Chapter Eighty-Two: I Am a Master of Stories (Thanks to the Patron "Crown Prince, Help Me Up")

The group was drinking and composing poetry, their spirits high, faces flushed with wine. Zhang Yue was not skilled in poetry, yet he delighted in the atmosphere, half-awake, half-dreaming, his thoughts adrift. His journey through time felt like the flutter of a butterfly's wings; Zhang Yue did not know what changes he could bring to this era. Yet, to be shaped by this time and place seemed truer than any influence he might impart.

For example, after the old steward left that day, he had told his elder brother he would apply himself to his studies—not that he had actually become more diligent than before. His experiences from his previous life had taught him that a sudden burst of inspiration could only carry one so far. The real challenge was endurance.

If he had changed at all in the past half year, it was that he spent more days reading and his mind had found a steadier balance. These six months had wrought a genuine transformation. Now, when he read, he no longer grew impatient but understood the value of slow and steady progress. When he practiced calligraphy with his brother Zhang Youzhi, he let the art seep into his soul, quieting his spirit further. If anything could alter a person's temperament, reading and practicing calligraphy seemed far more effective than buying luxury goods.

With a tranquil mind, problems became easier to unravel. There was a line by Yan Zhenqing that advised, "Burning the midnight oil, rising before the rooster crows, such is the time for young men to study. Do not waste your youth, or you’ll regret it in old age." Wise words, yet Zhang Yue believed the key to study was perseverance. If one was truly steadfast, there was no need to sacrifice sleep. The worst thing was to study one day and slack off for ten. It was crucial to find purpose in learning, for only then could one persist.

Thus, Zhang Yue did not regard study as a hardship. In the present moment, there was no need to fret about the future or brood over the past—that was his current state of mind. Life should be lived as it ought in its time: read when it was time to read, savor the present when the moment called for it, and not let thoughts of study intrude.

Snow drifted onto the lake’s surface; the aroma of rice wine and the warmth of a clay stove made him pleasantly tipsy. Lying back with his hands cradling his head, Zhang Yue began to hum a little tune of his own:

At the ends of the earth, only wind and sand remain...
Stories of the mortal world are threads of longing...
The sword, sheathed and hidden, rests beneath a humble eave...
Idle clouds, wild cranes, an ancient temple...
A swift horse battles in the rivers and lakes...

As a devoted fan of Jay Chou for over a decade, he felt singing such a song in this moment was even more delightful than reciting poetry.

"Sanlang, what are you singing there?" someone asked, approaching.

Zhang Yue, abandoning any pretense of sleep, smiled and replied, "Just humming a little tune, nothing more."

"I thought you’d fallen asleep. Since you’re awake, come join us in composing poetry!"

Zhang Yue tried to decline, "My poetic skill is mediocre at best. It would be better to keep my shortcomings hidden—please spare me!"

The others laughed at his reluctance.

One person teased, "Who doesn’t know that during the county examination, when the magistrate tested you in poetry, you entered the academy as the top student? The tale has spread far and wide."

Facing this jest, Zhang Yue only smiled. "My clumsy verses from before must have given Brother Zhu a good laugh."

He recognized this Brother Zhu, not a particularly outstanding member among the scholar candidates, who had once tried to befriend him. At first, Zhang Yue thought it was because of his second brother, but later realized the man was probing for information, so he had distanced himself. Who would have guessed he’d seek him out today? If not for borrowing books, Zhang Yue would seldom mingle with the scholar candidates.

"Ah, Sanlang is truly gifted, not one to stoop to our level," someone chimed in.

"Since that’s the case, at least write us a poem, even if only to be polite. We promise not to laugh."

Unable to refuse, Zhang Yue said, "Very well, what shall the subject be?"

The crowd laughed, pleased that he had agreed.

"We just wrote on the theme of plum blossoms. That shouldn’t be hard for you, Sanlang!"

Zhang Yue thought, of course not—it’s you forcing me to plagiarize. He considered for a moment and recited, "In the corner of the wall, a few branches of plum, blooming alone against the cold. From afar, it cannot be mistaken for snow, for a subtle fragrance drifts forth."

The group exchanged glances; compared to the poems they had just written, Zhang Yue’s surpassed them all, making theirs seem pale by comparison. They hadn’t expected he possessed such poetic talent.

But the scholar surnamed Zhu flushed and objected, "This poem is mediocre. For someone as talented as Sanlang, surely you can do better. Are you fobbing us off? Try another—this one doesn’t count."

At this, some present grew displeased. Zhang Yue’s poem was flawless—how could Zhu say otherwise? But since Zhu was a fellow scholar candidate and Zhang Yue was only a student, it would be improper to argue openly. Some even thought it would be humiliating for a mere student to outshine the scholar candidates, so they feigned ignorance.

Still, the situation put Zhang Yue at a disadvantage. After all, who could objectively judge a poem’s merit? In the end, it was people who decided. Zhu’s words left Zhang Yue both amused and exasperated.

He smiled, "Friends, let me tell you a story for amusement. Once, Master Ouyang was ferrying across a river with two students. They were on their way to visit him, though they didn’t realize the elder sharing the boat was Ouyang himself."

