Chapter 88: The Spirit of the Book

The cold wind howled. Zhang Huanyun’s thin frame was tightly hunched, arms crossed over his chest, but his right hand still gripped a scroll, reading aloud word by word as he walked.

He had traversed most of the street when he suddenly stopped, scratching his head with a bewildered expression, as though he had forgotten something important.

“Hm, what was I going to do?”

Standing behind him, Chen Jianchen watched with a cold expression. It was said that those worthy of pity often had qualities equally deserving of contempt; indeed, it was so. This half-wit, who rarely ventured beyond his door, must have had urgent business to attend to. Yet, he walked and read at the same time, and in his absorption, forgot even the purpose that sent him out.

“Oh, I remember now! My mother is ill, I’m out to fetch a doctor!”

With a slap to his thigh, the half-wit finally recalled his errand.

Hearing this, Chen Jianchen felt an urge to stride over and slap him—how absurd! As a son, with his mother sick, he cared only for his reading, nearly forgetting something as vital as calling a doctor. This was no longer simple obsession, but madness—possession. Chen Jianchen, a filial man himself, found such behavior intolerable.

Having finally remembered, Zhang Huanyun quickened his pace and arrived at the pharmacy on the west side of the street, entering. However, he was soon ushered out by an attendant: “Master Zhang, our Doctor Yang has seen your mother several times, never receiving a penny for his services. The accumulated debt is over a string of coins now. Our master is a physician, running a pharmacy, not a charitable house. He treated your mother out of sympathy, but we can’t always do this. If your family and others act so, we’d be forced to close up and starve!”

Zhang Huanyun, tears streaming, pleaded, “I beg you, please see my mother again. She’s convulsing all over, near death—her life hangs in the balance. I implore your mercy!”

At this, a doctor in his fifties emerged with a gentle yet firm tone: “Master Zhang, I know your mother’s condition, but I can’t always help for free... As a doctor, saving lives is my duty, but earning a living is fair. How about this: you pawn that rare ‘Annotations on the Twelve Layers of Virtue’ you hold, and I’ll go see your mother at once?”

At these words, the half-wit hugged his scroll close, shaking his head like a rattle-drum, “No, no, this was left by my father. I won’t sell it...”

At this point, Chen Jianchen could hold back no longer. Striding forward, he clasped his hands in respect: “Doctor, saving a life is urgent. I will settle Master Zhang’s debt.”

Doctor Yang sized up Chen Jianchen, noting his upright bearing and scholarly attire—not someone ordinary. With his willingness to help, Doctor Yang had no more to say; he fetched his medicine chest and headed to Zhang’s home.

With assistance at hand, Zhang Huanyun bowed to Chen Jianchen. “Thank you, sir, for your righteousness!”

Chen Jianchen laughed coldly inside, unwilling to reply to someone who would choose a book over his mother’s life. What right had he to speak of “righteousness”? Unwilling to sacrifice a single scroll, yet always expecting others to act with mercy and virtue—a heart deserving condemnation.

The Zhang residence stood in Suzhou’s southern quarter, not far, reached within the time it takes to burn a stick of incense. Zhang Huanyun invited Chen Jianchen inside, offering no tea, only some boiled water in a chipped cup.

Chen Jianchen surveyed the house: spacious in layout, but empty and desolate, bearing the marks of poverty—most household items had surely been sold off.

To the left of the central hall was Zhang’s mother’s room; to the right, Zhang Huanyun’s bedchamber, its door tight shut, with a sign reading: “The Collection Room.”

He cherished his books as his life; his sleeping place was also his library.

Chen Jianchen did not follow Doctor Yang into Madam Zhang’s room, but asked Zhang Huanyun, “Brother Zhang, I’ve heard you possess a vast collection, enough to fill an ox cart. Might I enter and have a look?”

Zhang Huanyun, wooden in manner, thought little of it. “Of course. But most were passed down from my father and ancestors; please do not move them about.”

Chen Jianchen replied coolly, “I only wish to look.”

Zhang Huanyun opened the door and they entered.

So many!

Chen Jianchen, experienced as he was, still found himself stunned by the sight. The room, perhaps thirty square meters, had towering shelves against the walls, reaching the ceiling, packed tightly with books and scrolls, stacked in neat order—at a glance, thousands of volumes.

Here, the books formed a mountain.

Zhang Huanyun’s bed lay amid this mountain—a small wooden cot, a low table before it, itself piled high with books. The space was so cramped he could barely turn around.

Chen Jianchen’s gaze swept over the shelves, finally settling on the low table. Among the books was a set of writing implements, and at its center lay a fragrant, ancient scroll. The distance was too far to read its title.

The portrait of the lady, he guessed, must be tucked within that ancient scroll.

Chen Jianchen’s heart stirred. He asked quietly, “Brother Zhang, the doctor is treating your mother. Aren’t you going to check on her?”

Zhang Huanyun replied woodenly, “Since the doctor is there, she should be fine. I still have a volume of ‘Collected Annotations of the Spring and Autumn’ to finish.”

Chen Jianchen gave a noncommittal response, suppressing his irritation. What a failure as a son! He held his temper and pressed, “Master Zhang, I’ve heard you possess a lifelike silk portrait of a lady, exquisitely rendered. I am fond of painting myself—could you show it to me?”

At this, the obtuse Zhang Huanyun suddenly grew wary, hesitating. “It’s just an ordinary silk painting, nothing special.”

Chen Jianchen raised his sword-like brows and laughed, “Everyone says Brother Zhang is honest—yet now I see that’s not always true.”

Zhang Huanyun’s gaunt face flushed crimson, stammering, “Well—um—”

Chen Jianchen sneered, “No need for excuses. Since you’re reluctant, I won’t press. I’ll take my leave.”

