"Xu Cijiu, my disciple, steeped in the arts of war—a promising lad," introduced Zhang Shen the strategist, adding silently: a man who cannot write a poem. He found it passing strange that the boy had stepped forward at all.
Zhu Tuizhi, who had taken the purple jade for his own, tensed at the voice, then relaxed on seeing Xu Xinnian. Years as classmates told them each other's measure. Xu Xinnian excelled at policy essays and was sound on strategy, but his poetry hardly passed the gates of good taste. The pendant was still his.
The scholars' eyes settled on Xu Xinnian. Basking in the attention, with a look of looking down on them, he raised his gaze to the tepid sun:
"Yellow clouds veil the sun at dusk across a thousand li—"
Li Mubai nodded and stroked his beard. A plain account of the scene, yet a broad, open heart leaped off the page.
"North wind scatters wild geese amid falling snow."
It was early winter, the snow not yet come though close at hand, so no exaggeration. Dusk, a great snow driving, the northern wind howling, a straggling wedge of geese—the picture rose in an instant, and it fitted the farewell like a glove.
Zhang Shen was startled and studied Xu Xinnian closely. For this student, these two lines must be the work of burning effort; if he held this standard, he might trade blows with Zhu Tuizhi.
Of the three grand scholars, Ziyang the Hermit had the finest ear, and the two lines stirred in him a nameless melancholy. A thousand li, dusk, north wind, lone goose, snow falling thick—it sketched a bleak and forlorn scene, as if he were being banished, not appointed. And yet it struck to the soul of his situation: this posting wore the robes of imperial favor, but would the faction of the Imperial Academy watch him rise unchecked, or sit idle while he drove in the foundations of the White Deer Academy? His going to Qingzhou was a journey into the unknown.
Then Xu Xinnian flung wide his arms, his handsome face shining like worked jade, and thrust out the last two lines, each word landing like a stone:
"Fear not that ahead you'll have no intimate friend—"
"Who in all the world does not know your name?"
Within and without, utter silence. A moment later, goose bumps rippled through the whole assembly. Zhu Tuizhi turned his head, stiff, to gape at the proudly posturing Xu Xinnian.
"'Fear not... who does not know your name?'" Li Mubai clapped. "Magnificent!"
The first two lines ached with desolation; the last two wheeled about to sudden hope, lifting the heart. Zhang Shen watched gravely, silent. Ziyang, lost in the mood of the quatrain, had his heart swaying.
"A good poem, a good poem..." he murmured.
"Why only half a verse?" asked Zhang Shen, for his disciple had not gone on.
A corner of Xu Xinnian's mouth twitched. "This poem has only half a verse."
Only half?! The scholars goggled, unable to accept it. Since when does a man stop a poem mid-line—is he even human?
"No matter, no matter. Half a verse is enough to strike the gods with awe," said Ziyang, smoothing his robes, his smile deepening. "Xu Cijiu, has it a title?"
"No!" Xu Xinnian clung to his lofty air—the truth was he could not explain, and only aloofness would stop the questions.
Ziyang's smile only widened. "This poem was written to see me off, was it not?"
Xu Xinnian nodded.
"Then let me, old as I am, think of a name for you."
Li Mubai and Zhang Shen suddenly saw his design, and their hearts soured as if they'd bitten a lemon.
"How about *Farewell to Yang Gong at Cotton Sheep Pavilion on His Journey to Qingzhou*?" said the grand scholar, naked hope in his eyes.
"Passable!" slipped out Xu Xinnian, then, catching his own lack of deference: "The decision rests with you, Master."
"You shameless old rascal."
"Hmph!"
The two grew sourer still.
"This is a fortune made," laughed Ziyang, preening, and bowed to them.
In an age when poetry had withered, once this verse leaked out it would rock the scholarly world. With one stroke he had bound his name to the poem; if the verse passed down the ages, so would he. And a masterpiece like this was bound for the ages.
What the two grand scholars found most shameless was that Xu Xinnian, offering the poem as a disciple to his teacher, had used the teacher's personal name in the title—convention allowed only courtesy name or sobriquet; a peer or close friend might use the name. Plainly this rogue would shed his own skin for fame. For what did a scholar dream of above all? Not to cultivate himself or govern the state—that was an ideal. The one great dream, for a thousand years, was to leave his name in history. The two masters could have split their very walls with envy.
Zhang Shen, his teacher, realized the poem was likely not his own work, but did not expose him. For a student to win Ziyang's regard was a fortune earned, and a teacher could rejoice.
Amid the babble, Xu Xinnian coughed. "Master, and both you gentlemen—this poem is not mine. It was written by another."
The chatter died. Three grand scholars wore three faces. Zhang Shen, enlightened, looked *as I suspected*. Li Mubai seemed genuinely surprised. But Ziyang reacted hardest: he strode forward and demanded, barely breathing, "Who? A scholar of our Academy? Is he here?"
His gaze swept past Xu Xinnian and searched the crowd.
"It was my elder brother!" Xu Xinnian lifted his chin, keeping his pose.
The scholars began to murmur: "Xu Cijiu's elder brother? Where does he study? How are we ignorant of him? Cijiu, his name, his teacher... out with it!"
The three grand scholars turned to him too. Trouble. I'm tainted by that brute of a father—I should never have told them of that brute of a brother... Xu Xinnian saw his error. "All callings rank low; only learning stands high," ran the proverb, and scholars were proud, the White Deer Academy's proudest of all. Were Xu Qi'an a scholar, they would admire him; but if the crowd learned he was but a yamen runner, their regard would curdle. A lowly constable writing peerless verse—where would their faces be?
Gritting his teeth, Xu Xinnian went on: "My elder brother... studies the classics at home, in seclusion. He is not of the White Deer Academy nor the Imperial Academy. He has no love of fame, no appetite for glory—he asks only to spend his gray years over his books."
Such integrity—a model for us all! The scholars were struck breathless, burning to meet him.
The prize went, as expected, to Xu Xinnian. Ziyang, ruddy-faced, bade the company farewell and, climbing into his carriage, left one pointed remark: "Such talent must not gather dust unseen. Chunjing, Jinyan—what do you make of it?"
Whether the two masters missed his meaning or only feigned it, they saw him off in silence. Only when the carriage had gone did Li Mubai seize Xu Xinnian's hand and draw him aside. "Cijiu, I've a sudden fancy to take a disciple. Since the day is free, take me to meet your brother."
Zhang Shen went pale. "Cijiu, were you and your brother both to bow under my roof as my students, it would make a story for the ages." Whether they wrote poetry mattered little; he must not let such talent slip. Should one of them one day turn out a poem for the ages—say, *My Teacher Zhang Shen*—that would be a fine thing indeed.
Li Mubai was nettled. "The art of war is no main current. A scholar's first call is the classics, policy, self-cultivation."
"Ha. Is Go such a main current? Still less one who cannot bear losing—no win against Wei Yuan." Zhang Shen snorted.
"Old rogue, hold your tongue on Wei Yuan. I cherish talent, and this student is mine."
"Cherish? You're drooling over his poetry!"
"Shameless scoundrel, have a blast of righteous spirit!"
"As though I had none either."
Xu Xinnian's scalp crept. The scholars at a distance were aghast: in no time at all the two grand scholars were red-faced and quarreling, seeming on the verge of blows.