Explore Chapter 32 of 'Spring Ming Outer History' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
After seeing He Jianchen off from the hospital that day, Yang Xingyuan returned home alone, feeling nothing but wretchedness and emptiness. To distract himself, he hailed a rickshaw and went outside the city walls to his usual teahouse. Yet even there, he felt restless, as if some important matter remained unsettled. He sat for about an hour and was just about to leave when an acquaintance walked in for tea. Seizing this opportunity for conversation, he managed to temporarily set aside the gloom in his heart. They chatted for a while until the other man left on business, and Yang Xingyuan was once again left feeling bored. 'I've never been so unsettled,' he thought. 'Why today? Could I be falling ill?' He called the waiter over to brew a pot of Longjing tea. Sipping slowly, he pondered the root of his unease. He finished the whole pot but arrived at no conclusion. Seeing the sun already low in the west and the waiter coming to turn on the electric lights, Yang Xingyuan paid his bill and headed home. Upon entering the courtyard, he spotted a bicycle parked there. 'Who has come?' he asked the janitor. 'A Mr. Wu is waiting for you in your room,' the man replied. Yang Xingyuan hurried inside to find Wu Bibo reading a newspaper. 'I was just thinking of looking for you,' Yang Xingyuan said. 'And here you are already.' 'I have a friend looking to sell some antiques,' Wu Bibo explained. 'I'd like your expert opinion on whether they're genuine or fakes.' 'Splendid,' said Yang Xingyuan, 'I was feeling terribly bored. Which friend is this?' 'A fellow townsman of mine,' said Wu Bibo, 'You might know him-Wang Yusun.' 'Indeed I do,' Yang Xingyuan replied. 'His father was a noted scholar and landscape painter, also from your esteemed hometown. So Wang Yusun comes from a cultured family. How is he faring now?' 'He's fallen on very hard times,' Wu Bibo said. 'Yesterday he mentioned having some antiques he'd be willing to part with cheaply. I asked what they were, and he said porcelain. While I'm no expert, they seemed well-preserved, so I thought of taking you along to have a look.' 'Where does he live?' asked Yang Xingyuan. 'Outside Xuanwu Gate,' said Wu Bibo, 'in a small lane next to Tiger Cave.' 'That's rather far,' said Yang Xingyuan. 'Impossible to go today.' 'If not today, then tomorrow would do,' Wu Bibo said. 'But he wanted a definite answer, so I had to ask you first.' 'Tomorrow is Sunday, so I could go,' Yang Xingyuan mused. 'But when you say "cheap," how cheap do you mean? If it's just some trinket worth three or five dollars, it's hardly worth the trip.' 'From what I heard,' said Wu Bibo, 'it's a large polychrome vase from the Kangxi era and a couple of plates from the imperial kilns of the Qianlong period. Should be worth over a hundred dollars altogether, but he's only asking for half that price.' 'Half price is still fifty or sixty dollars,' said Yang Xingyuan. 'If the pieces are truly good, I'd be interested.' 'If you can go tomorrow, I'll tell him to expect you at his home in the morning,' Wu Bibo said. 'Very well,' agreed Yang Xingyuan. 'Have him wait for me tomorrow morning. I'll definitely be there.'
With that, Wu Bibo left. Yang Xingyuan felt a flicker of pleasure, thinking he had secured a pleasant diversion for the following day. After dinner, the excessive tea from earlier left him strangely keyed up. He took out a copy of The Collected Poems of Jiannan and began reading by the lamplight. After perusing dozens of poems, he felt a poetic impulse stir within him and composed a verse of his own, pouring out the day's frustrations. His poem read: Within the small courtyard, no soul in sight, dew lies like frost; Chanting alone, I heed not how the night grows long. Wind and rain fill the city as the Double Ninth Festival, a traditional autumn holiday, draws near, A pervasive desolation makes old dreams seem lost and wrong. The rustling fallen leaves augment the wanderer's sorrow, it seems, The chill crickets' endless chirps disturb my train of thought. The gallant spirit of past years is worn away, it teems; Idly I watch the azure sky escort the sun it brought.