“Please wait, sir... Fine, I’ll show it to you, but you mustn’t touch it—” Chen Jianchen could not help but smile at Zhang Huanyun’s earnest expression; he clearly regarded the portrait as his wife, unwilling to let anyone even view it, much less touch.

Just as Zhang Huanyun was about to fetch it, Doctor Yang finished treating Madam Zhang and came to them. “Master Zhang, I’ve just used acupuncture. The old lady is out of danger for now. But this illness won’t be cured simply by medicine—her meals must be regular, and she must not exert herself.”

Zhang Huanyun nodded vigorously, but Chen Jianchen knew he did not truly care, his mind always fixed solely on books.

After his instructions, Doctor Yang looked expectantly at Chen Jianchen, awaiting payment.

Chen Jianchen asked, “Doctor Yang, how much does Master Zhang owe you?”

Doctor Yang replied, “Altogether, one string and eighty-three coins. Sir, just pay me one string and eighty coins.”

Chen Jianchen smiled, “To be honest, I don’t have that much on me now. If you trust me, please return to your pharmacy—I’ll bring the money shortly.”

Doctor Yang’s heart sank, feeling some displeasure. Chen Jianchen seemed to be playing him, but could not complain outright.

Chen Jianchen, seasoned in reading people, saw through Doctor Yang’s concerns. “Doctor Yang, I respect your medical ethics, and ask you to trust my character. I am not a great man, but I am a scholar, learned in the classics, knowing the virtues of honesty and honor. What I promise, I will fulfill.”

He spoke with unshakable conviction, a force that brooked no doubt.

Doctor Yang was moved, clasped his hands, and sighed, “For you to speak so, I would be a fool to suspect you. Master Zhang is fortunate to have your help.”

He left three doses of medicine, instructing Zhang Huanyun to prepare them for his mother, then took his leave.

With Doctor Yang gone, Chen Jianchen was about to ask Zhang Huanyun to show the portrait, when from the inner room, a frail old woman emerged, her face and expression withered, looking seventy or eighty, though Chen Jianchen knew she was only just past sixty. This was Zhang Huanyun’s mother, Lady Zhang.

Time ages, toil wears.

So it is always said.

Seeing Lady Zhang, Chen Jianchen was inexplicably reminded of his own mother, Mo San-niang. Perhaps this was why he had come to investigate.

Lady Zhang had evidently learned the story from Doctor Yang. Upon seeing Chen Jianchen, she burst into tears, attempting to kneel before him.

Startled, Chen Jianchen hurried to support her. “Madam, you must not!” He guided her to a chair.

Lady Zhang continued to weep, whether for her useless son or in gratitude for Chen Jianchen’s intervention. She had just received acupuncture, her illness not yet cured, not fit for agitation. Chen Jianchen called Zhang Huanyun over to help her back to bed.

As she lay down, Lady Zhang’s frail hand gripped Chen Jianchen’s arm, her cloudy eyes fixed on him. She tried to speak but could only mumble, as if wanting to entrust him with something, yet unable to articulate.

Chen Jianchen seemed to understand, gently patting her hand. “Madam, please rest assured.”

Only then did Lady Zhang release her grip.

Outside, Chen Jianchen exhaled deeply. On his arm were five deep fingernail marks, and the memory of her expectant gaze left him uneasy. He understood that there were certain things he must do.

Meanwhile, Zhang Huanyun was not preparing medicine, but had picked up another scroll to read.

Seeing this, Chen Jianchen wanted to snatch the book from his hands and burn it—not because reading was bad, but because there ought to be limits, a sense of time and place. Zhang Huanyun’s behavior was pathological; obsession had bred madness. If Chen Jianchen guessed rightly, he was likely possessed by some supernatural spirit.

He spoke coldly, “Brother Zhang, you promised to show me that silk portrait.”

“Oh!” Zhang Huanyun was momentarily confused, then came to himself. “Please, sir, come with me.”

Chen Jianchen followed him into the collection room, where he saw Zhang Huanyun sit before the table, first bowing respectfully to the ancient scroll, then, as if conversing with a person, began to murmur, “Ruoyu, I have a friend who wishes to meet you. I hope you won’t mind—”

Chen Jianchen raised his brows. “Her name is Ruoyu?”

Zhang Huanyun smiled, rare for him. “A poem says, ‘Beauty as jade lies within,’ so I named her Yan Ruoyu. She likes it very much.”

“You meet in dreams?”

Chen Jianchen probed further, seeking more information. Approaching as if for casual conversation, Zhang Huanyun answered without suspicion.

“Yes, in dreams—I read, she weaves. We’re both very happy... I believe that someday, she’ll appear and truly meet me.”

Indeed, it seemed the portrait had awakened, cultivated a spiritual form, able to enter Zhang Huanyun’s soul.

Yet from his account, nothing improper had occurred between them, though it was worth questioning.

For now, Chen Jianchen dared not ask more, lest he alert the half-wit and complicate matters. Someone like Zhang Huanyun, so stubborn in his values, was impossible to reason with—persuasion was less effective than knocking him out. Hence his reputation as a madman, half-crazed, half deranged.

After his ramblings, Zhang Huanyun finally opened the ancient scroll, deftly turning to a page, then gently produced a human-shaped silk fabric.

It was less silk than gauze, thin as cicada wings, nearly transparent, cut into the form of a lady with flowing skirts. The image had been carefully painted, capturing the lady’s elegance; her face was dignified, as if she might come alive and stand before them.

Chen Jianchen stood aside, watching intently. At that moment, as if sensing the sharpness of his gaze, the lady’s painted features, previously smiling, suddenly changed—her expression became one of fear and apprehension.

A figure cut from thin gauze, yet capable of displaying fear—astonishing indeed.