Chapter Seventy-Four: Guiding the Realm (Part One)

"Well, well, what a phrase—'scum of the earth'—and what a marvelous measure for the heart!" Before the wine cup could fall, a resonant voice of praise rang out from not far away. Immediately following, the venerable He Zhizhang, Zhang Ruoxu, and Bi Gou strolled over, their steps measured and deliberate.

It was apparent that the three had heard the commotion and had come to see what was afoot. In an instant, Lu Ting regained his composure, no longer daring to chase Zhang Qian with drunken bravado. Zhang Qian, too, had not expected that his words in defense of Zhang Ruoxu would be overheard by these distinguished elders; now, he stood awkwardly, neither advancing nor retreating, holding a cup of white spirits, mortified.

"Those words just now—were they spoken off the cuff, or had you written them before?" Bi Gou, his hair and beard snowy white, was not one for cautious hesitation as the younger generation was. He gave Lu Ting a fierce glare, then strode smiling toward Zhang Qian.

"I simply spoke them to entertain everyone," Zhang Qian replied honestly, with nowhere left to hide. "I am not skilled at writing."

"Such wit, and yet you claim not to be adept at writing? Young man, don’t be overly modest!" Bi Gou cast him a sidelong glance, then gave a commanding instruction, "Copy what you said, and have someone deliver it to my residence. Let the essay be titled 'On Wine.' The most important thing in writing is to express your innermost feelings; as for words and phrasing, let them flow naturally—it need not be overly ornate!"

"This..." Zhang Qian’s head spun, unsure how to refuse without offending the elder. Seeing this, Zhang Ruoxu promptly gave him a nudge with his foot. "You don’t know where the Master’s residence is, do you? Just write it when you return, and deliver it to my place. I’ll personally take you to seek the Master’s guidance!"

"Yes, Uncle," Zhang Qian replied, resigned, forced to agree. Inwardly, he grumbled at Zhang Ruoxu’s lack of loyalty; had he known, he never would have stood up for him just now.

Meanwhile, the young talents around them all fixed their gaze upon Zhang Qian, their faces openly envious.

Bi Gou, despite recent setbacks in his official career, had served as Imperial Secretariat, drafting edicts for the Emperor—a veteran of the bureaucracy. In the literary world of the Great Tang, he was a towering figure, his influence equal to He Zhizhang’s. For others to submit their writings to Bi Gou’s residence, even getting past the gatekeeper was a challenge. Yet Zhang Qian, singled out by the elder himself, still hesitated, requiring Zhang Ruoxu to promise to bring him before he would agree!

"It’s just a few drunken words, isn’t it? We could have said them, too. What measure for the heart? Whether yellow wine or grape wine, the effect is all the same," someone muttered angrily beneath the table—indeed, comparison breeds resentment.

"When Lu Ting was causing a scene just now, why didn’t you stand up and speak your drunken wisdom?" Wei Dao, seated at the same table, shifted his stool away from the complainer, sneering. "If you’d had the courage to confront Lu Ting, you’d be the one invited by Bi Gou to submit your essay!"

The disgruntled youth, stung by Wei Dao’s retort, flushed and bowed his head, silent. Wei Dao himself returned his gaze to Bi Gou, He Zhizhang, and the others, wondering whether they would favor anyone else besides Zhang Qian today.

As expected, having requested wine, Bi Gou toasted Zhang Qian with a small sip, then turned to the crowd, his face glowing with pride. "Recently in Hedong, I came across a poem, 'Song of the Frontier,' containing the line, 'Laugh not at the drunken warrior, how many return from ancient battle?'—truly memorable. Is Wang Han present today? Allow me to offer you a toast!"

Before he finished speaking, Wang Han sprang to his feet, cup raised and bowing. "I dare not accept such honor. To have my humble work noticed by the elders fills me with trepidation!"

"I’ll join in the merriment!" He Zhizhang smiled warmly at Wang Han, raising his cup high. "Of all borderland poems I have read, this one stands alone!"

"‘Laugh not at the drunken warrior, how many return from ancient battle?’—upon reading that line, I nearly departed for the frontier myself!" Zhang Ruoxu, unwilling to be outdone, also raised his cup to invite Wang Han to drink with him.

Wang Han could no longer maintain his prior composure. His face burned as if scorched, his eyes reddening. He opened his mouth, unable to utter a word, and instead raised his chrysanthemum wine and drained it in one swallow.

He Zhizhang and the others sipped their wine with him and chatted briefly about poetry. Then their gaze shifted to Zhang Jiuling, praising his line, "The bright moon rises over the sea, and we share this moment from afar," as one destined to echo through the ages.

Zhang Jiuling, an early official and old acquaintance of He Zhizhang and Zhang Ruoxu, and with several encounters with Bi Gou, did not react as emotionally as Wang Han. Smiling, he modestly claimed that his lines were the fruit of long, bitter meditation and unworthy of such praise, then humbly sought Bi Gou’s advice on writing, before joining in another round of toasts to celebrate their reunion in Chang’an after many years.

