Qinglian Chronicles

It was exceptionally awkward for a while. The expressions on those few bureaucrats’ faces changed after they heard Zhou Zizhu say it was me. They’re frozen in place, neither advancing nor retreating.

I can tell that out of all of them, only Zhou is an official, the rest being young scholars. However, looking at how the equipment they’re holding and the clothes they’re wearing aren’t of common fare, they’re very likely all from long-standing families.

Zhou Zizhu is also quite embarrassed. He spoke to Mr. Xue, “Is it Commander Xue who made poetry just then? It’s a particularly good poem.” He looks rather baffled, likely because Commander Xue was born of a military family and was not known for his literary talent.

Mr. Xue shook his head. “It wasn’t me, it was Sir Zhang.”

Zhou Zizhu was surprised, turning to gaze at me. “Where did Sir Zhang get such a fine verse?”

I’m illiterate, so of course I couldn’t have composed it.

My mind is spinning. Zhou Zizhu is a famous Jiangnan scholar of Hanlin that knows all the famous works of the country, but since there’s a poem by Li Shangyin right under his nose yet he doesn’t recognize it, then… would I not be able to irresponsibly infringe upon intellectual property rights, quickly becoming a renowned poet and literary genius?

However, I saw the little emperor, Jinfeng, and Xiao Lu reading Confucius and Mencius, so they still exist. Where in the timeline is this, what’s come before, and what hasn’t come yet? When is this? The Tang Dynasty? Or is it a random selection? My head hurts.

Seeing that I didn’t answer, Zhou Zizhu asked again. Even if his bearing as an educator is very good, he inevitably faintly reveals a contemptuous opinion towards me, and those surrounding him are even more obvious.

While my mood was bad, I still smiled. “I don’t dare to state fine verses. I have recently taken up studying poetry in my spare time. These few words were composed while perfecting my hand, written just for fun.”

Everyone present was gobsmacked. Mr. Xue was the first to speak. “Little brother Qinglian is unmatched in intelligence, able to write such a fine poem at the beginning of his studies. I can only admire such a talent.”

Zhou Zizhu says, “I truly respect you, Sir Zhang.” Meaning he doesn’t believe me in the least.

I smile sweetly, cupping my hands in deference. “You flatter me.”

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Zhou Zizhu just then thought of introductions. He first introduced me, and none of those understudies looked happy, cupping their fists with reluctance. I keep down my annoyance, convincing myself that it was aimed at Zhang Qinglian, not me, and maintain my smiling face. I understand that it was in Zhang Qinglian’s character to do certain evil deeds.

He also introduced Mr. Xue, whose reputation is far better than mine, in addition to being from a famous family. Their attitude is much more affectionate and polite, polite greetings flying all over the place like “I’ve looked forward to meeting you for a long time”, “we must be soulfriends that have never met before”, and so on.

He then introduced his few tagalongs one-by-one. Sure enough, they’re all young juniors born of wealthy families or renowned clans of Jiangnan. They’re currently in the capital for the autumnal exam and came in advance to study abroad, eating, drinking, and making merry along the way – as well as making literary friends with similar backgrounds, spreading around poetry and literature, and improving the aspects of their own names.

Mr. Xue enthusiastically invited them to sit with us. They immodestly do not decline, the same moment calling for the waiter to bring more chairs, more dishes, more cups, and more chopsticks. An awful big rush ensued, and a short while later we became a big table full of people.

The wine hadn’t yet circled the table three times, formal greetings hadn’t yet finished being said, and butts hadn’t even yet warmed the seats, when someone suggested composing poems.

I saw the meaningful looks they were giving to each other and mentally sneered. It was purely because they didn’t believe that that poem was my own doing and wanted to watch me make a fool of myself.

Heh, bring it on. I have 5,000 years of Chinese culture backing me, not a one of your tricks will pose a problem for me!

That young intellectual in the pale blue jacket named Baifeng, who’d also been the first to come over, pulled out a few branches of plum blossoms and said, “I bought a few of these just now from the flower girls down the stairs, so it would be better to make an ode to plum blossoms, right?”

While everyone is blasting their agreement, I continue to sneer in my heart.

Humph, what a bad habit! Whenever ancient scholars had eaten their fill and had nothing better to do, they’d start making odes to the snow and the plum blossoms. It’s nothing new. The sheer amount of famous plum-worshipping verses is definitely too much, however, so my only vexation is deciding which one to plagiarize.

Everyone took a pen and paper and leaned over the table, writing. Seeing them racking their brains and wringing their thoughts dry, I am on the side merely fiddling with my wine cup. Zhou Zizhu finished with a stroke of his brush. Raising his head to see my own motionless, he spoke strangely, “Is Sir Zhang still conceptualizing?”

I shook my head. “I already have it. My words aren’t good, so I’ll read it aloud later and ask you all to revise it.”

