Explore Chapter 8 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.
Now, after leaving the Breeze and Bamboo House, Yang Xingyuan sprinted straight back to the Provincial Guild without stopping. It was already late. Hu Er, the gatekeeper, was about to secure the main entrance when he saw him arrive, his face flushed. "Master Yang, have you been drinking?" Hu Er inquired. "I haven't had a drop," Yang Xingyuan replied, "I just wasn't quite myself and wanted to retire early." Accepting this, Hu Er closed the gate. Yang Xingyuan walked into his courtyard to find the ground littered with pear blossom petals, tumbled about by the wind. In the sky, a sliver of a waning moon seemed to cast a sidelong glance at him through the clouds. Unconsciously, he murmured a line of poetry, "Spring fills my gaze, yet all things seem awry..." but found the following line eluded him. Entering his room, he spotted a letter on the table. It was from the director of the guild's Nanjing branch, written on his behalf. The letter explained that since arriving in Nanjing, the director had been idle for the better part of a year. Recently, with the support of fellow townsmen, he had secured a minor official post. The clerical duties were not overly burdensome, so he had thought of Yang Xingyuan - a reliable and scholarly man. He was willing to offer a monthly stipend of forty dollars if Yang would compile a news bulletin reporting on the political affairs of Beijing, just once a week, but with ample detail. Reading it, Yang Xingyuan considered it a decent opportunity. Forty dollars a month was no small supplement. However, producing a weekly dispatch seemed somewhat troublesome. He turned it over in his mind for a long while. Ultimately, pressed by necessity, he consented. This matter, in turn, made him think of Li Yun once more. He thought to himself, had he secured this news agency position earlier, with more fluid funds at hand, he might even have been able to marry her outright. Now, he could only watch helplessly as she descended into a living hell. But upon cooler reflection, nothing in this world came so easily. How could one both marry and support her on a mere forty dollars a month? The more he pondered, the more agitated he grew. He picked up a book and lay on the rattan chair to read, but though his eyes scanned the page, his heart remained completely preoccupied with Li Yun. Finally, he tossed the book aside and began anew: "Since I met her, I've visited her chamber no more than seven or eight times in total. Why then do I feel as if afflicted by an illness, unable to let her go? I should not have gone today. Yet I did, and the depth of feeling she showed me was truly moving. Her gaze held mine as if she had volumes to say, yet words failed her - it was utterly heart-wrenching. From her manner, it was plain she wished for me to devise some solution. How could I feign ignorance and offer no sign? I who pride myself on being a man of principle - it seems I am utterly useless." Alone, his thoughts spiraled into regret and his regret into frustration, completely overshadowing the earlier piece of good news. Around midnight, Hu Er, having woken from a nap, heard voices coming from Yang Xingyuan's room, punctuated by sighs. Startled, he wondered if Master Yang had been bewitched - talking to himself in the dead of night? Treading softly, he approached the window and peered through a tear in the paper. He saw Yang Xingyuan lying on the rattan chair, eyes wide open, fixed on the electric lamp, while his hand beat a ceaseless rhythm on his thigh. He was murmuring softly, "What can I possibly do? What can I possibly do?" Seeing this, Hu Er realized he was talking in his sleep and felt relieved. A moment later, Yang Xingyuan suddenly stood up, found a pen and paper on the desk, and began writing. "Ah," Hu Er thought, "he's up to write after all. I misjudged." And with that, he went back to sleep.
What was Yang Xingyuan writing? Having heard Hu Er stirring, he feared another intrusion. It seemed better to write a letter to Li Yun and bare his heart. He spent the better part of an hour on it. After finishing, he read it over several times, still unsatisfied, and tore it up. Bending over the desk again, he wrote another sheet, still found it wanting, and tore that up too. He wrote until three in the morning, producing several pages' worth before he was done. What did it say? He explained his helplessness in the face of her need to buy her freedom, offered words of consolation, and ended with a promise to assist her should she ever face true hardship. By the time the letter was finished, dawn was near. He collapsed onto his bed and slept. Two hours later, he rose again, sealed the envelope, affixed a stamp, and taking advantage of the guild's quiet before anyone else was awake, went out personally to the Xiangchang Post Office to mail it. Returning home, his heart felt significantly lighter, and he caught up on some more sleep.
