Kays Translations
Just another Isekai Lover~
Chapter 92: Jingxian Poetry Gathering (IV)
Why is the atmosphere so strange?
But did that young man write some nonsensical poem again?
Why do everyone’s expressions seem so odd, as if a relative of a young lady had come to visit?
The beautiful singer responsible for reciting the poems was quite surprised. Why did everyone look like that after seeing the poem written by that wastrel young man? It felt strange…
After a few minutes, the previously silent atmosphere suddenly became noisy. People either murmured to themselves, whispered to each other, or quietly questioned, transforming the upstairs atmosphere into one reminiscent of a market:
“Though the artistic conception is beautiful and heartfelt, fresh and elegant, it still feels off. What kind of poetic form is this? I can’t find any corresponding name for it; it’s truly nonsensical. Can he even write poetry?”
“Can a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boy have such feelings of ‘half of my friends have fallen away’? Your friends are only thirteen or fourteen years old, without any floods, earthquakes, or disasters. How can they fall away?”
“Perhaps the scholars of Huaining County were afraid we would scrutinize him too closely after he kept making the first-class list. So they banded together to cover for that masterpiece of his at the ten-li pavilion—‘Outside the long pavilion, beside the ancient road, a line of white egrets rises into the blue sky.’ What a pity: even with all of Huaining County helping him, they still came up with this nonsense…”
“It’s probably copied from somewhere else…”
“I feel it’s also copied from another place. I wonder how much it cost to buy this. How could a young boy produce such poetry?”
“This child must be crazy for fame; did he spend his family’s fortune to buy this poem?”
At first, people’s voices were not loud; they were only tentatively questioning. However, when many people started to express doubts, the exchanges sparked, and the volume increased. Initially, everyone questioned the title of the poem, and then they began to doubt its content.
“Was this poem written by you?” After staring at the poem for a long time, unable to tear his eyes away, Zhou Xuezheng finally looked up. A multitude of questions filled his mind, and he raised his head to stare at Zhu Ping’an as he asked loudly.
Before seeing this young man, he had heard tales of his actions, such as “once bitten by a snake, hearing birds everywhere,” and his antics during the county examination. Zhou Xuezheng felt a fire of indignation in his heart, sketching an image of the young man: a round face, big ears, and a completely useless appearance.
But upon seeing this boy, he discovered he looked like a simple, honest farmer’s son, yet gave off the impression of being gluttonous and completely squandering his parents’ hard-earned money, which made him quite disgusted.
When the crowd mocked him earlier, the boy remained calm and composed, which surprised Zhou Xuezheng.
When he held the brush in one hand and waved his sleeve to write with fervor, and the poem was passed to him, his astonishment was no longer just a little, but completely filled him.
What kind of boy is this? Questions surged one after another, leaving Zhou Xuezheng unable to contain himself.
The poetry of the entire Qing Dynasty, the Republic of China, and even modern times was all “written” by me. No matter which poem it is, this world has yet to see them. They will be introduced to this world for the first time through my hands. How could they not belong to me?
“Yes, I’m not good at poetry; this poem took me months to conceive,” Zhu Ping’an answered candidly, humbly, with no trace of arrogance, like a simple young man.
“Some have questioned the title of this poem; how do you explain that?” After hearing Zhu Ping’an’s first answer, Zhou Xuezheng immediately raised another question.
Upon hearing this question from Zhou Xuezheng, everyone upstairs became very interested, wanting to see how this young man would respond.
Because the farewell poem that Zhu Ping’an wrote really couldn’t find any corresponding poetic title.
“As I mentioned earlier, I’m not good at ci. The old ci tune patterns have fixed forms and melodies, and writing ci means fitting words to those tunes. But after several attempts, I was never satisfied: either the words did not fit the melody, or the melody did not suit the words. One day, I happened to read the Song-dynasty poet Xin Qiji’s ‘Ruan Lang Gui’ and felt a strong connection with its latter half. So I took that latter section as the basis, adjusted the tones and rhythm slightly, and after pondering it for several months, created this farewell ci. I’m not good at ci; any shortcomings will surely make Elder Zhou laugh.”