On hearing that Zhang Yue was telling a story about Ouyang Xiu, everyone perked up. Ouyang Xiu was already famous across the land, chief examiner in the second year of Jiayou. A literary giant among scholars, his stories were well known—like ‘Teaching His Son to Write in the Sand’ or ‘Three Occasions’—but this one about crossing the river was new to them.

"Go on, Sanlang, tell us!"

Zhang Yue continued, "The three of them were composing verses on the boat. One student saw a goose jump into the river and recited, ‘From afar I see a lone goose.’"

At this, the students smiled to themselves—what kind of poem was that?

"The second student added, ‘From afar I see a lone goose, plop, it leaps into the river.’"

Now the students couldn’t help but laugh.

"The two praised each other’s lines, then asked Master Ouyang, ‘Why don’t you join us? Is your poetry lacking?’ Without hesitation, Ouyang replied, ‘White feathers drift on green water, red webbed feet ripple through clear waves.’ The two, though impressed, pretended to dismiss his lines as mediocre, saying they could not compare to their own."

By now, some in the group were stifling laughter, glancing at Zhu, whose face was turning red.

"Later, after they disembarked, they saw a pile of ash by the riverbank. One student began, ‘From a distance, a heap of ash.’ The other, after much thought, continued, ‘Up close, a heap of ash.’ Again, they praised each other, and asked Ouyang to continue their poem."

"Ouyang replied, ‘A wild wind suddenly rises, sending white ash flying like snow.’ Yet again, the students claimed his lines were inferior, urging him to try harder."

By now, everyone could barely contain their laughter; if not for Zhu’s presence, many would have burst out. Just then, Wu Anshi, eldest son of the Wu family, approached with a cup in hand.

Zhang Yue went on, "The three walked on, eager to meet Ouyang Xiu. One of them, inspired, intoned, ‘Two men in a single boat.’ The other continued, ‘On the way to visit Ouyang Xiu.’ This time, Ouyang did not wait for them to ask and said, ‘Ouyang already knows you; do you not feel ashamed?’"

At this, the crowd could no longer restrain themselves and roared with laughter. Zhu’s face flushed purple with mortification.

Trying to save face, Zhu said, "Sanlang, you are remarkable indeed. To know such tales of Master Ouyang from so far away—could it be you are acquainted with him?"

Zhang Yue smiled, "I’ve had no such fortune—just stories I’ve heard, nothing more."

At that moment, Wu Anshi stepped forward, "Who says you don’t know Master Ouyang? I, for one, do."

Everyone rose to greet Wu Anshi. If anyone else claimed to know Ouyang Xiu, it would be dismissed as boasting. But it was well known Wu Anshi truly did. Ouyang Xiu had written the famous "Letter to Wu Chong the Scholar" to Wu Anshi’s father, Wu Chong, praising his essay and discussing the art of writing: "All scholars seek the Way, but few attain it; it is not that the Way is distant, but that men are too deeply mired in the so-called art of writing." Now, their families were even joined by marriage.

The group told Wu Anshi of the story Zhang Yue had just recounted, and also asked him to appraise Zhang Yue’s poem. Though Wu Anshi had not passed the imperial exam, he came from a distinguished family and had a discerning eye. He read the poem, glanced at Zhu, and said, "Sanlang and his brother are both my friends. To offend Sanlang is to offend me. Brother Zhu, I dislike jealousy and pettiness—you needn’t drink any more tonight."

Zhu, mortified, made his excuses and left.

Watching Zhu leave in disgrace, Zhang Yue was slightly puzzled. He had only met Wu Anshi a couple of times—when had they become good friends? Was it because of his second brother?

After Zhu’s departure, Wu Anshi turned to Zhang Yue, "I hadn’t expected you, a mere student, to be so talented in poetry."

Zhang Yue smiled, "My skill comes and goes. I must have given you a laugh, Lord Wu."

Wu Anshi laughed heartily, "Indeed, I am well acquainted with Master Ouyang, and visited him more than once on my last trip to the capital. Yet I never heard the story you just told."

Zhang Yue thought to himself, This is bad—clearly this is a modern witticism attributed to Ouyang Xiu, much like those memes of Lu Xun that circulate online.

"If you can’t remember who said something famous, just say Lu Xun said it."

"You go ahead and make it up—if he said it even once, I’ll admit defeat."

Such was Ouyang Xiu’s stature in the literary world of the Song, but the problem was—he was still alive! What if Ouyang Xiu himself confronted him one day—‘I don’t recall ever saying that’? Zhang Yue would want nothing more than to crawl into a hole.

Facing Wu Anshi’s question, Zhang Yue could only muster an awkward smile, hoping the story wouldn’t reach Ouyang Xiu’s ears and discredit the creativity of future raconteurs.

Despite his embarrassment, Wu Anshi didn’t seem to mind. "Did you borrow the book?"

"Thank you, Lord Wu. I have."

"If you have leisure, come stay at my residence for a few days," Wu Anshi said warmly, leaving Zhang Yue feeling as if he were dreaming.

Ps: Many thanks to the reader "Crown Prince, Help Me Up" for becoming the seventh patron of this book!