At this time, a few of them have finished writing and are reading theirs aloud. I listen carefully, feeling that their talent in literature was average and their poetry was nothing more than tidy. They flattered each other in praise.

Zhou Zizhu noticed me sitting upright and not talking, wearing a sneer, and said, “I don’t know what wondrous clauses Sir Zhang has. Could you say them out loud to let everyone bask in appreciation?”

I looked down at him lazily. “I wouldn’t dare. I’m just offering my lowly words to gain a lofty opinion, is all.” Now that I’ve decided to use Lu You’s Melody of Divination, I begin to recite, “Outside the post-house, beside the broken bridge…”

“Hold on,” Mr. Xue is a military leader, not a poet, so he had not been participating. He offered to take a pen and paper, saying, “You speak, Qinglian, I will help you copy it down.”

I gave him a smile, then proceeded to recite the whole poem:

“Outside the roadhouse by the Parted Bridge, in loneliness bloom wild blossoms. Sunset has arrived as I dwell in melancholy in solitude, weathering wind and rain. I have no intention to spring hold onto, I’ll leave jealousy for various flowers to endure. As blossoms fall to the ground and dust turn into, there leaves only fragrances that doesn’t change.

“Outside the post-house, beside the broken bridge, alone, deserted, a flower blooms. Saddened by her solitudein the falling dusk, she is assailed by wind and rain. Let other flowers be envious! She craves not Spring for herself alone. Her petals may be ground in the mud, but her fragrance will endure.” [1]

At the fall of my words, everyone present is silent, each of them looking at me in amazement.

Zhou Zizhu had nothing to say for a long while, then spoke with a strained voice. “Truly… shockingly splendid.”

Mr. Xue grabbed my hand in excitement. “Qinglian, I already knew that you could grow out of the mud and turn out clean, and had lofty yet noble ambitions… people have misunderstood you!” He was almost in tears.

I, uh… I almost didn’t spit it out. I was hesitating at first because I was thinking of using one of Lin Hejing’s poems, but I didn’t know if his works were known of here. Furthermore, I feel that his regular-verse poems give a more indifferent elegance, detached from the world, while Melody of Divination is a bit more emotionally moving. The expected result came about: people began to think that I had voiced my own feelings.

The group of scholars stared at my face for a long time without ever shifting their stunned gazes.

Word of my classical poem spread on the streets afterwards. The attitudes of intellectuals towards me had subtly changed, and ones of comparatively wanton and capricious nature like that one Baifeng became my die-hard fans. They want to run to me every day, and just like Mr. Xue, feel as if the people of the world have misunderstood me.

Some people began to request poetry from me. I blatantly plagiarized the Eight Masters of the Tang and Song, my name gradually spreading far and wide. Everyone regards the contents of my text as coming from my own heart, so there is a version of my tale that has been stealthily circulating amongst the people: Zhang Qinglian is actually a scholar whose family situation had fallen to ruin. He spent ten years studying strenuously and his literary style was absolutely stunning, so he was wanting to go to the capital and take the imperial exam in order to continue his family’s tradition and bring honor to his ancestors. Unfortunately, he was born too beautiful; the previous emperor inadvertently saw him and fell in love at first sight. He removed his scholarly honor and stubbornly kept him at his side, treating him as a young male concubine to be played with…

As a result, I slowly began to gain some of the public’s sympathy.

I’ll admit that I had a hand in propagating that story.

Zhou Zizhu did not renounce his status as a member of a political party that’s hostile to me because of this, but his manner towards me was a lot more polite.

I hadn’t thought of it at the time, but I had been willing to put great effort into changing Zhang Qinglian’s pre-existing vile image, and this has actually paved the way for that. There’s always been a shortcoming with Chinese intellectuals where they think of the writing first, and so long as the essay or poem is well-written, all else is well too. I very much despise that way of thinking, because there’s a lot of good writings written by despicable people, and they’re unable to be good officials – just like how Qin Hui was the top scorer in his year’s imperial examination. Speaking of which, my godson is also a top-scorer, the paper he wrote for it splendid and flawless; could he be said to have excellent moral character, though?

Confronted with this situation, the Weiqi began to spread rumors saying that Zhang Qinglian could not have possibly written such things, and that my residence had gathered a lot of brilliant literati under the threat of a blade. Qingliu’s attitude is comparatively mellow, with no reaction to be seen at all. Zhou Zizhu, after all, did personally witness my response to the topic and composition, but they’re probably not going to be any less hostile to me.

At the very least, I became a controversial figure. All over the cities, when someone cursed me, people would frequently begin to defend me. My image is no longer a widely-accepted one of a treacherous minister.

This is all something to be put into a speech later, so I won’t speak of it anymore now.

I hate poetry. Also, I think y'all will really like the next three chapters.

[1] Lifted directly from . If you don’t see a link, that’s because this isn’t chichilations.

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