Chapter Forty-Three: The Qixi Poetry Gathering (Part Four)

After Yin Ruxin had left, some time passed before Yang Yaozong returned to the main hall.

He had just settled down and taken a bite of an osmanthus cake, not yet swallowed, when Wang Youwei addressed him, “Honorable Grandson’s Tutor, among those present today for the Crown Prince’s poetry gathering, all arrived ahead of time, save for you, who were late. Moreover, you are so young to have been appointed the Grandson’s Tutor, which must mean you possess remarkable talent and profound learning. Why not compose a poem first, so that we may all learn from your example? It would not be in vain for us to have waited so long for you.”

Wang Youwei, repeatedly addressing him as Grandson’s Tutor with apparent respect and impeccable reasoning, made it impossible to refuse. Yet beneath the surface, he was deliberately emphasizing Yang Yaozong’s status; if Yang failed to produce a poem or his work proved mediocre, then the rumors circulating lately would be confirmed as truth.

Yang paid him no mind, finishing the osmanthus cake in a few bites and reaching for another. After training, he had come straight down the mountain and had not eaten since, so hunger made his eating particularly enjoyable. As for Wang Youwei’s words, Yang feigned not to hear them. He thought to himself, “What grudge does this fellow bear against me? He caused trouble before I left, and now upon my return, it’s him again. No matter—let me fill my belly first.”

Those present watched Yang’s manner of eating and were somewhat stunned; this was hardly the bearing of a scholar, and truly a disgrace to refinement. Whispered conversations began to ripple through the crowd.

Yin Ruxin, however, gazed at Yang’s eating with growing affection, finding him ever more endearing—indeed, beauty in the eyes of the beholder.

Beside him, Mu Qinghan frowned and asked, “Why are you eating so ravenously? No one is competing with you.”

Yang smiled at her, “I haven’t eaten anything since noon, and I’m famished. You’re not competing with me? Then I shall eat it all.”

Mu Qinghan blushed at Yang’s teasing and murmured, “Who would compete with you? Eat as much as you want—just hope you don’t burst.”

Their conversation was too quiet for others to hear. Wang Youwei, seeing Yang still eating and joking with Mu Qinghan while ignoring him, became agitated and raised his voice, “Master Yang, as Grandson’s Tutor, you are truly arrogant. I respectfully seek your guidance, yet you disregard us, leaving all present disappointed. Or perhaps you are simply unable to compose poetry—in which case, none of us would trouble the Grandson’s Tutor!”

Yang finished his cake, took a sip of tea, and with a charming smile—his eyes coldly fixed on Wang Youwei—said, “And you are…?”

Wang Youwei nearly choked with anger, hurriedly replying, “I am Wang Youwei, and…”

“Oh, Brother Wang. Since you are so eager and have twice sought my instruction, I shall not decline and will gladly oblige. However, I fear that if I am the first to compose a poem for the Qixi Festival today, the rest may find themselves unable to write anything further.” Yang’s tone was calm and indifferent.

Wang Youwei was so incensed at Yang’s words that he could only sputter, unable to utter a coherent reply.

“Hmph! Such arrogance—I’d like to see what you’re capable of.” This came from Elder Dai Yuan, who now glared at Yang with some anger.

Xu Qiuhai, too, raised his head proudly and saluted Yang, “I am Xu Qiuhai, last year’s top scholar in the imperial examinations, currently serving in the Ministry of Revenue. I am somewhat known in poetry, and have long heard of your reputation, Grandson’s Tutor. I hope you will not withhold your wisdom from me today!” His tone was haughty, with not a hint of genuine inquiry.

Yang Yaozong, hearing the old man’s cold rebuke, dared not be disrespectful. Yet seeing Xu Qiuhai’s unruly demeanor, clearly provocative, left him displeased. Smiling, he retorted, “Top Scholar Xu, I wonder how long you have heard of my name. I truly do not know when my fame began to spread.”

“Haha, Yang Yaozong, you are indeed amusing. I, the Second Prince, approve. Today, compose a poem, and if it is truly excellent, I guarantee none here will trouble you further. You must display your talent!” The Second Prince, Jing Yu, who had been watching the drama unfold with a smile, grinned at Yang and even tossed him a flirtatious wink.

That wink from the Second Prince sent chills down Yang Yaozong’s spine.

The Crown Prince, helpless before his brother, smiled at Yang, “Grandson’s Tutor, please compose a poem. If your work is so impressive that others cannot match it, and your poem is spread from this poetry gathering, it will indeed be my honor. It would also add to my reputation for associating with such talent.”

