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

Hearing this newly announced reward, the crowd immediately grew excited.

And which of the few distinguished guests in the inner circle was not an old fox? Hearing these words, they also understood that Elder Zhou had lost his temper.

The book merchant surnamed Ji, smiling on the surface, showed no fear, saying only: "Then let us add a bonus. The ancients said one character is worth a thousand gold; my purse is meager, and I cannot afford such a price. However, I am willing to offer fifty guan as a publication fee."

The moment these words fell, the flower hall instantly became so quiet that the faint sound of agarwood burning in the Boshan incense burner could be heard.

Fifty guan—how long would it take an ordinary commoner to save that much?

Moreover, it was not merely a matter of money. This man was one of the largest book merchants in the Zizhou Circuit; as long as his work was judged the best, it would take little time for his name to spread throughout the Shu region!

Of course, Ji's father also believed his son would win the literary banquet, and thus harbored the intention of passing the money from one hand to the other.

Lu Guangyu's breathing clearly grew heavier: "Brother Lu, this..."

Faced with such stacked rewards, he, who had originally felt hopeless, could not wait to pick up his brush and try his hand.

Lu Beigu, however, was not in a hurry, slowly sipping the "Fengqu Fajiu" from his cup, letting the mellow liquid swirl on his tongue.

Ji's father's move was clearly adding fuel to the fire—while the Zhou family raised the reward to save face, the Ji family directly turned this literary banquet into a contest of real gold and silver.

What difference was there between this and "Shi Chong competing in wealth"?

With this thought, Lu Beigu suddenly felt somewhat bored.

Yet Lu Beigu's expression, falling into the eyes of Ji Yun who had been observing him all along, stirred a bit of curiosity.

This poor scholar who had been copying at his desk all along, facing such a heavy reward, could he truly remain unmoved?

And before long, the atmosphere in the flower hall grew intense.

Some crumpled their written poems into balls, while others bit their brush handles, staring blankly at the Xuan paper on their desks.

Lu Guangyu's forehead was already beaded with fine sweat, his brush suspended over the paper, hesitating before touching down.

"Brother Lu, do you truly not write?"

When he put down his brush and approached for the third time, Lu Beigu was using a silver knife to slice a lamb rib perfectly roasted.

The Song people loved mutton most of all; this sheep was said to have been transported from Qingtang Tibet, its flesh firm yet rich, amber fat dripping from the knife tip and pooling into a small puddle in the green porcelain dish.

"Write."

"What do you wish to write?"

Lu Beigu suddenly set down the silver knife: "The seas are clear, the rivers calm, and the world at peace. In such a scene, how can one's heart remain at ease without writing a novel to praise it?"

In truth, today's gathering of scholars drinking and writing was quite joyful; Lu Beigu did not wish to dampen anyone's spirits or steal anyone's spotlight. Yet just now, the two men competing in wealth inevitably reminded him of the story of the Golden Valley Garden.

What fate befell the Western Jin? The Five Barbarians ravaged China, and the Han people met in a pot!

How could this not make him wonder what fate awaited the Northern Song?

The Humiliation of Jingkang! Two Emperors led like sheep! Yue Fei unjustly died at the Wind and Waves Pavilion!

But that was a full seventy years later; among the crowd now drunk on life and death, who would believe that was the future?

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

"If there is an iron house with absolutely no windows and nearly impossible to destroy, inside which many people are fast asleep and will soon suffocate to death, yet they pass from deep sleep into death without feeling the sorrow of dying. Now you shout loudly, waking up a few who are somewhat more alert, causing this unfortunate minority to suffer the unbearable agony of a hopeless death—do you think you have done them justice?"

Lu Beigu murmured to himself: "Regardless of whether it is just or not, as Fan Zhongyan said, 'A gentleman would rather cry out and die than remain silent and live,' so one must shout at least once."

Afterwards, he turned toward the small table beside him and picked up a wolf-hair brush.

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

After all, writing an original classical Chinese novel—wasn't that something one could do the moment the brush touched the paper?

For a person of Lu Beigu's transcendent talent.

Asking him to be a literary plagiarist would be an insult; he had as much inspiration as he wanted in his mind.