Yang Xingyuan recited the poem a couple of times, then casually wrote it down and tucked it between the pages of the book. Feeling invigorated, he continued reading The Collected Poems of Jiannan, even trying his hand at composing a few lines in imitation when inspiration struck. He read on until midnight, still wide awake. Suddenly, a servant entered with a letter. Recognizing Wu Bibo's handwriting on the envelope, he wondered, 'We just parted. Why a letter now?' He tore it open quickly. It read: Dear Brother Xingyuan, Brother Wang Yusun called this evening. I informed him of your willingness to view the antiques. He was most pleased and extends an invitation for tomorrow (Sunday) at nine o'clock in the morning, respectfully awaiting your esteemed presence at his home. I trust you will honor us with an early visit. Respectfully yours, Your brother, Bibo.
The next day, Yang Xingyuan rose early. By the time he finished breakfast, it was already nine o'clock. He took a rickshaw to the area outside Xuanwu Gate. Following Wu Bibo's directions, he soon found the place-a dilapidated main gate with a red paper slip pasted on the frame bearing the characters "Wang Residence." Yang Xingyuan knocked. A man opened the door and asked, "And you are, sir?" "My name is Yang," Yang Xingyuan replied. "Mr. Wu arranged for me to come." "Ah, Mr. Yang! Please, come inside." Yang Xingyuan followed him through the gate, around a broken screen wall, and into a small courtyard containing two or three overgrown, unkempt trees. Ahead stood three low-roofed rooms. The interior, however, was quite bright, thanks to newly pasted paper on the windows. The man ushered Yang Xingyuan inside and said, "Please have a seat. I shall inform the master of your arrival." "Is your master Mr. Wang?" Yang Xingyuan inquired. "Yes, sir," the man replied. He poured a cup of tea, set it on the table, and withdrew.
Yang Xingyuan surveyed the room. It was clean enough, with reed mats covering the floor. Hanging on the central wall was a landscape scroll, signed by Wang Binggui, who was presumably Wang Yusun's father. Flanking it was a couplet inscribed by the same hand, which read: Upon leaving, you may rely on the power of a silver tongue; But upon returning, you'll be worth less than a pittance.
Yang Xingyuan could not help but smile upon reading it, thinking this Mr. Wang was rather excessively cynical. Just then, Wang Yusun entered. He wore a gray cloth gown, his hair grown rather long, and a black velvet cap topped with a red knob, though its color had faded. Removing the cap revealed a shaven head-he had evidently cut off his queue. Yang Xingyuan raised his clasped hands in greeting. Wang hurriedly placed his cap on the table and returned the salute with flustered courtesy. "I came today," Yang Xingyuan began, "because Brother Wu Bibo mentioned you have some porcelain pieces you wish to part with. I thought I'd take a look." "Yes, indeed," said Wang Yusun. "Since my late father passed away, there's been no one to properly care for the household, and I am a complete outsider in such matters. I feared good pieces might go to ruin, so I'd rather pass them on to a fellow connoisseur." Saying this, he dragged two large wooden boxes out from under a bed. Opening the lids revealed straw, within which the porcelain was carefully wrapped. He took out each piece one by one and placed them on the table. "See here, Mr. Yang," he said, "these are all polychrome porcelain from the Kangxi era and pieces from the imperial kilns of the Qianlong period, without a single flaw." Yang Xingyuan examined them meticulously. They were indeed fine pieces. He then asked the price. Wang Yusun said, "There are twelve pieces in all. I ask only sixty dollars." "The items are excellent," Yang Xingyuan said, "but I am a man of modest means. I cannot afford such a sum." "You jest, Mr. Yang," Wang Yusun protested. "Everyone knows you are a connoisseur. Since you appreciate them, surely you wouldn't begrudge a few extra dollars?" "It's not that," Yang Xingyuan explained. "It is precisely because I like them that I wish to buy them, but my resources are truly limited." "In that case, Mr. Yang, how much can you offer?" Wang Yusun asked. Yang Xingyuan thought for a moment and said, "I can offer forty dollars. What do you say?" "Forty dollars is rather too little," Wang Yusun demurred. "How about this-let us split the difference and make it an even fifty?" "I truly cannot go any higher," Yang Xingyuan insisted. Wang Yusun fell silent for a while, then said, "Very well, I shall sell them to you. But I must insist on payment in ready cash, not by check." "Naturally," agreed Yang Xingyuan. He then produced four ten-dollar bills from his person and handed them over. Wang Yusun accepted the money, carefully repacked the porcelain in the straw and boxes, and said to Yang Xingyuan, "The items are now yours, Mr. Yang. You may leave the boxes here for the time being and fetch them at your convenience." "I shall take them with me today," Yang Xingyuan said. "Even better," said Wang Yusun. He called the servant in, had the boxes securely tied up, hired a cart, and dispatched them to Yang Xingyuan's quarters at the Guild Hall.