He did not wake until eleven that morning. After washing up, he asked the attendant to fetch some baked rolls and brewed a pot of strong tea, which served as his lunch. With his mind somewhat settled, he began to wonder how Li Yun would receive the letter, wishing he could see her immediately. Yet, as a poor scholar, a single visit to the courtesan's quarter cost at least two or three dollars - how could he go every day? He was lost in these calculations when the attendant brought in a calling card: a Mr. He wished to see him. Recognizing it as He Jianchen, Yang Xingyuan said, "Show him in." Once inside, He Jianchen was greeted with, "You never come without a purpose. What brings you so early today?" "I've been meaning to come," He Jianchen replied. "Last night at the newspaper office, I saw a draft dispatch from that news agency of yours. I feared you might ask me about it, so I came to explain first." "Oh, you mean the bulletin I'm handling for Nanjing?" Yang Xingyuan said. "There's nothing to ask about. Publish it if you will, or drop it if not." "You misunderstand," said He Jianchen. "I've no objection to you running a bulletin. But I heard the agency's proprietor is a relative of Liu Mutang. That Liu Mutang is a notorious political operator, specializing in rumor-mongering and trouble-making. What decent material could come from an agency he runs? I'm afraid you might be taken in, so I came to ask." "My bulletin merely reports trivial political news," Yang Xingyuan retorted. "I don't spread rumors or stir trouble. As for the proprietor's character, that's none of my concern." "It's not so simple," He Jianchen persisted. "You're acting as his mouthpiece now. Should he undertake any action contrary to public opinion, you'll be the one attacked." "I'm not afraid of that," Yang Xingyuan said stiffly. "I take his money to do a specified job. Beyond that, I know nothing." Seeing his stance, He Jianchen could only let it go. He changed tack: "Have you seen Li Yun these past few days?" "Why bring her up?" Yang Xingyuan said. "I only visit once in a while; I'm no regular patron." He Jianchen laughed. "I'm not interfering. I merely see you suffering from lovesickness and asked out of concern. Who knew you'd deny it so cleanly?" "Don't talk nonsense," Yang Xingyuan said. "I've no such thoughts." "Really?" He Jianchen teased. "Last night at the office, I received a strange letter - no stamp, delivered by hand. I opened it to find a blank sheet of paper, not a single word, just a drawing: a crescent moon, a full moon, and below them, a figure leaning against a willow tree. I puzzled over it for ages. Then it struck me: the moon stands for 'moon,' the willow for 'willow,' the crescent for 'waning' - together, 'waning moon under the willow.' It's clearly an allusion to 'Under the moon, by the willow branches, a rendezvous at dusk.' It must have been from Li Yun to you. Too shy to write a love letter, she sent this sketch instead. How's that for detective work?" "Utter nonsense!" Yang Xingyuan exclaimed. "Nothing of the sort! Show it to me." "I burned it," He Jianchen said airily. "Why keep such an inept drawing?" "If you claim it was from Li Yun to me, why not let me see it?" "I was teasing you," He Jianchen admitted, grinning. "There was no such letter. But since you wouldn't confess to lovesickness, I baited you with this tale, and you bit. Doesn't that prove Li Yun is constantly on your mind?" Hearing this, Yang Xingyuan couldn't help but laugh. "You are a master detective. I salute you." "It's not detective work," He Jianchen said, turning serious. "To be frank, I went to the Breeze and Bamboo House this morning." "What for?" "Yesterday, at the Jiuhua Restaurant, I saw Li Yun making a telephone call. She seemed troubled. I thought I'd go see what was the matter." "How kind of you to play detective for me," Yang Xingyuan said dryly. "What did she say?" "She wasn't up when I arrived. It was Amao who received me. After a few words with her, I gathered Li Yun has been downcast for days. Asked what's wrong, she won't say. From Amao's tone, it seems her madam is forcing her to move to Shanghai, and she's unwilling - hence the distress." "Why move to Shanghai?" "Word has it some General Wang there has taken a fancy to her and wants her for a concubine. The madam has already agreed, so she's desperate." "Is this true?" Yang Xingyuan demanded, his face paling. "It must be," He Jianchen said. "Why would Amao lie?" "This is intolerable!" Yang Xingyuan cried. "We must think of a way to help her." "What can you do?" He Jianchen said bluntly. "Unless you buy her freedom, but I doubt you have the means." "How much would that cost?" "Over a thousand dollars, I hear. Can you produce that?" "Where would I get such a sum? But we must try. We cannot let her fall into that living hell." "I think you're wasting your breath," He Jianchen said. "You're neither kin nor friend to her. By what right would you intervene? And with her kind, constancy is hardly guaranteed. Why trouble yourself?" "You're wrong," Yang Xingyuan insisted. "Knowing her counts for something - it's fate. How can our conscience abide, watching her descend into hell without lifting a hand?" He Jianchen smiled wryly. "You are a true romantic, but I fear it's futile. I advise you to put this out of your heart, lest you bring yourself nothing but grief." "Leave it to me," Yang Xingyuan said firmly. Seeing he could not be swayed, He Jianchen rose. "Very well, pursue your infatuation. I must return to the newspaper office." And with that, he took his leave.
