Chapter 51: The Passionate Night (Part One)

The charm of Miss Ruoshui was indeed extraordinary; for a time, the esteemed gentlemen present vied with one another to compose verses in her honor. The poems Zhang Chi had read and remembered were all timeless masterpieces, so these men’s compositions rarely met his standards. After listening to a few, his interest quickly waned.

Yet, he was genuinely intrigued by the spectacle of a group of renowned scholars going to such lengths to win the favor of a courtesan.

“Master Meng, you’re no stranger to these pleasure quarters. Why is it that the illustrious men of Wu and Yue so eagerly court a courtesan’s attention?” Zhang Chi turned and asked Meng Feiyang.

“This young lady is no ordinary courtesan,” Meng Feiyang replied matter-of-factly, sipping his wine. He himself was one of Wu and Yue’s celebrated men of letters, but Zhang Chi’s question did not offend him. “Miss Ruoshui is famous for her aloofness—she ignores all but men of talent. Even among scholars, few ever gain a night’s favor with her.”

“If so few are successful, why do so many still come? Is it merely to catch a glimpse of her?” Zhang Chi could not comprehend it.

“Scholars have always prided themselves on frequenting brothels, seeing it as a mark of sophistication rather than shame. Each day, only a handful are allowed upstairs to hear Miss Ruoshui play, and those she chooses to spend the night with are exceedingly rare,” Meng Feiyang explained. “When the singing and poetry are finished, those permitted will ascend to the second floor, while most will remain below and select from the other girls. To be chosen by Miss Ruoshui is, of course, best; but for those who aren’t, as long as they’re willing to spend, a beautiful companion for the night is always within reach.”

So it seemed that, in every age, the harder something is to attain, the more people covet it. What comes easily is seldom cherished. The more unattainable, the greater the allure. Though Miss Ruoshui was beautiful, if her company were easily bought, she would soon lose this fevered adoration. What men truly desire is exclusivity—if only one could succeed where all others fail, wouldn’t that set him apart? Surely, all men think this way.

What a clever woman, Zhang Chi mused. She truly understood how to manipulate men’s desires.

By this time, the flurry of poetic offerings had subsided. Miss Ruoshui listened to all the compositions, yet none satisfied her. Scanning the room, she noted that Zhang Chi and Meng Feiyang seemed entirely uninterested in participating.

Having met countless men, she knew well that those unmoved by beauty were either naive youths ignorant of passion, or men of remarkable self-control. Judging by their relaxed composure in this setting, they were certainly not novices. She walked directly to their table, bowed slightly, and with a smile said, “All the gentlemen present have offered their verses—save for you. Since you share a table, perhaps you should compose several poems to pass the test.”

Santong, fond of boasting, seized the opportunity to brag, “That’s no problem at all! My brother here is a master poet—he can compose not just a few, but hundreds of poems at will!”

His bold claim drew the attention of all present. It was no wonder; in all the world, such audacity was rarely heard.

“Country bumpkin!” sneered the young man in fine clothes who had earlier looked down on them.

Miss Ruoshui herself was skeptical, covering her smile with her hand. “Then please, gentlemen, enlighten us with a few verses.”

“I wouldn’t dare call it enlightenment,” Zhang Chi replied, gesturing to the food and wine before him. “I’m penniless, hoping to swap a few poems for some drink. The more the merrier, as long as you don’t come asking for payment when we leave.”

This jest drew laughter from the crowd, save for the young noble, who sneered, “You dare come to the Immortal Pavilion with no money? Judging by your appearance, you’re probably incapable of composing anything worthwhile. Why not leave now? I’ll cover your wine—just don’t subject us to your nonsense later and make a fool of yourself!”

Such arrogance was insufferable. Zhang Chi, in a playful mood, pointed to the teapot on the table and addressed the young man, “Since you think I’m just here to amuse, I’ll compose a humorous poem using this teapot—and you—as my subjects.”

The crowd was puzzled—what connection could there be between a teapot and this young man? How could one make a poem of the two together?

As they wondered, Zhang Chi lifted the teapot, gesturing to its round body and slender spout, and declaimed in a clear voice:

“Pointed mouth, round belly, ears set high,
Grows proud with only a little inside.
So small the measure, naught can it hold,
Yet two or three inches make stormy tide.”

The audience, all men of letters, quickly caught the innuendo—Zhang Chi was mocking the young man’s pettiness, likening him to a teapot incapable of holding much. They burst into laughter.

The nobleman, being educated, could hardly miss the insult. Furious, he slammed the table and pointed at Zhang Chi, “You wear coarse clothes, a commoner—how dare you behave so brazenly here?”

