Chapter 16: A Gentleman Would Rather Speak and Die Than Remain Silent and Live

Upon hearing this newly announced reward, everyone perked up.

And among the inner circle’s guests, who among them wasn’t an old fox? Hearing this, they all knew Zhou Squire had lost his temper.

The Ji family bookseller smiled pleasantly but was unafraid, saying only: “Then let me add a bonus. The ancients said a single character is worth a thousand gold pieces—I’m poor and cannot afford such a price, but I’m willing to pay fifty guan as publication fees.”

The moment he finished speaking, the flower hall fell utterly silent, so quiet you could hear the faint hiss of sandalwood burning in the Boshan incense burner.

How long would an ordinary family need to save to amass fifty guan?

And it wasn’t just about money—this man was one of the largest booksellers in Zizhou Road; if his work were judged the best, it would soon make him famous throughout Shu!

Of course, Ji’s father firmly believed his son would win the literary banquet, and this was also a matter of shifting wealth from one hand to the other.

Lu Guangyu’s breathing grew noticeably heavier: “Lu Brother, this—”

Faced with this stacked reward, even he, who had felt hopeless moments ago, now eagerly picked up his brush to try.

But Lu Beigu was not in a hurry; he slowly sipped the “Fengqu Fa Wine,” letting the rich liquid swirl across his tongue.

Ji’s move was clearly adding fuel to the fire—Zhou’s raising the reward was to save face, but Ji had turned this literary banquet into a direct contest of real gold and silver.

What difference was this from Shi Chong’s rivalry in wealth?

At this thought, Lu Beigu suddenly found the whole affair dull.

Yet Lu Beigu’s expression, observed by Ji Yun who had been watching him all along, stirred a flicker of curiosity.

Could this humble scholar, who had been hunched over copying text all along, remain unmoved by such a massive reward?

Soon after, the atmosphere in the flower hall grew scorching hot.

Some crumpled their written poems into balls; others bit their brush handles and stared blankly at the rice paper before them.

Lu Guangyu’s forehead was slick with sweat; his brush hovered above the paper, Chichi not touching it.

“Lu Brother, are you truly not writing?”

He set down his brush and came over for the third time just as Lu Beigu was slicing a perfectly roasted lamb rib with a silver knife.

The Song people loved lamb most; this lamb, it was said, had been transported from Qingtang Tibet—firm yet succulent, amber fat dripping from the blade, pooling into a small puddle on the celadon plate.

“I am.”

“What will you write?”

Lu Beigu suddenly set down the silver knife: “The seas are clear, the rivers calm, the realm at peace. In such a scene, if I don’t write a novel to praise it, how can my spirit find peace?”

Today’s reading banquet had been pleasant enough; Lu Beigu had no wish to spoil anyone’s mood or steal anyone’s spotlight—but just now, their wealth contest had inevitably reminded him of the Jin Valley Garden story.

What fate befell the Western Jin? The Five Barbarians ravaged China; the Han people were all slaughtered together!

How could this not make him think of the Song’s own future?

The Jingkang Humiliation! The Two Emperors led by sheep! Yue Fei wrongfully executed at Fengbo Pavilion!

But that was seventy years away; who here, drunk and dreaming, would believe that was the future?

At this moment, Lu Beigu suddenly felt the helplessness of a great literary master.

“Suppose an iron room, utterly windowless and impossible to break open, holds many sleeping people who will soon suffocate—but they drift from drowsiness into death without feeling the sorrow of dying. Now if you shout loudly and wake a few who are slightly more alert, forcing these unfortunate few to endure unbearable agony before death, do you think you’ve done them justice?”

Lu Beigu murmured to himself: “Whether just or not, as Fan Zhongyan said, ‘A gentleman would rather speak and die than remain silent and live’—I must speak out.”

Then he turned to the small table beside him and picked up the wolf-hair brush.

As for what to write, Lu Beigu did not yet know—but he was certain he would know the next second.