After He Jianchen's departure, Yang Xingyuan grew increasingly frantic, wishing he could rush to the Breeze and Bamboo House that instant to question Li Yun. But with not a coin to his name, a visit would be pointless. After some thought, he remembered the Nanjing news agency affair. "Why not write to the proprietor," he thought, "and request an advance of two months' stipend? If he agrees, that's eighty dollars, plus the few dozen I have saved - perhaps enough to manage something." Resolved, he wrote a letter to the agency head in Nanjing, pleading earnestly for the salary advance. Having sent it off, he felt somewhat easier. Yet one day passed with no reply, then two. On the third day, a response arrived. He tore it open to find a single sheet of paper: "To Master Xingyuan: Your letter received. Regarding your request for an advance on salary, I would gladly comply, but unfortunately our agency's funds are currently strained, leaving me unable to oblige. I beg your understanding. As for the bulletin, I earnestly hope you will continue to submit drafts punctually. Respectfully yours, Liu Mutang." Reading this, Yang Xingyuan angrily tore the letter to shreds and flung it to the floor. "Fine fellow, this Liu Mutang!" he cursed. "I work for you, and you won't even advance two months' pay? What kind of agency are you running?" He stormed about the room for a long while, utterly helpless. The thought of Li Yun's plight made him all the more desperate. Two days later, the Qingming Festival arrived. Yang Xingyuan remembered how, on this day the previous year, he and Wu Bibo had paid their respects at the Anhui Charitable Cemetery, and was overcome by fresh melancholy. "Why not go out for a walk to clear my mind?" he thought. Changing his clothes, he set out. With no particular destination, he wandered aimlessly and soon found himself before the entrance of the Breeze and Bamboo House. He stood there, pacing back and forth for a long while. To go in? He had no money. Not to go? He could not bear to part from Li Yun. As he wrestled with this dilemma, Amao emerged from within and spotted him. "Master Yang, why don't you come in? Seventh Miss has been thinking of you." "Is she home?" "Yes, yes, do come in quickly." Almost against his will, Yang Xingyuan followed her inside. Entering Li Yun's chamber, he found her with hair still disheveled from sleep, traces of drowsiness on her face. Seeing him, she forced a smile. "What brings you here with time to spare today?" "I was passing by and thought I'd look in on you," he said. "Please sit." He sat down, noticing the room was far more untidy than before, the dressing table cluttered with medicine bottles and jars. "Are you ill?" he asked. "Not ill," she said, "just... unwell at heart." "Can you tell me what troubles you?" At this, her eyes reddened. She lowered her head, toying with the corner of her gown, and said nothing. "I heard," Yang Xingyuan ventured, "that you are to go to Shanghai. Is it true?" She looked up, met his gaze for a moment, then looked down again. "Who told you that?" "Never mind who. Just tell me if it's so." "It is," she admitted, "but I don't wish to go." "If you don't wish it, why agree?" "It wasn't my wish," she said, tears beginning to fall. "My mother is forcing me." "Don't cry," Yang Xingyuan said gently. "We'll think of a way, slowly." "What way is there?" she sobbed. "Unless I die." "Don't speak so. There must be a way." "What way? Unless you buy my freedom." Yang Xingyuan fell silent, unable to reply. Seeing this, Li Yun said, "I know you have no money. I speak in vain." "How much would it cost?" he finally asked. "I heard over a thousand dollars. Where would you find such a sum?" "I may have none, but I could borrow." "From whom? And how would you repay? I don't want to be a burden to you. I think our shared fate ends here." And she began to weep in earnest. Yang Xingyuan's heart ached terribly. "Don't cry," he insisted. "No matter what, I will find a way." Just then, Amao entered. "Seventh Miss, General Wang has sent someone again, asking when you will depart." Li Yun's face turned ashen. "Tell him I leave tomorrow." Amao assented and left. "You leave tomorrow?" Yang Xingyuan asked. "What else can I do?" she said bitterly. "Wait for them to drag me away?" "Where will you stay in Shanghai?" "How should I know? I'll be at the mercy of others' arrangements." "Will you write to me from Shanghai?" "What use is writing?" she countered. "Could you possibly come to Shanghai to see me?" "If the chance arises, I will certainly come to see you." "That is for the future," she said. They fell silent, sitting together wordlessly. After a while, Yang Xingyuan, feeling he had nothing more to say, rose to leave. "Must you go so soon?" Li Yun asked. "My presence only saddens you further. It's better I go." "Will you see me off at the station tomorrow?" "I will be there." "Then come early. I have more to tell you." Yang Xingyuan agreed, bid her farewell, and returned to the Provincial Guild. That night, he tossed and turned, finding no sleep.
