Chapter 11: Rongqing Hall

Zhou Changyan received Jia Cong’s reply, bid farewell to Jia Cong and Jia Zheng, and departed.

As Zhou Changyan was leaving, Jia Cong took from his room a copy of the Heart Sutra he had transcribed himself and gave it to him to deliver to Prince Jia Shun for critique.

Prince Jia Shun had treated him with such courtesy merely because of the couplet he had written on coarse red paper.

Thus, Jia Cong entered the sight of Jia Mu and Jia Zheng, moving away from the suffocating isolation of the Eastern Courtyard, causing Jia She and his wife to act with greater caution.

One could say Jia Cong had received a favor from Prince Jia Shun, though the prince had not intended it; still, Jia Cong felt sincere gratitude toward this prince.

To let someone who admires your calligraphy take away a torn-off couplet would be disrespectful.

Presenting a carefully written Heart Sutra was a proper expression of his gratitude and reverence toward Prince Jia Shun.

For Zhou Changyan, this was an unexpected delight—he had merely delivered a letter for the prince, yet now he carried a genuine piece of Jia Cong’s calligraphy, which would surely please the prince upon his return.

A maid sent by Wang Xifeng had already come to guide them; Jia Cong followed Jia Zheng out of the Pine Pavilion Hall and through the ornate gate.

At the end, they saw a marble screen mounted on a purple sandalwood frame.

The main hall faced five rooms, all carved and painted with intricate designs; on both sides, the covered corridors hung with parrots, orioles, and other birds.

He saw that Rongqing Hall was already filled with people, among whom must be the gifted and refined souls destined to echo through the pages of A Dream of Red Mansions.

The girl seated to her left, two years older, had a slightly plump figure, medium build, cheeks like fresh lychees, skin as smooth as goose fat, gentle and quiet, easy to approach.

Beside Daiyu sat a handsome young master, dressed in a bright red arrow-sleeved robe, wearing a purple gold crown set with gems; he stood out sharply among the women, though his face was indeed too large.

As for the girl seated to the right of Tan Chun—delicate as a flower, ethereal and graceful, with phoenix-like eyes glistening with moisture and a faint veil of sorrow on her cheeks—she must be Lin Daiyu.

Rongqing Hall was Jia Mu’s daily residence, and together with Rongxi Hall, where Jia Zheng and Lady Wang lived, formed the two principal halls of Rongguo Mansion.

Around the screen lay a small three-room hall; beyond it opened the main rear hall.

In his past life, he had read A Dream of Red Mansions, where many events had unfolded right here; though curious, he steadied his mind and moved with calm composure.

Who exactly was this man that a prince had sent to deliver a letter?

Today was the first time in his memory he had entered Rongqing Hall.

On the platform sat several young maids dressed in red and green; seeing Jia Zheng and Jia Cong approach, some hurried forward to lift the curtain.

The girl beside Yingchun, wearing an apricot-red long jacket, with fine eyes and elegant brows, her gaze bright and lively—she must be Tan Chun.

The girl wore an apricot-red long jacket embroidered with floral patterns at the collar, slender shoulders and waist, tall and lithe, an oval face, fine eyes and elegant brows, her gaze radiant and intelligent, brimming with literary grace, so refined she made the mundane fade from memory.

When she saw Jia Cong looking her way, she smiled gently at him, her eyes warm and familiar; the feeling stirred something in Jia Cong he could not place.

His mind churned with the memories of his former self, and at last he recalled: this was his elder sister by the same father, Yingchun.

The warm, harmonious atmosphere of Rongqing Hall had vanished; all eyes turned to the boy following Jia Zheng, each gaze different.

On both sides were curved corridors, sheltered from rain; in the center ran a paved path of blue stone.

In the past, with Jia Cong’s despised status in the mansion, he had never dared set foot inside.

Another maid went inside to announce: “Second Master has arrived with someone.”

One young girl, with fine eyes, was watching him, her gaze soft and friendly.

At the end sat a girl as pure as snow, still small in stature, her form delicate, sunk deep into her chair—adorably cute, unmistakably Xichun, the youngest.

After a hurried round of seating, Jia Cong did not scrutinize the others further; he lowered his gaze and stood quietly in the hall.

Jia Mu could no longer recall the last time she had seen Jia Cong; though he was her grandson, his face felt strangely unfamiliar.

Lady Wang, Li Wan, and others knew of the past events, but like Jia Mu, they had rarely seen Jia Cong these past years.

As for the younger masters and young ladies, apart from Yingchun and Tan Chun, nearly all had no memory of Jia Cong as a brother.

Yingchun’s gaze was gentle, silently fixed on Jia Cong, filled with pity.

Tan Chun’s eyes quietly studied Jia Cong, and she recalled the poem “West River Ballad” hanging in the room.

Seeing that though Jia Cong’s clothes were shabby and his face thin, his spirit was clear and calm, his bearing composed and dignified—he truly possessed an extraordinary air.

When she noticed the stitching on his cuffs, the faded fabric of his shoes.

