began practicing its movements.

Shui Zhu’er bounded to the Su family, knocked on the door ring, and handed a letter to the gatekeeper, saying it was a reply from Yang Dalang to the lady of the house.

The gatekeeper rewarded Shui Zhu’er with a handful of coins and passed the letter inside to the matron.

Su Mei had expected Yang Huaiyu would dawdle before replying, but to her surprise, only an hour after her letter was sent, a reply arrived. This made her both eager and irritated.

She hurried back to her chamber, tore open the envelope, and with a mere glance, felt as if her head had been split in two by a heavy axe...

At the loom, each stitch awaits spring’s return, cold stars flicker, sleep eludes me.
Bleak and lonely, half a brocade quilt, kept for my lover’s return.
Second loom, spring grass green and lush, paper kite flies alone, devoid of feeling.
A single thread, two inches of tender heart, carried away by the spring wind.
Third loom, blossoms bloom in pairs, butterflies play, spring’s crimson always swept away.
On the mandarin duck handkerchief, fallen petals, each a token of longing.
Fourth loom, threads tangled like willow in the breeze, the brocade unfinished, my heart uneasy.
A scroll of silk, my beloved’s return delayed, he knows not my heart.
Fifth loom, geese call year after year, the painted horn silent, dreams cold in the night.
Empty curtains gather dust, rouge fades, all but memories of the past.
Sixth loom, peonies forsake their phoenix hues, chicks crow as phoenixes on the rack.
Within the mandarin duck quilt, tears choking, we exchange red garments face to face.

(Alas, I meant to plagiarize Master Jin’s Nine Looms, but feared my brothers and sisters would despise me, so I wrote it myself. Not very good—please make do.)

“Shameless!”

Su Mei’s chest heaved violently, her face alternating between pale and flushed. The note was clenched tightly in her veined hand, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Never had any scoundrel dared to offend her like this.

Yang Huaiyu had left the Yang family—did he not even possess basic decorum? Did he not know what it meant to send such erotic verses to an unmarried woman?

Drying her tears, the proud Su Mei resolved to go herself and see this destitute Yang Huaiyu, even at the cost of her reputation. If she could not scold this rogue face to face, she would never again find peace of mind.

Tie Xinyuan lay with his head on Shui Zhu’er’s soft belly and said to Xiaoqiao, “Su Mei may come soon.”

“Good. Yang Huaiyu is nearly mad with longing for that woman—look, he’s been swinging his lance for nearly an hour.

Tell me, are women really that important? Is it worth living and dying for?”

Tie Xinyuan, eyeing Xiaoqiao’s not-yet-fully-grown figure, smiled. “It’s a fate the heavens imposed upon us.

If we don’t want this world empty of people, then men and women must forever tangle in such affairs—there’s no cutting them off.

You may find yourself like this someday.”

Xiaoqiao glanced at Yang Huaiyu practicing his lance in the courtyard and shook her head. “I won’t. If I fancy a girl, I’ll send a matchmaker with rich gifts to her home.”

“What if she refuses?”

“Refuse? Why? Not enough money? I’ll add more.”

Tie Xinyuan grinned, baring his teeth. “And if she still refuses after you add money—would you knock her out and bring her back?”

Xiaoqiao laughed, “Of course! My mother was exchanged for two horses by my father, and she lived happily all her life. On the Ganliang Road, women and mules are equivalent. Li Yuanhao married the Liao princess for only five hundred Qingtang horses.”

Shui Zhu’er pushed Tie Xinyuan’s head off her belly and pointed outside. “A carriage is arriving!”

Tie Xinyuan sprang up. “She’s here! Shui Zhu’er, open the gate and let the carriage drive straight in, so Su Mei can see Yang Dalang’s broad chest and lanky limbs. If she won’t marry such a fine man, she must be blind.”

Xiaoqiao nodded repeatedly, and Shui Zhu’er dashed downstairs to open the gate for Su Mei. He liked the Su family; every visit brought a reward.

The coachman reached the gate and saw a chubby, neatly dressed child smiling and inviting him in.

Unable to bear embarrassing the child, he quietly asked his mistress whether to enter.

Su Mei saw the bustling street outside and nodded, instructing the coachman to drive into the courtyard. Her heart full of anger, she wished to see for herself what sort of filthy place Yang Huaiyu lived in.