Though the feast was called a chrysanthemum viewing, its true purpose was to provide opportunities for the young to shine, so Bi Gou, He Zhizhang, and Zhang Ruoxu could not linger with Zhang Jiuling. Soon, they raised their cups and moved on to another youth, Mu Nanfeng, publicly critiquing his proudest verse.

Mu Nanfeng, about the same age as Wang Han, just over twenty, could not maintain composure before these literary elders; he was so moved he shed tears on the spot, only regaining calm after Zhang Ruoxu teased him gently.

Then He Zhizhang and the others turned to other rising young talents, conversing with each in turn about poetry and prose. Whether praising or guiding, each benefited immensely.

Meanwhile, seeing the host Zhang Ruoxu mingling among guests, the young talents began to circulate, making new acquaintances. Some enterprising ones even ventured among the elders, offering toasts to Zhang Shuo, Wang Shi, Sima Chengzhen (Master White Cloud), and other venerable figures. Thus, the garden’s atmosphere grew ever more lively, cups clinking, and everyone drinking till their senses blurred.

Zhang Qian, though not particularly gifted in social graces, had publicly embarrassed Lu Ting with his witty remarks and gained Bi Gou’s favor, making him a focus of attention. Not only did Zhang Jiuling, Zhang Xu, Wang Han, whom Wang Zhihuan had previously introduced, approach him for a drink, but Mu Nanfeng, Zhao Zixiao, Cao Anshi, and others who had not yet met him also sought him out for wine and conversation.

Their ages were similar, and there were no misunderstandings or conflicts, so their talks were congenial, and time slipped away unnoticed.

Only Lu Ting and a handful of genuine wastrels, lacking literary cultivation, found themselves unable to converse with most of the elders or their peers. Their usual boasts of cockfights and horse races found no audience today, and so, the more they drank, the more restless they became, cursing the late arrival of night.

"Brother Lu, who is that Zhang fellow? Not only does Bi Gou favor him, but even Master White Cloud, the old Daoist, has gone over to him!" Boredom breeds mischief; one wastrel nudged Lu Ting and inquired in a low voice.

"Master White Cloud? Went to him?" Lu Ting, barely settled from his earlier outburst, was immediately stirred up again. His gaze darted to Zhang Qian, and indeed, he saw the latter conversing and laughing with the old Daoist.

The surrounding voices were so loud that, despite the best hearing, Lu Ting could not make out every word exchanged between Zhang Qian and Master White Cloud. He could only catch snatches like "Imperial Physician Sun, medicinal wine, meridians..." Jealousy mingled with confusion, and he instinctively grabbed an empty wine cup and wandered closer.

Having drunk at least four taels of white spirits, Zhang Qian was half drunk and did not notice someone quietly approaching. When the old Daoist Sima Chengzhen, rather than discussing health or immortality, began expounding his own experiences with Sun Anzu, using the intense spirit of white wine to carry medicines and treat difficult ailments, Zhang Qian’s fondness for him grew.

"What you call intensity, my school has a term for—it is the alcohol content." With goodwill and sincerity on both sides, Zhang Qian did not brush him off. He picked up Sima Chengzhen’s thread and explained, "Alcohol, you may consider as the essence of wine, Master. Generally, the higher the alcohol content, the stronger the wine. Let’s mark it from zero to one hundred: zero would be plain water, one hundred pure alcohol with nothing mixed in."

"That’s a straightforward method!" Master White Cloud, Sima Chengzhen, possessed keen emotional intelligence; whether by chance or intent, every word touched upon what Zhang Qian wanted to express. "Low content means less essence, unable to carry the medicinal power or penetrate blocked meridians. High content, on the other hand, allows the medicine to fully dissolve, like a silver needle piercing muscle."

"I don’t understand meridians, but indeed, some medicines dissolve better in alcohol!" Zhang Qian relaxed, enjoying the rare conversation that wasn’t about poetry or writing. "But for drinking, the alcohol content shouldn’t be too high; otherwise, it harms the body."

Daoist wisdom, though not as precise as modern science, still distilled careful observation of nature. Sima Chengzhen easily accepted Zhang Qian’s point. "Of course, excess leads to harm—it is the law of nature!"

"There must be a rough range?" Wei Dao, who had drifted over, interjected, "Master White Cloud says too little essence cannot carry the medicine, while you say too much harms the body. Is there not a middle ground—enough to dissolve the medicine without harming the body?"

"That would be the wine in your cup, or with a little more alcohol," Zhang Qian replied, drawing on his medical knowledge. "Roughly, seventy percent alcohol is the upper limit; any higher, and it becomes harmful."

"Seventy percent—how do you know it’s seventy percent? By tasting? Impossible!" Wei Dao, whose courtesy name was Gangjing, immediately pressed Zhang Qian with a frown.

"Yes, by tasting?" Lu Ting, eager for a chance to avenge his earlier humiliation, laughed loudly, joining the taunting. "Ha ha ha, Zhang Yongzhao surely has a remarkable tongue! The essence of wine is colorless and formless, indistinguishable from water, yet you insist on telling us how much essence is in a cup! How will you do that—by taste? Come on, show us all!"