Indeed, in the next second, inspiration struck him.

He felt it would be quite interesting to write from the perspective of a certain Southerner of the future, collecting stories of old people and old events gathered in the markets after the Jingkang incident.

He just did not know whether, for the Song people of this time, this would count as a kind of "fantasy novel."

Shaking off the chaotic thoughts in his mind, Lu Beigu, fully immersed, seriously wrote the preface to the story collection.

"Preface to 'Floating Life in Jiangzuo'"

Since the Jianyan era, barbarian dust has blocked the sky, and the Central Plains have been in turmoil. I led my family south across the river, our boats floating on the water, seeing scholars and ladies in their robes frantically seeking passage, hearing weeping throughout the night.

Arriving at Lin'an, I lodged in Yanqiao Lane. The markets grew as noisy as in former times, yet among the wine flags and songboards, in the alleys there were often those clutching broken zithers recounting stories of the Xuanhe era; whenever they heard northern speech, they would cover their sleeves and be unable to reply.

Alas! To the left of the great river, where mist and water are empty and hazy, is this truly a place to escape Qin?

Even peddlers and porters turn pale when speaking of the Jin people's iron cavalry; in the red-lacquered brothels, they still sing lyrics of 'misty willows and painted bridges.' The joys and sorrows here are all like dew and lightning.

In my idle days, having nothing to do, I recorded what I saw and heard, totaling Twelve Chapters. Some may call it the words of a novelist, of no use to history.

Moreover, at this time when Shanhe is overturned and all people are displaced, my body is originally like a catkin or duckweed; what does it matter whether it is real or false?

Winter of the ninth year of Shaoxing, a snowy night in Qiantang, I lit a lamp and wrote freely."

Seeing that Lu Beigu had finally begun to wield his brush, Ji Yun left his seat alone and came over to peek.

Fortunately, everyone knew he was naturally impulsive, so no one minded.

But before long, someone noticed that the expression on Ji Yun's face had become strange.

The ease of feeling he would win the prize vanished completely, replaced by extreme seriousness; and after watching for a while, tears actually fell with a "pata" sound!

The crowd was instantly startled.

It was true that Ji Yun was a man of emotion, but what exactly had this obscure scholar written to move Ji Yun so deeply?

Seeing Ji Yun shed tears, Zhou Mingyuan, having lost face, could not wait to mock and walked straight over there.

As soon as Zhou Mingyuan reached three paces behind Lu Beigu, he was suddenly blocked by Ji Yun's outstretched arm.

The youth's eyes were still red, but his low voice was cold as ice: "If you wish to critique, wait until the ink dries and then circulate it."

These words caused the few distinguished guests in the inner circle to rise and look over.

Ji's father stroked his beard and said in a low voice: "My son has been unruly since childhood; it is rare to find an article that can silence him."

Just like that, the crowd found themselves waiting eagerly, sitting and watching Lu Beigu put down his brush.

After the time it took to drink a cup of tea, the preface totaled five pages; Lu Beigu set down the wolf-hair brush.

He raised his head and looked around, only then realizing that dozens of gazes in the flower hall were fixed on him, while Ji Yun stood before the desk, his eyes rimmed with red.

"Brother, this piece of yours..." Ji Yun's voice was slightly hoarse, "may I be allowed to read it in its entirety?"

Lu Beigu hesitated slightly and handed the Xuan paper over.

Ji Yun took the five pages but did not rush to read them closely; instead, he turned to the inner circle and spoke loudly: "Elders, this piece, 'Floating Life in Jiangzuo,' is not poetry but a novel, yet its intent is profound and its literary brilliance outstanding. In my view, it should be today's first prize."

Hearing these words, the literary banquet instantly erupted in uproar.

——————

① "Qie nu" means taking one's wife and children along.

② "Jing xi" means the whole night, all through the night.

③ "A place to avoid Qin" is a reference from "The Peach Blossom Spring," referring to a place to escape war and chaos.

④ "Wu li" means bored.

⑤ "Wu bi" means of no help to the matter; "Cheng" is the name of the historical records of the State of Jin during the Spring and Autumn period, and later "Shi Cheng" came to refer to historical records in general.

(End of this chapter)