Early the next morning, Yang Xingyuan went to the Breeze and Bamboo House. Li Yun, her luggage packed, was waiting for him. "You've come," she said. "I was just looking for you." "What did you wish to say?" he asked. "I have something to give you, as a keepsake." From her trunk, she took a white silk scarf and handed it to him. He examined it: embroidered upon it was a sprig of pear blossom, and beneath the flower, four characters: "The moon wanes, the flowers fade." A wave of sorrow washed over him. "Why give me this?" he murmured. "I have little else to offer," she said. "I embroidered this scarf myself. Keep it. When you see it, think of me." "Thank you," he said. "I too have something for you." From within his robe, he produced a fountain pen. "This pen I use for writing every day. I give it to you now. In Shanghai, you may use it to write letters." She took it, looked at it, and tucked it away. Then Amao entered. "Seventh Miss, the carriage has come. You must hurry." Li Yun stood. "I must go now. Take care of yourself." "I'll see you to the station," Yang Xingyuan offered. "No need," she said. "The station is crowded. It would be awkward for you." "Then at least to the carriage." She nodded. They went out together, Amao following with the luggage. At the gate, a carriage waited. Li Yun climbed in. Yang Xingyuan stood by the wheel. "Once in Shanghai, you must write to me." "I will," she said. "You should go back now." The coachman cracked his whip, and the carriage moved off. Yang Xingyuan watched until it vanished from sight, then walked, step by heavy step, back to the Provincial Guild. In his room, seeing the scarf Li Yun had given him, he could not hold back his tears.
After Li Yun's departure, Yang Xingyuan felt as if he had lost a part of himself, remaining despondent day after day. A few days later, a letter arrived from her. It read: "Master Xingyuan: I have reached Shanghai and am staying at a certain lane in the French Concession. Life here is even more bitter than in Beijing. I wash my face with tears each day, not knowing when such an existence will end. I hope you will take good care of yourself and not trouble your thoughts with me. Yours, Li Yun." This letter plunged him into deeper distress. He wanted to write back to console her, but when he took up his pen, no words would come. Several attempts proved unsatisfactory, so he gave up altogether. A few more days passed. It was early April. The pear blossoms in his courtyard had bloomed and fallen, leaving only a few scattered petals drifting in the wind. Sitting by the window, witnessing this scene and thinking of Li Yun, he composed a poem and wrote it down: "After the pear blossoms fall, spring is no more; / In dreams, glory survives the worldly scathe. / Where do sobbing flutes mourn the waning moon? / In solitude, I dwell on bygone paths." Reading it over, he found its tone too bleak, crumpled the paper, and tossed it into the wastebasket. Just then, the attendant brought in another letter. It was from the Nanjing news agency, containing a money order for forty dollars. So, while Proprietor Liu Mutang had refused the advance, he was still sending the monthly stipend on time. Staring at the money order, Yang Xingyuan thought, "What use is this forty dollars now? Had it come a month earlier, perhaps it could have saved Li Yun. Now she is gone to Shanghai. What do I need it for?" Frustration mounting, he tore up the money order. But once it was shredded, he recalled his own straitened circumstances - the forty dollars could have been a relief. Regret set in. As he wallowed in this emotional turmoil, Wu Bibo walked in. "Xingyuan, what are you brooding over alone at home?" "Nothing much," Yang Xingyuan replied. "Just... thinking." "What about? Missing Li Yun again?" "Who else would I be thinking of?" "I urge you to be more philosophical," Wu Bibo said. "There are many like her in the city. Why fixate on just one?" "You don't understand," Yang Xingyuan said. "It's not that I fixate on her alone, but I pity her deeply. That's why I cannot let go." "If you pity her, you should buy her freedom. But you lack the means. What's the use of just thinking?" "I know it's useless," Yang Xingyuan admitted, "but I cannot help it." "Let me give you some distraction," Wu Bibo said. "Tomorrow is Sunday. Let's go to Wansheng Garden to see the peach blossoms. What say you?" "I won't go. I'm in no mood." "If you don't go, I'll be even more bored. Come, walk with me." Pestered relentlessly, Yang Xingyuan had no choice but to agree.
