Explore Chapter 23 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.
The following day, Yang Xingyuan rose early and went to the mirror to comb his hair. He saw that his face looked terribly haggard, deathly pale and colourless, with faint red flushes on his cheeks. He touched them with his hand; they did not feel particularly hot. Yet the palms of his hands burned like fire. 'This is bad,' he thought. 'I caught a chill yesterday and now illness is stirring.' There was a great deal of work at the newspaper office that day, and unable to extricate himself, he had no choice but to force himself to carry on. After finishing the morning's manuscripts, he lay down on a rattan chair, drinking no tea and eating no food, simply lying there in a daze. By the afternoon, he could barely hold out and instructed the attendant to telephone the acting manager, He Jianchen, to ask for a day's leave, after which he left the city and went home.
The weather that day was exceedingly gloomy. Yang Xingyuan hired a rickshaw and felt the cold wind blowing into him, piercing straight through his collar. To make matters worse, the puller walked extremely slowly. Yang Xingyuan felt like urging him on several times but found it awkward and could only bear with it. Halfway home, a fine drizzle began to fall gradually from the sky. Yang Xingyuan shivered all over from the cold, feeling utterly miserable in his heart. Finally, after much difficulty, he reached the Guild Hall. Entering his own room, he felt the bed-the bedding was ice-cold, hard as iron. Fully clothed, he lay down on the bed, pulled the quilt over himself, and covered his body.
As soon as he lay down, his whole body felt as if in an ice cellar, shaking uncontrollably from the cold. Slowly, wave after wave of chill passed through him, then heat began to rise. His body burned as if on fire, and in a short while, he had thrown off all the bedclothes covering him. His mouth felt parched and his throat dry. He wanted to sleep but could not; he wanted to sit up but felt dizzy and his vision swam. Just as he thought to call the attendant for a drink of water, He Jianchen strode in carrying two parcels. Yang Xingyuan moaned, 'You've come only now? I'm nearly dead from illness.' He Jianchen said, 'I prepared to come right after the call, but then the manager invited me to a meal, so I had to stay for a while. How are you? Is the illness severe?'
Yang Xingyuan said, 'It's likely a cold. A moment ago I was shaking with cold, and now I have a fever.' He Jianchen observed, 'Judging by your appearance, the illness is not mild. The attendant in this courtyard is nowhere to be found. When I entered just now, it was completely silent, not a soul in sight. I'll have my rickshaw puller fetch a physician for you.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'That's not necessary. I've only caught a slight chill; perhaps I'll be better after a sleep.'
He Jianchen said, 'You mustn't be so careless. Especially with a cold, you shouldn't recklessly induce sweating. Besides, your constitution is weak; you need good rest. I've brought two parcels of pastries from Daoxiangcun. Will you have some?' Yang Xingyuan said, 'My heart is extremely restless right now; how could I eat anything?' He Jianchen said, 'Since you won't eat, I won't insist, but I believe you must see a physician for this illness. I'll go and fetch one for you.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'When you mention seeing a physician, it reminds me of something. Last time I was ill, we called a doctor, but before I even took the medicine, I recovered. That prescription is still kept in my trunk. Let me find it and have a look; perhaps it can still be used.'
He Jianchen said, 'That's even more absurd. An illness changes constantly; how can you use an old prescription? Moreover, what you have now isn't the same illness; how could it be appropriate? I think you must have a doctor examine you, lest you delay matters.' Pressed by his insistence, Yang Xingyuan had no choice but to say, 'Since you insist on me seeing a doctor, let it be a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine. I will not go to a Western hospital.' He Jianchen said, 'Since you trust Chinese medicine, that's fine too. I know a doctor; I can invite him for you.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'No need. Right at the entrance to our hutong lives an old Chinese physician, Dr. Liu. Sending for him is very convenient.'