“What’s wrong with coarse clothes?” Zhang Chi flicked the hem of his blue robe with flair.

The young man, blinded by rage, failed to catch Zhang Chi’s trap. “Coarse clothes mark the lowly; how could a commoner compose fine poetry or be worthy of the Immortal Pavilion’s pleasures?”

Zhang Chi laughed heartily, “So, by judging a man’s clothes, you discern his worth! Your insight is truly enlightening. Your words inspire me to another poem. The last was about a teapot; this one, let’s make it about a sewing needle.”

Such object-based metaphors were unheard of in this era, so everyone was intrigued and listened closely.

“We all know what a sewing needle looks like,” Zhang Chi said, swaying as he recited:

“Sharp of head, slender-bodied, silver-bright,
On the scales, it weighs not half a mite.
Its eye is fixed behind its tail,
Judging only clothes, not the soul at all.”

Another burst of laughter. This poem mocked the nobleman even more vividly: having just scoffed at Zhang Chi’s humble clothing, he was now compared to a needle—bright as silver, yet weightless, with its eye at the back, seeing only attire, not character.

“Brilliant! Brilliant!” Meng Feiyang applauded, laughing.

Such poetic wit was truly astounding. Miss Ruoshui could not help but admire him; to produce two such verses in casual banter, each with layered meaning, was surely rare.

Of course, she could not have known that in this world, Zhang Chi had knowledge beyond her imagination; otherwise, she might not have been so surprised.

“You—!” The nobleman was so enraged he nearly burst, but could find no words to retort. He knew he was no match for Zhang Chi’s poetic skill; any further argument would only make him a laughingstock. So he muttered, “I am magnanimous and will not stoop to argue with the likes of you,” and slumped back, drinking in sullen silence.

Seeing that the nobleman had given up, Zhang Chi saw no need to press his advantage. He turned to Miss Ruoshui, “That makes two poems. I’ll do two more, but remember, you mustn’t charge us for the wine.”

Miss Ruoshui was at her wit’s end, half laughing, half exasperated. “With talent such as yours, sir, wine is on the house.”

“In that case, I’ll save myself the trouble and stop at two poems,” Zhang Chi replied cheerfully, moving to resume his seat.

Miss Ruoshui could hardly hide her helplessness. Usually, men of letters would do anything for the chance to impress her, composing poem after poem, but here was one who cared not at all.

“I would not ask you to pay for wine, but your talent is truly rare. Would you not grace us with another verse, to further broaden my horizons? The last two showcased your quick wit; perhaps you could compose one more, to reveal your deeper artistry?” She genuinely wished to see how far this unassuming scholar’s talent would go.

Zhang Chi considered, then nodded, “Since you wish it, Miss Ruoshui, I will comply.”

He raised his cup, downed the wine in a single draught, and then recited:

“In the Peach Blossom Nook stands a Peach Blossom Hut,
Where dwells the Peach Blossom Immortal, under peach trees put.
He plants the trees, plucks the blooms to trade for wine,
Sits drunk or sober beneath the petals, whiling away time.
Half-awake, half-asleep, day upon day,
Flowers fall, flowers bloom, as years drift away.
Let me die amid blossoms and wine, not serve in dust and tread,
Worldly honors are for those who bow and scrape, but I seek petals overhead.
Compare the famed with the recluse—one treads earth, one soars the sky;
Compare wine and flowers to carriages and dust—how idle am I!
They say I’m mad, I laugh at their blindness,
Who sees the tombs of heroes, forlorn, tending fields in silence?”

“Superb!” Miss Ruoshui could not help but exclaim. She then quoted, “‘Let me die amid blossoms and wine, not serve in dust and tread. Worldly honors are for those who bow and scrape, but I seek petals overhead. Compare the famed with the recluse—one treads earth, one soars the sky; Compare wine and flowers to carriages and dust—how idle am I!’ Sir, such disdain for worldly affairs and embrace of nature would humble all the scholars under heaven.”

Finishing, she bowed to the assembled men of letters. “This gentleman’s talent is unmatched. I wish to invite him to the second floor; I trust none here would object?”

Though some were disappointed not to be chosen themselves, none could contest such poetic mastery.

Miss Ruoshui turned to Zhang Chi, “Since you have composed on behalf of your companions, why not all of you come upstairs to enjoy my music together?”

Meng Feiyang smiled, “It is your talent she admires, Master Zhang; we need not intrude.”

Santong and Dao Xuan tactfully declined as well. Santong laughed, “She prizes your talent, brother. Such good fortune is yours alone. I’m content to drink my fill down here.”