Yang Xingyuan settled the porcelain in his room, feeling quite pleased with the bargain he had struck. That evening, Wu Bibo came by. Yang Xingyuan told him about the purchase. "You've bought them, and that's that," Wu Bibo said. "But I feel I should tell you-this Wang Yusun is a swindler. Most of his things are fakes." "That cannot be," Yang Xingyuan countered. "I examined the porcelain carefully; it seemed perfectly genuine." "Since you've already bought them, I'll say no more," Wu Bibo replied. "You'll find out for yourself in due time." Troubled by this, Yang Xingyuan took out the porcelain and scrutinized it once more. Sure enough, he discovered a small hole on the bottom of one of the plates, cleverly patched over with wax. His fury knew no bounds. He said to Wu Bibo, "I've been cheated! I'll go and confront him tomorrow." "What good would that do?" Wu Bibo asked. "If he set out to deceive you, do you think he'll admit it?" "So I am simply to swallow the loss?" Yang Xingyuan exclaimed. "My advice is to let the matter rest," Wu Bibo counseled. "Consider the forty dollars a gambling loss. Just avoid dealings with such people in the future." Though inwardly seething with anger, Yang Xingyuan saw no alternative but to resign himself to his misfortune.
A couple of days later, Yang Xingyuan received a letter from Li Yun. She wrote that she was ill and hospitalized, feeling terribly lonely, and hoped he would come to see her. Distressed by the news, Yang Xingyuan went to the hospital to visit Li Yun. She had contracted diphtheria, a serious condition. Yang Xingyuan stayed with her for half a day, offering what comfort he could, and did not return home until evening. From that day on, he visited the hospital daily. Gradually, Li Yun's health began to improve.
One day, on his way back from the hospital, Yang Xingyuan encountered an old Taoist priest on the road. The priest raised his clasped hands in a formal salute and said, "Sir, your countenance shows signs of ill fortune. I fear a calamity may befall you." Yang Xingyuan laughed. "What calamity could befall me?" The priest replied, "It shall come to pass within ten days." "Since you say so," Yang Xingyuan said, "can you avert it for me?" "It is not difficult to dispel," the priest answered, "provided you are willing to make a small offering." "How much do you want?" asked Yang Xingyuan. "Give as you see fit, according to your fortune and goodwill," the priest said. Yang Xingyuan happened to have a dollar on him and handed it over. The priest accepted the money, produced a small gourd from his person, poured out a single pill, and gave it to Yang Xingyuan, saying, "Take this pill with boiled water, and the disaster will be averted." Yang Xingyuan took the pill, and the priest strode away without another word.