He Jianchen said, 'That will do then. I'll go and fetch him for you.' So saying, he went out. After a while, he returned with Dr. Liu. This Dr. Liu wore an old antique-copper-coloured silk-lined robe with a black satin mandarin jacket over it. The few whiskers on his mouth were neatly combed. Upon entering, he first clasped his hands in greeting to Yang Xingyuan and said, 'My congratulations.' Yang Xingyuan thought to himself, 'I am ill; what is there to congratulate?' Then he thought again; this was probably a customary practice among traditional physicians, unwilling to mention the word 'illness' during the New Year period. So he paid it no mind.
Dr. Liu sat down, first asked a few questions about the cause of the illness, then felt his pulse. He then said to Yang Xingyuan, 'This illness is not serious. You have caught a slight spring chill, compounded by some emotional stagnation, hence the alternating sensations of cold and heat in your body. Take one or two doses of medicine to induce perspiration and you'll be well.' So saying, he took from his leather bag paper, a brush, and an inkstone, and wrote out a prescription. He Jianchen took it and looked: perilla leaf, one qian; saposhnikovia root, one and a half qian; schizonepeta, one qian; apricot kernel, two qian; platycodon root, one qian; dried tangerine peel, one qian; licorice root, five fen; three slices of ginger; three scallion stalks. Dr. Liu said, 'After taking this medicine, once you break into a sweat you'll recover. I'll come again tomorrow to see you.' Having said this, he picked up his bag and left on his own.
He awoke to find it was already ten o'clock the next morning. The attendant brought in a letter. Yang Xingyuan took it and saw it was from Wu Bibo. It read: 'My esteemed Brother Xingyuan, I met Mr. He yesterday and learned of your indisposition. I am deeply concerned. This afternoon, I shall pay you a visit. For now, I send you a volume entitled *Verses to Dispel the Chill*, and humbly request your esteemed corrections. These poems were composed by a couple of friends and myself, gathered around the stove drawing rhymes by lot. Though they are mere idle pastimes, they may suffice to relieve boredom. With profound respect, Bibo.'
After reading the letter, Yang Xingyuan threw on his gown and got up. He read the volume of poems from beginning to end. They were nothing more than laments on aging and poverty, writings describing scenes and expressing emotions, with nothing particularly remarkable. But the last poem was Wu Bibo's own composition, titled 'New Year's Eve'. The poem read: The wine still green, the lamplight wanes in night; / At the world's edge, yet another spring takes flight. / Ten years of dreams on lakes and seas now past; / In a lone lodge, this body bound by illness cast. / The snow's intent stirs poetic inspiration; / The stove's sweet scent companions the traveller's soul's station. / Tomorrow at dawn, within the mirror, sideburns grey- / How many more strands will have turned white by the day?
Yang Xingyuan recited it once and felt the poem was rather meaningful. He then took up his brush and, gathering lines from Tang poets, composed a poem of his own titled 'On the Eve of the Year's End', which he wrote at the back of the poetry volume. The poem read: The night when the year draws to its close; / The man ten thousand miles from home who never goes. / A lonely shadow before the lamplight's gleam; / A gaunt, desolate frame after sickness's regime. / The plum blossom seeks to herald spring's return.
Having finished writing, he read it again himself and still felt it had some merit. He then instructed the attendant to show Mr. Wu in when he arrived, and lay down again himself. Not long after, Wu Bibo came. Yang Xingyuan said, 'Thank you for sending me your poems. I too have scribbled a few lines and written them at the back.' Wu Bibo took the poetry volume and looked. He smiled and said, 'The gathered lines are quite skillfully matched, only the tone is too desolate. On New Year's Eve itself, one ought to write something more auspicious.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'In my current state of illness, how could I muster the mood for auspicious writings? But your poem 'New Year's Eve'-the second line, "At the world's edge, yet another spring takes flight"-that word "another" is used with great meaning.'