Zhu Ping’an had dared to bring Li Shutong’s farewell piece from the Republic of China into this era only after thinking through his explanation in advance, so he was not speaking aimlessly.
Thus, Zhu Ping’an responded fluently, neither humble nor overbearing, speaking with conviction and sincerity.
After all, everyone present was well-read, and they were familiar with Xin Qiji’s “Ruan Lang Gui”:
The lights are dimming in front of the mountain as dusk approaches, and clouds come and go over the mountain peak.
In the sound of partridges, I count the homes in the village, meeting an old friend in the Xiang River.
I wave my feather fan and adjust my silk scarf; in my youth, I was covered in dust from riding horses.
Now, I am haggard, composing verses to summon the soul; a Confucian cap often misleads me.
The second half of the poem is just as Zhu Ping’an said, “I wave my feather fan and adjust my silk scarf; in my youth, I was covered in dust from riding horses. Now, I am haggard, composing verses to summon the soul; a Confucian cap often misleads me.” Aside from slight differences in tone and rhythm, it indeed matches the second half of “Ruan Lang Gui.”
In simple terms, ci are lyrics written to a tune, while a cipai is the name of a fixed tune pattern with its own form and structure. Writing ci means fitting words to that fixed pattern, which is why composing ci is also called “filling in the lyrics.” Cipai themselves have histories and origins rather than appearing from nowhere. Therefore, although Zhu Ping’an’s farewell ci, modeled on the latter half of “Ruan Lang Gui,” was rather bold and unconventional, the explanation was still plausible.
“Hmm, although there are some inappropriate parts, we are not overly pedantic; this ci is fresh and unconventional, avoiding clichés. However, how do we explain that half of our close friends are scattered and we are left with only a jug of turbid wine to enjoy the remaining joy? You are still young; how can you understand that half of your close friends are scattered, leaving only the remaining joy?”
Zhou Xuezheng temporarily set aside the issue of the cipai, but he raised questions about the words Zhu Ping’an had used in his farewell.
“Elder Zhou, just look at my present situation. I have many distinguished people around me, yet not a single close friend is here. Otherwise, how could this idle little piece have come about? My old friends are either working in the fields or serving in wealthy households, struggling to make a living. Thinking carefully about it, I cannot help feeling that my close friends have indeed scattered. As for ‘a jug of turbid wine to enjoy the remaining joy,’ it is merely my attempt to express sorrow through new lyrics.”
Zhu Ping’an cupped his hands in salute toward Zhou Xuezheng, and a hint of loneliness appeared on his honest face.
Li Lao and Zhao Lao, who were sitting next to Zhou Xuezheng, nodded upon hearing this, agreeing with Zhu Ping’an’s words. From the moment they entered the room, they had sensed that the students from counties like Tongcheng and Taihu were somewhat cold toward Zhu Ping’an, even those from the same county seemed less enthusiastic. The thirteen-year-old boy, among a group of people much older than him, could not help but feel a sense of isolation.
“Then why did you eat, drink, and sleep during the examination?” This was almost Zhou Xuezheng’s final question.
While eating, drinking, and sleeping in the examination hall is not entirely forbidden, it is a practice reserved for provincial exams, where one must not leave the examination hall for several days. A county examination only lasts one day; it would be manageable to endure. Eating, drinking, and sleeping in such a setting is quite improper; even if one possesses some literary talent and intelligence, the attitude is too unrefined.
“Oh, there is actually a reason for that. I was quite chubby as a child, and my mother adored me. When I grew older, I lost weight, and my mother often blamed herself for not taking good care of me. This children’s examination is my first time away from my parents. My mother worries about whether I can take care of myself. I thought that after leaving home, I should eat more and gain some weight so that when I return, she can see that I have gotten fatter. Then she won’t worry or blame herself. Of course, I may have indulged a little too much, haha…”
Zhu Ping’an smiled shyly, speaking sincerely, with his eyes full of longing for his hometown and parents.
Once Zhu Ping’an spoke, the entire poetry gathering fell into a deeper silence. His words, reminiscent of a lamb kneeling to nurse, evoked feelings of nostalgia for parents among many students far from home, and resonated deeply with the older individuals.
“Foolish child!” Zhou Xuezheng sighed, waving his hand to signal Zhu Ping’an to sit down.