The next day, Wu Bibo arrived as promised, and the two set off for Wansheng Garden. The peach blossoms within were at their peak, a glorious expanse of rosy clouds. Visitors thronged the paths, men and women weaving back and forth beneath the floral canopy. After wandering several circuits through the grove, Yang Xingyuan and Wu Bibo settled at a tea stall. "Look at these blossoms, so riotous and gay," Wu Bibo remarked. "Yet in a few days they'll be gone. So it is with life - one must seize joy where one can." "To seize joy, one needs the means for it," Yang Xingyuan retorted. "For people like us, who barely scrape by for food, what talk of joy is there?" "There you go again, casting a pall," Wu Bibo chided. "Since we're here today, we should enjoy ourselves for once. Why dwell on troubles?" "I don't wish to dwell on them," Yang Xingyuan sighed, "but they force themselves upon me." As they spoke, a woman approached from the opposite direction. Dressed in pale green, holding a peach blossom, she walked slowly with her head bowed. She seemed familiar, yet Yang Xingyuan could not place her. As she drew near and lifted her head, he saw it was Lin Xiaoxiang. Recognizing him, she stopped and smiled. "Master Yang, you are here too?" "Miss Lin, you've come alone?" "I came with some friends. They've gone over yonder; I'm waiting here." "I see," he said. "Master Yang, do you remember me?" "How could I forget? We met at Chen Ruokuang's place, did we not?" "Indeed. Master Yang has an excellent memory." Seeing them converse, Wu Bibo said to Yang Xingyuan, "You two chat. I'll take a stroll over there," and walked away. Lin Xiaoxiang sat down opposite Yang Xingyuan. "Master Yang, do you still visit the Breeze and Bamboo House often?" "Not often," he said. "I heard Li Yun has gone to Shanghai. Is it true?" "It is." "Ah," she sighed. "She too was born under an unlucky star. But perhaps it's for the best, to escape suffering here." "How do you know she suffered?" "People of our lot - who among us does not suffer? Only the nature of the suffering differs." "And you," he asked, "how have you been lately?" "What is there to be?" she said, her eyes suddenly glistening as she looked down. "Just living one day at a time." Seeing her distress, Yang Xingyuan sensed some hidden sorrow. "If you face any difficulty, you can tell me. Perhaps I can be of some small help." "Thank you," she said softly. "It is nothing." Just then, a group of men and women called from a distance, "Xiaoxiang, we're leaving!" She stood. "I must go. Goodbye." Yang Xingyuan also rose. "Goodbye." Lin Xiaoxiang departed with her companions. Watching her retreating figure, Yang Xingyuan thought, "She, too, is a pitiable soul."