One day, while Yang Xingyuan was reading at home, a servant entered and presented a calling card. Yang Xingyuan saw the name "Shu Jiucheng" inscribed on it and said, "Show him in." Presently, Shu Jiucheng entered. He was dressed in a silk-lined robe with a sleeveless jacket worn over it, and on his head was a skullcap with a small gemstone set in the front. Yang Xingyuan greeted him with clasped hands and invited him to sit. "I have come today," Shu Jiucheng began, "to seek your advice on a certain matter." "And what might that be?" asked Yang Xingyuan. "A friend of mine wishes to establish a poetry society," Shu Jiucheng explained, "and hopes very much that you, Mr. Yang, would consent to join. I wonder if you would honor us with your presence?" "Who else will be in this society?" Yang Xingyuan inquired. "All are familiar faces," said Shu Jiucheng: "Yi Taifeng, Chen Huangnie, Zhang Daci, Xiao Li'an, Feng Youliang, Zhou Xipo, and Song Chuanxian." "Ah, I know them all," said Yang Xingyuan. "But I am a complete layman when it comes to the study of poetry. I fear that by pretending to refinement, I would only make a fool of myself." "You are far too modest, Mr. Yang," Shu Jiucheng protested. "Everyone knows you are a poet of considerable talent. We simply must have you join us." "Since it is the kind wish of all you gentlemen," Yang Xingyuan conceded, "I shall gladly follow in your illustrious footsteps." Delighted by his acceptance, Shu Jiucheng said, "In that case, I shall have an invitation sent to you tomorrow. The gathering is scheduled for the day after, at my humble abode. I do hope you can come early." "I shall certainly be there," Yang Xingyuan assured him. Shu Jiucheng sat for a little while longer before taking his leave.
On the day of the poetry society gathering, Yang Xingyuan went to Shu Jiucheng's home in the western part of the city. The house was quite spacious, and a dozen or so guests had already arrived-all scholarly types, some dressed in long gowns and mandarin jackets, others in Western suits. They all rose to greet Yang Xingyuan when he entered. Shu Jiucheng made the introductions; a few were already known to Yang Xingyuan, and they exchanged pleasantries. Once everyone was present, Shu Jiucheng invited the company to be seated at the banquet table. The spread consisted of the usual chicken, duck, fish, and pork dishes, nothing out of the ordinary. As they drank, conversation naturally turned to poetry, with lines and comments flying back and forth in a lively manner. Yang Xingyuan, being less familiar with most of the guests, spoke very little. Suddenly, someone declared, "A gathering such as this cannot be without poetry! Why don't we compose verses, all using the same rhyme?" Everyone agreed. They decided on the rhyme category 'hui' (ash gray), with each person to compose a seven-character regulated verse. The company fell into contemplation-some scribbling on paper, others murmuring with eyes closed. Yang Xingyuan also composed a poem and presented it for all to see. It was met with general praise. However, Yi Taifeng, after reading it, remarked, "Mr. Yang's poem is excellent, of course. Yet the line 'A wind of autumn blows for ten thousand li' seems somewhat repetitive in essence with the earlier phrase 'Wind and rain fill the city.'" "You are quite right," Yang Xingyuan conceded readily. "I failed to notice that. Thank you for pointing it out." "Mr. Yang is truly open to criticism," said Yi Taifeng admiringly. "I find that most commendable." The others then showered Yang Xingyuan with further compliments.
After the meal, everyone dispersed into smaller groups. Shu Jiucheng brought out numerous antiques for display-jades, porcelain, bronzes-a dazzling array. All praised the richness of his collection, and Shu Jiucheng beamed with pride. Later, he produced a painting and announced, "This is a genuine work by the painter Tang Yin, also known as Tang Bohu. Please, have a look." The guests gathered around. The painting was indeed skillfully executed, bearing Tang Yin's inscription and the seals of several collectors. Everyone exclaimed over it as a rare treasure, and Shu Jiucheng was visibly thrilled. Yang Xingyuan examined it carefully and noticed the paper was of a much more recent vintage. He realized it was a forgery but chose not to voice his discovery.