Yin Ruxin watched Yang Yaozong with a radiant smile, her gaze filled with unhidden affection that only he could perceive.

Yang Yaozong rose and saluted the Crown Prince, “Then I shall not decline.”

He walked to the center of the hall, where two attendants brought a table with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, placing it in the middle. One arranged the paper and pressed it with a paperweight, standing respectfully beside the table, while the other began to grind the ink.

Yang Yaozong stood before the table, facing the Crown Prince, picked up the brush and pondered briefly, then set it down again. The attention of all present was fixed upon him; seeing him pick up and then set down the brush, those who had criticized him earlier wore expressions of mockery.

Yang was unperturbed, raising his head to meet Yin Ruxin’s lovely gaze. He saluted the Crown Prince and asked, “I wonder who the beautiful lady beside Your Highness might be, possessing such ethereal beauty.”

Yin Ruxin blushed at Yang’s public praise, smiling shyly, her heart overflowing with happiness.

The Crown Prince, admiring Yin Ruxin, glanced at Yang Yaozong and replied, “You must be new to the capital, Grandson’s Tutor. She is Miss Yin Ruxin, this year’s newly chosen Flower Queen at the Lantern Festival.”

Yang Yaozong gazed deeply at Yin Ruxin, “May I be so fortunate as to have Miss Yin assist me as my scribe while I compose my poem?”

Yin Ruxin smiled at Yang, then looked to the Crown Prince.

The Crown Prince had not expected this request, but thought that a scholar composing poetry with a beauty assisting in grinding ink or recording his poem would enhance his reputation. Even if Yang lacked talent, he was certainly a lover of elegance. Even should his composition not be a masterpiece, having Yin Ruxin transcribe it would earn him some reputation for charm, though such reputation might not be ideal for a son-in-law like him. The Crown Prince sneered inwardly but maintained a genial smile and said to Yin Ruxin, “Since Grandson’s Tutor requests it, I grant him your assistance.”

Yin Ruxin smiled and nodded to the Crown Prince, “Ruxin will obey your command.”

She rose gracefully and walked to Yang Yaozong’s side, saluting him, “It is my honor to record the poetry for Grandson’s Tutor.”

Yang handed her the brush with both hands, subtly brushing her hand as she took it, smiling, “Thank you, Miss Yin.”

Yin Ruxin felt Yang’s gentle touch and knew it was intentional. Her cheeks flushed, her heartbeat quickened, and she thought, “He is indeed bold.” Yet her heart was filled with joy.

Yang Yaozong circled the table, moving to a spot between the hall and the table, imitating the manner of a poet. He turned, lifted his head, and gazed outside. The sky had cleared, and through the hall's opening, gleaming stars hung in the deep night. Yang Yaozong began to recite slowly,

“Far, far away is the Weaver Star, shining bright the Maiden of the Milky Way.
Slender fingers grasp the shuttle, weaving threads with gentle skill.
All day her work remains unfinished, tears falling like rain.
The Milky Way is clear and shallow—how far apart are they truly?”

He paused, waiting for Yin Ruxin to finish recording, then met her eyes and spoke with deep emotion,

“Across a shimmering stream, silent longing passes, yet no words are exchanged.”

Yin Ruxin, seeing the profound feeling in Yang’s eyes and hearing the last line, felt her hand tremble as she recorded. In her heart she repeated, “Across a shimmering stream, silent longing passes, yet no words are exchanged.” Was this not the very scene between the two of them?

When the poem was finished, her eyes misted. She set down the brush and gently wiped the corners of her eyes with her sleeve, then saluted Yang, “Grandson’s Tutor, you are truly gifted. This Qixi poem moved me to tears.”

Those who had earlier criticized Yang now found themselves silenced by the beauty of his verse.

After a moment, Yang Yaozong spoke quietly, “This poem may not be a masterpiece, nor would I claim that it prevents any present from composing their own Qixi poem. Yet suddenly, another verse comes to mind, which I fear none here would dare to hear.”

“Master Yang, please recite it quickly. Even if I never compose another Qixi poem, I wish to hear yours.” Elder Dai Yuan, stirred by emotion, urged him on. He had found Yang’s poem a rare and precious work, and as a lover of poetry, was eager to hear more.

Yang Yaozong saluted the old man with respectful humility, “I dare not display my meager talent before you, sir. But since you wish to hear it, I shall recite it as you please.”