Chapter Seventeen: A Beautiful Fan—On Poetry and Philosophy

The young woman had her face veiled, making her features indistinct, but judging by the skin and figure, she couldn't be very old. She might not yet have married; even if she had, she was likely a young wife. The Tang Dynasty was open in its customs, but since porridge was being distributed to aid the people, the host must be either wealthy or noble. It was unlikely that such a young lady would be sent to oversee this event.

As he pondered this, a wave of excitement rose among the disaster victims.

Looking again, he saw the cause. "Distributing porridge" implied porridge; those with a good conscience made it thick, and even if it wasn’t, those who participated were still commendable. Yet this young lady was giving out golden millet rice.

There were too many refugees. Li Zhi was no tyrant, but many came to Chang’an to beg. Shelters were set up outside the city, but relief was insufficient, and some refugees flooded into the city itself. Fortunately, the city was organized into wards, each with walls and gates. Li Zhi, seeing the situation, allowed the influx, hoping the wealthy would be moved to help and more lives could be saved. Officials in Chang’an cooperated quietly: when refugees increased, gates were closed and they were driven out; when their numbers waned, guards relaxed, and another batch would slip in to beg. Still, entry into the wards was forbidden.

Most refugees gathered at the gates of the wards, especially at the East and West Markets.

Seeing millet rice, their hunger stirred even more than when Li Wei handed out coins; they were all driven mad.

Li Wei thought to himself, “Whose young lady is this? Though she surely means well, this could turn into disaster.” Sensing trouble, he immediately ordered his personal guards, “Go up and help.”

The guards, carefully chosen and experienced, saw the situation: without intervention, a scramble could lead to refugees being trampled to death. They drew their swords and shouted for people to form lines. Soldiers stationed at the ward gates came to assist, and together they managed to quell the chaos.

When Li Wei and his party distributed coins earlier, the young woman had noticed. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she approached, gave a respectful salute, and said, “Thank you, sir, for your aid.”

Her voice was pleasant and clear. Now that she was closer, her features could be glimpsed through the gauze—her brows and eyes were exquisite, probably just over twenty, with remarkable beauty.

“No need for thanks,” Li Wei replied.

Three young gentlemen came over as well. The young woman turned, bowed to the eldest among them, and said, “Censor Li, I regret not heeding your words.”

“Censor Li” smiled wryly, “Lady Xiangxue, your kindness is commendable. Don’t blame yourself. I underestimated the situation; otherwise, I’d have insisted you stay at Xiangxiang Pavilion. Truly, this gentleman foresaw trouble and wisely brought his servants.”

He paused, looking at Li Wei, his eyes widening.

Li Wei had no recollection; perhaps Li Hong knew him, but they weren’t close—otherwise, “Censor Li” would have recognized him sooner. Yet he wondered: a Censor could mean Censor-in-Chief, Deputy Censor, Attendant Censor, Palace Censor, or Supervisory Censor. The first four seemed impossible for someone so young—yet even the last was unlikely at his age. Who was this man?

Li Wei discreetly signaled, indicating his plain attire, and loudly said, “Just a coincidence, nothing more.”

Censor Li understood and kept silent.

The others didn’t notice, but the young woman gazed at the refugees madly pushing for millet rice, sighed, and said, “Heaven has turned a blind eye these years; disasters come almost annually. A few days ago, we finally had a spring rain, but it stopped quickly. If drought continues, the people of Guanzhong will suffer even more.”

Li Wei had already deduced her identity: beautiful, calling herself a servant rather than a concubine or “I,” and addressed by Censor Li as Lady Xiangxue. She must be Xiangxue, the famous courtesan of Xiangxiang Pavilion.

He hadn’t expected a courtesan to show such compassion—a rare thing.

He heard the young man, just over twenty, say, “His Majesty is gravely ill and has entrusted state affairs to the Empress; thus, these past years…”

Censor Li was startled. Heaven, the prince’s son stood right in front of him, and he dared speak like this. He regretted it; last night, he and friends, including some talented scholars, had gone to Xiangxiang Pavilion to drink and compose poems. Among them were several whose literary talent he greatly admired. They ended up staying at the pavilion. Upon waking this morning, he heard Xiangxue was at East Market to distribute porridge and came along for amusement.

Given Wei Siwen’s words, he shouldn’t have joined today. He quickly said, “Wei, don’t speak so rashly. His Majesty’s health hasn’t been good, but thanks to the Empress’s assistance, the court remains stable.”

“Jushan, you’re a Supervisory Censor and a court official; naturally you must speak carefully. But is the court truly stable? Last year, we fought Tibet several times; the garrisons at Kucha and others were lost; Xue Rengui suffered a great defeat at Dafeichuan. Tens of thousands of brave Tang soldiers perished at Wuhai. Look at the court: the Left Chancellor is famed for desert campaigns, the Right Chancellor for painting. Yet neither has real accomplishments in politics, and both rank high. Isn’t that strange?”

Censor Li frowned, but Wei Siwen spoke truthfully; he could not refute him.

He frowned; Li Wei also frowned. This Wei had subtly criticized his mother. If she learned of it, she’d think Li Wei had prompted him. He decided to defend her, saying, “Natural disasters and human calamities are often spoken together, but they are distinct. Under the Sui Emperor, even in years of good weather, the people suffered. During the reigns of wise emperors, disasters still occurred. The workings of Heaven are mysterious; we must not blame everything on fate—we mortals cannot fathom it.”

