Chapter 1752: Ode to Peach and Orchid

Bright sunlight streamed through the doors, windows, and curtains into Chongzheng Hall, falling upon Emperor Liu. The hall appeared quite empty, as many of the ornate decorative items had been put away—because Emperor Liu found them displeasing to look at.

As he aged, the old emperor's temper had grown increasingly eccentric and capricious. Sometimes he would pay extraordinary attention to certain details, even to the point of baffling others. The older an emperor grew, the stranger he became, and ordinary people truly could not grasp his pulse.

For instance, at this moment, Emperor Liu had ordered the imperial desk moved to the very entrance of Chongzheng Hall, and he sat before the door reading, directly basking in the sunlight. Even as sweat beaded on his forehead, he paid it no mind. There was something of the meaning that though a person may be gloomy, his heart yearns for the light.

Of course, Emperor Liu would not subject himself to suffering. The ice chamber in the hall had already been activated, ice-wrapped cloths sat beside the desk, cold drinks were set out, and two palace maids gently fanned him with palm-leaf fans, their fragrant sweat glistening—a rather charming sight. Yet the old emperor's heart was as still as still water, with no thought of cherishing beauty or pitying the fair; he simply indulged his own comfort.

Emperor Liu was reading an essay titled "Ode to Peach and Orchid," composed this year during the Mingchi Literary Gathering. The authors were the Seventh Prince, Duke Wu Liu Hui, and Li Yu, the two having collaborated on it.

Mingchi was an ordinary lake within the Eastern Capital, connected to the Bian River. Though its scenery was lovely, it possessed no uniquely distinctive charm. However, Liu Hui had endowed it with character—even the name had been chosen by Liu Hui. Beginning five years ago, Liu Hui had gathered a host of learned scholars, literary figures, and men of letters to converge at Mingchi, drinking wine, composing poetry, and writing essays and rhapsodies.

Over the years, it had gained renown throughout the Eastern Capital and even the literary world of the entire realm. Year after year, whenever the splendor of spring arrived, celebrated scholars would gather in droves—truly a grand literary event.

In recent years, the Great Han's cultural enterprise had developed rapidly, especially among the common folk, where a hundred flowers bloomed in full display—poetry, ci lyrics, qu songs, fu rhapsodies, calligraphy, music, and painting, each with its own masters.

When granaries are full, the people know propriety. With economic prosperity, culture naturally received its promotion. Beyond the official literary and artistic activities hosted by the government, all manner of poetry gatherings, literary assemblies, and musical performances among the people emerged in endless succession.

And the Mingchi Literary Gathering, spearheaded by Liu Hui, had clearly come from behind to take the lead. After all, his exalted status possessed an absolute allure that alone represented half the battle. Moreover, Liu Hui was genuinely gifted in literature, having long been renowned throughout the realm.

With talent, fame, and power, how could the literary men not flock to him like shadows following form? And after several years, Liu Hui's Mingchi Literary Gathering had come to stand alongside the Peony Poetry Gathering, secretly supported by the Palace City Office, as the two great cultural events of the Eastern Capital.

As for Li Yu—over these twenty-some years, his days had been quite peaceful. He had no great wealth or high position, but neither was he reduced to coarse tea and plain rice. The treatment stipulated at his surrender was paid out by the court every year without fail; they had never broken their word or defaulted, never shortchanged him.

He had even regained his freedom. Perhaps he could not leave the capital, but within the Eastern Capital he could move about freely. At home, his wife Diao looked after him, and they supported each other through life. Setting aside his identity as a conquered monarch, leaving aside those melancholy and desolate feelings, living as an ordinary household—Li Yu's life was quite good indeed. The court had treated him generously enough.

Moreover, as Li Yu produced more works over the years, his fame had grown ever greater. Back then, a single "The Beautiful Lady Yu" had sparked a frenzy of recitation, making paper dear in Kaifeng. And these years in the Eastern Capital had coincided with Li Yu's creative peak; from his brush had indeed emerged works of extremely high artistic value.

As time flowed on, those separatist regimes that had once enjoyed their hour of glory and dominated their corners of the realm had long since crumbled into the dust of history, forgotten by the world.