After all, writing original classical Chinese fiction—wasn’t that simply a matter of picking up the brush?

For someone like Lu Beigu, whose talent was naturally extraordinary.

To make him a literary forger would be an insult; inspiration flooded his mind, endless and abundant.

Indeed, the next second he found his inspiration.

Would it be interesting to write from the perspective of a future Southern Song refugee, compiling stories gathered from common folk about the old days before the Jingkang Disaster?

But would this, to the people of this time, count as some kind of strange “fantasy fiction”?

Shaking off the cluttered thoughts in his mind, Lu Beigu immersed himself and carefully wrote the preface to the story collection.

“Preface to Jiangzuo Fusheng

Since Jianyan, barbarian dust has darkened the sky; the Central Plains lie in chaos. I carried my wife and children southward, crossing rivers by boat, witnessing scholars and ladies fleeing in panic, hearing weeping all night long.

Arriving in Lin’an, I settled in Yanchiao Alley, where the market gradually grew noisy as before, yet amid wine banners and song boards, alleyways often held men holding broken qins, recounting Xuanhe-era tales; whenever they heard northern speech, they would cover their faces and refuse to answer.

Alas! Beyond the great river, mist and water stretch endlessly—is this truly a land to flee from Qin?

Even peddlers and porters turn pale at the mention of Jurchen cavalry; red towers and brothels still sing of ‘willow smoke and painted bridges’—here, joy and sorrow are all like dew and lightning.

In idle leisure, I recorded what I saw and heard—twelve pieces in all. Some call them fiction, useless to history.

Yet in this hour of collapsing mountains and rivers, when ten thousand families wander homeless, my body is like a drifting reed or floating duck—what difference does truth or fiction make?

Winter, ninth year of Shaoxing, Qiantang, snow-lit night, I wrote by lamplight.”

Seeing Lu Beigu finally begin writing, Ji Yun quietly left his seat and came over to peek.

Fortunately, everyone knew his eccentric nature, so no one paid attention.

But soon, someone noticed Ji Yun’s expression had turned strange.

The initial ease of believing he would win vanished; his face grew grave, and after watching longer still, tears suddenly “plopped” down!

Everyone was startled.

Ji Yun was indeed an emotional man, but what had this obscure scholar written to move Ji Yun so deeply?

Seeing Ji Yun weep, Zhou Mingyuan, who had lost face, forgot to sneer and marched straight over.

Just as Zhou Mingyuan reached three steps behind Lu Beigu, Ji Yun suddenly blocked him with his arm.

The boy’s eyes were still red, but his voice was cold as ice: “If you wish to judge, wait until the ink dries before circulating it.”

These words caused several inner-circle guests to rise and peer over.

Ji’s father stroked his beard and murmured: “My son has always been unruly; few writings have ever silenced him.”

Thus, everyone sat, eyes fixed, waiting for Lu Beigu to finish.

After a cup of tea, the preface filled five pages; Lu Beigu laid down his brush.

He raised his head and looked around, realizing dozens of eyes were fixed on him—Ji Yun stood before the desk, eyes reddened.

“Brother, this piece—” Ji Yun’s voice was hoarse, “may I be allowed to read it in full?”

Lu Beigu hesitated slightly, then handed over the rice paper.

Ji Yun took the five pages but did not immediately read them; instead, he turned toward the inner circle and declared loudly: “Elders, this piece, ‘Jiangzuo Fusheng,’ is not poetry—it is fiction. Yet its meaning is profound, its prose brilliant. I believe it deserves first place today.”

At these words, the literary banquet erupted in uproar.

——————

① Qie nu: carrying wife and children.

② Jingxi: all night, through the night.

③ Land to flee from Qin: allusion from “The Peach Blossom Spring,” referring to a place to escape war.

④ Wu li: bored, without amusement.

⑤ Wu bi: useless to; “Cheng” was the name of the Jin state’s historical records; later, “shicheng” became a general term for historical texts.

(End of chapter)