He found it odd as he spoke. He had read many gazettes: since Li Zhi ceded power to Wu Zetian, disasters had afflicted the Tang almost every year—tsunamis, typhoons, floods, droughts. Never had calamities occurred so frequently and continuously.

If he were elsewhere, he could ignore it, but here, he had to defend Wu Zetian. He continued, “The court’s choices have their reasons. Some ministers are forthright, like Duke Zheng; some decisive, like Duke Lai; some excel at strategy, like Duke Liang. Some actions are known to the people; others are not. For instance, Chen Ping devised many schemes for the Western Han, yet few in the wards remembered him. Did he not have merit? We are not in the court—how can we claim Chancellor Yan or Chancellor Jiang never served the dynasty?”

He had seen Jiang Ke and Liu Rengui labor over Tibet affairs, exhausting their minds. Of course, he couldn’t judge their abilities.

“As for the defeat at Dafeichuan, victory and loss are common in war; many reasons exist for failure. But Tibet is a small enemy. Should the court prioritize the people of Tang, or, like the Sui Emperor, mobilize massive armies for revenge? The Crown Prince’s health is poor, he is young and inexperienced; His Majesty is ill. If the Empress does not assist, who will?”

The youngest boy, though not yet an official, was of noble birth and knew much.

Fearing Wei Siwen’s comments would implicate him (though the Crown Prince was kindly and wouldn’t mind), he quickly said, “Sir, your words are reasonable. I’ve heard the Crown Prince is compassionate, but perhaps only in small matters. Just look at a few of his poems and lyrics—they offer a glimpse of his nature.”

“Why do you say so?” Xiangxue asked angrily.

Her heart was gentle. Having heard of Li Hong’s deeds, she deeply admired him. When Yang Chengyou brought three refined lyrics, her admiration became reverence, even worship.

She was not pleased with “Cui,” nor with Li Wei, though Li Wei’s men were still maintaining order for her maid, so she could not vent her anger.

Li Wei and Li Xian found the four of them odd. Perhaps Censor Li was genuine—that would be understandable. But the other three: Wei criticized Empress Wu Zetian, Cui disagreed with Li Hong, while the famous courtesan defended Li Hong.

“Cui” replied calmly, “Lady Xiangxue, the Crown Prince is courteous and virtuous, but he is destined to be the heir. Compassion in small matters is not a ruler’s selection. As for those three lyrics, as Crown Prince, he should be the hope of the realm, but instead composed lyrics rather than classic poetry. Is that the hope of the empire? Literary elegance is prized; though his lyrics are broad in expression, only ‘How Could It Be Day After Day’ stands out—the other two are too rough. He is a prince, not a soldier. I don’t mean the Crown Prince won’t be a good ruler someday, but he is currently lacking, so state affairs should remain with His Majesty and the Empress.”

Censor Li was mortified. How had he ended up with these two? Before the prince, one criticized his mother, the other criticized him. Once clever, he was now sweating in distress.

His worry was nothing to Li Xian’s anger. He growled, “You say the Crown Prince’s works are lacking—tell me, have you written any poems or essays yourself?”

“Cui” was cool and confident, waving his folding fan, “Though my talent is modest, I have composed a few. Listen: ‘The moon rises over the western sea, its spirit swells with the frontier wind. Across ten thousand miles of passes and mountains, countless scenes unfold. Han soldiers open counties, barbarian horses eye the towers. Each night, the mournful pipes sound, and the soldiers gaze southward.’”

Regardless of its mood and imagery, the poem was indeed well constructed, matching his claim of literary elegance.

Upon hearing it, Li Wei recognized this young man’s identity. Xiangxue spoke again, “In my view, it falls short.”

She continued to defend Li Hong.

Censor Li sighed inwardly. If not for her status, Xiangxue’s beauty and talent—her unintentional act today—might have brought her fortune beyond imagining. Yet, her background as a courtesan meant that, no matter how virtuous she was, she and the Crown Prince would always be separated by an unbridgeable divide.

The young man surnamed Cui, noble in birth and bearing, was not offended. He smiled slightly, “Lady Xiangxue, you say it falls short—I won’t argue. But here’s a good idea: bring out a poem or essay by the Crown Prince, and compare it with mine. We’ll see which is superior.”

Poetry and lyrics are different, so comparison is difficult. Still, his poem was indeed impressive—he had reason for pride.

Li Lingyue quietly tugged Li Wei’s sleeve and whispered, “Brother, bring out a poem to astonish him.”

Li Wei glanced at the sky, then noticed that the millet rice Xiangxue had brought was nearly gone. He didn’t wish to argue further. He had already defended Wu Zetian—his main goal.

He whispered to Li Lingyue, “I dare not disobey my little sister’s command.”

Li Lingyue giggled.

Li Wei had already addressed the debate about Wu Zetian, and that should have sufficed, but this young Cui had repeatedly belittled him. Even a saint would be annoyed. From the poem, he now knew Cui’s name, though he knew little of his deeds—only that his reputation was not great. Thus, he felt no urge to cherish talent; if it was a contest of literary skill, Li Wei might lose, but in poetry, he was willing to compete.

So, he would compete.

He smiled at the Cui youth and said, “Cui, I have heard several poems composed by the Crown Prince. They are refined and upright. Perhaps not the best, but they possess substance—pure and clean. Though your poem is well written, compared to the Crown Prince’s, it feels hollow.”

As he praised himself, Li Lingyue burst into laughter.