After a while, Wu Bibo returned. "Who was that lady?" "Lin Xiaoxiang," Yang Xingyuan said. "I met her once at Chen Ruokuang's." "Ah, her," Wu Bibo said. "I heard she's now involved with some councilor. She may yet escape her plight." "I hope so," Yang Xingyuan murmured. They lingered a little longer before returning. Back at the Provincial Guild, Yang Xingyuan found a letter from He Jianchen, inviting him to dinner that evening at the Jiuhua Restaurant. He went. At the restaurant, He Jianchen was already waiting, accompanied by another gentleman - Ling Songlu from *The Internal Affairs Daily*. The three took their seats. "Master Yang," Ling Songlu began, "it has been too long." "Indeed, it has," Yang Xingyuan replied. "I hear you are now compiling a bulletin for Nanjing. Keeping busy?" "Merely scraping a living," Yang Xingyuan demurred. "You are too modest," Ling Songlu said. "There is a matter on which I seek your assistance, if you would be so kind?" "What matter?" "I wish to establish a poetry society, dedicated to classical forms. I should like to invite you to serve as its editor." "I am but a dilettante in classical poetry," Yang Xingyuan protested. "I fear I would not do it justice." "Master Yang, you do yourself a disservice," Ling Songlu insisted. "Who does not know your mastery of verse?" "Master Ling, you jest. I am truly not equal to the task." "Xingyuan," He Jianchen cut in, "just agree. It's hardly a burdensome affair." "Since Master Ling shows such faith in me," Yang Xingyuan conceded, "I shall give it a try." Ling Songlu was delighted. "Splendid! I shall send the society's charter to you tomorrow." They conversed a while longer, then dined. After the meal, Ling Songlu excused himself on other business. He Jianchen said to Yang Xingyuan, "Ling Songlu is a slick operator, but he is free with his money. Work for him, and he won't treat you poorly." "I take it on merely as a diversion," Yang Xingyuan said. "I expect nothing from him." "You seem somewhat more yourself these past few days," He Jianchen observed. "Perhaps being occupied helps me forget my cares." "That's good. I advise you to think less of Li Yun." "Would that I could forget," Yang Xingyuan said quietly. "But I cannot." They talked a little more before parting ways.
Yang Xingyuan returned to the Provincial Guild past ten o'clock. Reflecting on Ling Songlu's proposal for the poetry society, he thought, "Why not seize this chance to promote literary elegance and befriend a few men of letters?" Resolved, he began making preparations. Two days later, Ling Songlu duly sent over the charter, along with two hundred dollars for initial expenses. Yang Xingyuan set to work, renting a small room for the society's headquarters, printing advertisements, and posting them about. In less than a fortnight, several dozen had applied for membership. Yang Xingyuan established a weekly meeting for poetic exercises, setting themes for composition. The first theme was "The Spring Willow." He received over thirty submissions, carefully reviewed them, selected a dozen of the best, and had them printed in a small journal distributed to all members. Everyone was pleased, and the society's reputation began to grow. Through this, Yang Xingyuan came to know many poets, kept busy daily with the society's affairs, and gradually, Li Yun began to fade from his thoughts.
One day, as Yang Xingyuan was judging poems at the society, a letter arrived from Li Yun in Shanghai. He opened it. It read: "Master Xingyuan: I write this letter to bid you farewell. After coming to Shanghai, I was forced by General Wang to become his concubine. At first, he treated me tolerably well, but later, having found new favorites, he cast me aside, indifferent and neglectful. Unable to bear this treatment, I quarreled with him several times. In a fit of rage, he drove me out. I now lodge in a wretched inn, penniless and fallen ill. I fear I shall not last much longer. Looking back, you are my only true confidant in this world. Thus I write to tell you my end. Do not grieve for me. This fate is of my own making. I only hope that in your next life, you never meet one such as I. Li Yun's final words." Reading this, Yang Xingyuan felt as if struck by lightning. He stood dumbstruck for a long moment before a sob broke from him. His first impulse was to rush to Shanghai immediately, but he had no money for the journey. He could only write an express letter of consolation and send twenty dollars by post. Yet after the letter was sent, there came no reply. A few days later, a friend in Shanghai wrote to say that Li Yun had died, her body lying in a temple with none to claim it for burial. Upon this news, Yang Xingyuan wept bitterly. He gathered all the money he possessed, wired it to Shanghai, and entrusted his friend to give Li Yun a decent burial. From that day forth, Yang Xingyuan grew disillusioned with the world. Apart from managing the poetry society, he kept largely to himself. Yet on nights when the moon shone bright, thinking of Li Yun, he would feel that life was but a dream, and all within it, illusion.