The sole exception was, by and large, the Southern Tang—and the reason lay with Li Yu, with his talent and fame. When the world read his poetry, ci, prose, and rhapsodies, they could hardly avoid feeling his emotions, investigating his origins, and sighing over his background. Such was the influence wielded by the pen.

Given Li Yu's influence in the Great Han's literary circles and scholarly community, there were those who expressed concern over this phenomenon, deeming it very unhealthy. Li Yu, they said, used his words to voice his aspirations and his writing to convey his feelings—a means of courting popular support and soliciting sympathy. His motives were inscrutable, and he needed to be suppressed.

Some proposed placing Li Yu under house arrest; others proposed cutting off his hands; some even directly suggested killing him—Zhao Kuangyi among them. It must be said, had Emperor Liu not truly been loath to waste Li Yu's talent, and had he not genuinely believed Li Yu posed no threat to the Great Han, with the literary reputation Li Yu had accumulated over the years, under any other dynasty he would have had only one road: death.

Li Yu's poetry and ci were too moving, his prose and rhapsodies too profound. Of course, aside from Emperor Liu's refusal to target him, there was also the Seventh Prince Liu Hui, who had always appreciated Li Yu's talent, frequently visiting and exchanging ideas, offering his protection time and again, helping Li Yu deflect many an unanswerable open spear and hidden arrow.

Thus, although the Liu clan had destroyed his Great Tang, Li Yu remained deeply grateful to Liu Hui. He was himself a sentimental man, easily moved. When Liu Hui hosted the Mingchi Literary Gathering, Li Yu naturally had to show his respect—and he produced another piece that spread through the Eastern Capital: the "Ode to Peach and Orchid."

Of course, the friendship between Liu Hui and Li Yu had received Emperor Liu's approval; it was also a measure to soothe the scholars and commoners of Jiangnan. After unification, whether in population, territory, economy, or culture, Jiangnan had greatly supplemented the court.

And in these past years, more and more talents from the south had begun to emerge on the Great Han's political stage. In the early days, they may not have been accustomed to northern institutions, but once they grew familiar and adapted accordingly, the energy they could unleash was astonishing.

With the prosperous southern economy as their foundation, the strength of southern scholars naturally swelled as well. And the better the economic conditions, the easier it was to produce talent—this too was a principle.

After a long while, his eyes growing somewhat strained, Emperor Liu finally set down the "Ode to Peach and Orchid," stroked his beard, and pretended to ponder for a moment before saying: "Liu Hui's writing grows better and better. It seems to have lost some of its florid ornament and gained more naturalness."

Given Emperor Liu's level of literary appreciation, he could hardly offer any truly insightful commentary. In his heart, he simply wondered how these two men's brains were wired—how could they write such exquisite prose? Over a thousand lines in the entire piece, all in parallel couplets, both meticulously balanced and never lacking in spirit and rhythm.

"Issue the decree: grant Duke Wu fifty in gold, one hundred taels of silver, and ten bolts of Shu brocade. Also, send him that glass lamp presented by Guo Yongping!" Emperor Liu was in excellent spirits. He said to Yan Tuo: "Tell him that if he can write more masterpieces to be passed down through the ages, that is his contribution to the Great Han!"

In the earlier years, Liu Hui had been rather restless, single-mindedly seeking fame and favor. He had grown especially close to some southern civil officials and surrendered ministers, and he had become increasingly frivolous and given to empty talk.

Later, this incurred Emperor Liu's displeasure, and after a reprimand, Liu Hui had restrained himself. Especially after Pure Consort Zhou's death, Liu Hui had cast off his former frivolity. Because he loved literature and excelled at writing, he devoted himself wholly to this path, immersing himself deeply in it.

Though Emperor Liu knew that this son still harbored some unrealistic fantasies, he did not take it too seriously—for a man to have no aspirations at all would be the truly abnormal thing.

Gazing at this new rhapsody, muttering to himself for a while, Emperor Liu raised his eyes again. The summer sunlight was rather dazzling. He sighed: "Deep summer has arrived!"

Feeling the heat enveloping his body, Emperor Liu shifted uncomfortably, then said to a palace maid standing in attendance: "I feel itchy all over. Come scratch me."