Wu Bibo said, 'That is merely sighing without real cause. Last night I kept vigil at a friend's house, making merry all night. Early this morning I came straight to see you. You seem somewhat better.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'After taking one dose of Dr. Liu's medicine, I sweated and feel much relieved. Only my head is still a little dizzy.' Wu Bibo said, 'I see you have grown terribly thin; you should rest for several more days. Put aside the affairs at the newspaper office for now.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'That's what I think too, but expenses are high during the festival; I cannot afford not to work.'
The two chatted for a while. Wu Bibo said, 'Today is the first day of the Lunar New Year; I have nothing to do, so I'll stay here and keep you company.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'That would be very good, only in this sickly state I cannot accompany you out for a stroll.' Wu Bibo said, 'No need to stroll. Brewing tea for quiet conversation is a pleasure in itself.' So saying, he called the attendant to steep a pot of tea, and the two sat opposite each other drinking.
Yang Xingyuan said, 'Last night, while lying on my pillow, I composed a poem but haven't written it down yet. Let me recite it for you.' Wu Bibo said, 'Good, please recite.' Yang Xingyuan then recited: A guest with lonely dreams, by sickness sorely tried; / In a desolate study at year's end, how abide? / Accustomed now to herb-stove and tea-hearth's plight; / I write my own spring couplets, hang my own charms for the rite.
Wu Bibo said, 'The poem is very fitting indeed, only too lonesome. Yesterday at my friend's house, I saw their whole family gathered in warm and lively reunion. It made me think of us sojourners; it is truly unbearable to look back.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'Each person's circumstances are different; it cannot be forced. I, however, have grown accustomed and don't feel it so keenly anymore.'
Wu Bibo said, 'Though you are accustomed, your health is so poor; you really should take good care. I think you should move to another place. This Guild Hall is too desolate and not suitable for a sick body.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'Move where? Though Beijing is large, finding a suitable room is not easy.' Wu Bibo said, 'Our school actually has vacant rooms, only they are rather far from the city. Would you be willing to go?' Yang Xingyuan said, 'Thank you for your kindness. Let us speak of it again after I recover.'
The two talked for a long while. Seeing that Yang Xingyuan seemed somewhat tired, Wu Bibo took his leave and left. Yang Xingyuan slept again and awoke to find it was already dusk. The attendant brought in the evening meal. Yang Xingyuan ate a bowl of congee and then lay down again.
When evening came, He Jianchen visited again and inquired about his condition. Yang Xingyuan said, 'I'm a little better today, only I have no strength.' He Jianchen said, 'I think you should go to the hospital and stay for a few days for a thorough treatment.' Yang Xingyuan said, 'I've stayed in hospitals before; they weren't particularly effective. Besides, my illness is merely a cold; a couple of days' rest will see me well.'
He Jianchen said, 'You are always so careless. Let me tell you something: Chen Ruokuang has died.' Yang Xingyuan exclaimed in shock, 'Really? So quickly?' He Jianchen said, 'He died in the hospital yesterday. Today the newspaper office is arranging his funeral. That man-his whole life was wasted on those two words, "reckless folly." It is truly a pity.'
Upon hearing this, Yang Xingyuan could not help but sigh deeply. He asked about Chen Ruokuang's final moments, and He Jianchen recounted them. Yang Xingyuan said, 'Life in this world is but a dream. For someone like Chen Ruokuang, it is a dream within a dream.' He Jianchen said, 'That is why we must seize enjoyment in time, but we cannot be reckless like him.'
The two conversed a while longer on other matters. Seeing the hour was late, He Jianchen also left. Yang Xingyuan sat alone on his bed, thinking of Chen Ruokuang's end and then of his own ailing body. He could not help but feel a tumult of emotions. He then picked up his brush and, in his diary, wrote a few reflective poems. Having finished, he read them aloud to himself: Another springtime in a sojourner's land passes by; / In illness, mood and spirit are wounded with a deeper sigh. / The plum blossoms know nothing of mortal affairs; / Yet on their branches, they still release spring's early airs.