Tan Chun felt a pang of sorrow; both were illegitimate, yet how fortunate she was compared to him.

The delicate girl beside her, however, paid no attention to Tan Chun’s expression.

She saw the young man in the hall—his clothes and shoes worn and dull, his frame gaunt, standing cold and still.

Looking at her grandmother’s expression now, she guessed this unfamiliar cousin must be poorly treated in the mansion.

Yet though his appearance was bleak, his bearing and spirit showed no trace of defeat; instead, he radiated a quiet, self-respecting dignity that made one dare not look down on him.

She thought of herself: though loved by her grandmother, she was still a guest under another’s roof.

Her mother dead, her father far away, alone and restless, her heart unanchored—she was no better off than this boy.

Thinking of this, a wave of sorrow rose within her; she raised her head and saw Jia Cong still standing there, calm and gentle, his figure radiating an inexplicable stillness and peace.

Jia Mu saw Jia Cong was thin and frail, his old robe washed pale, the stitching visible on his cuffs.

His cheeks lacked color, his appearance plainly impoverished and wretched—how could this be the son of a great family?

Compared to the elegant, graceful Baoyu, one was in heaven, the other in the mud.

Jia Cong had once been frail, but never this emaciated.

Since recovering from his injuries, fearing his weak body could not withstand the diseases of this unfamiliar era,

he began a daily regimen of physical training: push-ups, running—never skipping a day.

The kitchen of the Eastern Courtyard, under the control of Wang Shanbao’s wife, restricted and shortchanged Jia Cong’s food.

He had originally been unafraid, having ten taels of silver from selling couplets; yet Lady Xing had seized it from him.

Now he could not even eat enough each day, yet refused to abandon his daily exercise, turning it into an unintentional fat-loss regimen.

To others, he appeared even more gaunt, unintentionally amplifying the effect of the Eastern Courtyard’s food deprivation.

The old lady, having spent half her life immersed in the intrigues of the inner quarters, sensed the truth; she cast a sharp glance at Lady Xing seated below.

Though she disliked this grandson, he still carried Jia blood; to see him reduced to such poverty was to shame the Jia family.

This eldest daughter-in-law, as the principal wife, was petty in manner—she came from a minor family.

She lacked the grandeur of the second daughter-in-law, who hailed from a great clan and always thought on a larger scale; no wonder she looked down on the eldest branch.

Lady Xing, sensing Jia Mu’s glance, knew full well what it meant—after decades as mother-in-law and daughter-in-law.

She felt a flush of shame, then glared fiercely at Jia Cong, thinking inwardly: this bastard child of a courtesan brings nothing but trouble—once back, I’ll settle accounts with him.

Though Jia Cong appeared poor and unappealing, Jia Mu and Lady Wang had seen many people.

They could still discern his features were exceptionally refined; upon reflection, his mother had been strikingly beautiful—how could her child be ordinary?

Especially his eyes—warm, clear, steady, and tranquil.

His posture stood straight as a pine, neither arrogant nor humble; even under the scrutiny of so many eyes, he showed no trace of fear.

In that moment, Rongqing Hall fell utterly silent; the air carried an unusual tension, as if an unspoken standoff hung between them.

Jia Mu, Lady Wang, and others with experience could not help but be astonished: how could a ten-year-old boy possess such presence?

Jia Mu turned to Jia Zheng and asked: “You’ve met the guest—what’s this about?”

Jia Zheng smiled broadly, with a touch of pride: “Mother, rest easy—it’s good news, great news.”

Jia Mu’s expression relaxed. “What good news?”

Jia Zheng then recounted before all present how Jia Cong had written a couplet for Aunt Zhao, how Zhou Changyan had bought it, and how Prince Jia Shun had taken notice.

This tale left everyone in the hall stunned; such an improbable event belonged only in tales and novels.

All eyes turned once more to Jia Cong, standing calmly.

Some were astonished with joy, others inwardly pleased, some curious, yet others filled with envy or disdain.

Jia Zheng added: “Prince Jia Shun is learned and profound; he greatly admires Cong’s calligraphy.

He says that in no more than a few years, our Jia family will produce a master calligrapher who will be remembered in history.

He has personally written to invite Cong to attend the Nanxi Literary Gathering on the fifteenth day of the first month, and to serve as its recorder.

Mother, this is a great honor for our family.

The Nanxi Literary Gathering has always invited only the most renowned scholars and sages of the realm—never a child of ten.

Yet our Jia family has produced a literary prodigy! Truly, our ancestors watch over us!”

As Jia Zheng spoke, his face glowed with excitement; when he mentioned Jia family producing a literary prodigy, his expression burned with pride.

Jia Mu found her younger son’s scholarly obsession tiresome.

That Prince Jia Shun should hold such regard for her disfavored grandson, claiming he would become a calligraphy master in a few years—she felt a twist of discomfort.

Who would have thought that lowly woman bore a son with talent?

But such talent wasted on him—if it had been on my Baoyu, that would have been cause for joy.

(End of Chapter)