“This…”
The official in charge of revising the books was named Sun Feiquan, originally a fifth-rank Guozi Boshi [博士; Doctor of the National Academy], who was valued by the Late Emperor for his elegant prose in court memorials, and was thus entrusted with important duties.
At least, back then Sun Feiquan felt that he had been entrusted with important responsibilities. But so many years had passed, and they had sorrowfully come to realize that after the Late Emperor passed away, no one treated them as anything anymore. They had once been filled with ambition, wanting to make some world-shaking and earth-moving achievements, but ever since Li Yue ascended the throne, people like them had become utterly neglected. Whether they revised the book well or poorly, His Majesty wouldn’t even spare them a glance.
They had once diligently studied the classics of the sages, once envisioned their official careers while in the Guozijian [国子监; Imperial College], but the more they thought about how their entire lives would amount to just revising books, the more they felt completely disheartened. And even more terrifying was: if they did finish revising the books, His Majesty might directly wave his hand and send them home. After all, there weren’t that many posts waiting for them in this court.
Sun Feiquan was momentarily tongue-tied at Meng Fu’s question, but his mind turned quickly. He craned his neck toward the book for a glance and cautiously opened his mouth to say to Meng Fu:
“Your Majesty, if we talk about it, there’s truly a lot. This humble official fears it may be difficult to explain all at once.”
Meng Fu said indifferently: “No matter, you can come over and take your time to look, and take your time to speak. Zhen is in no hurry.”
Sun Feiquan tugged at the corner of his mouth. He kept consoling himself in his heart: His Majesty hasn’t read many books, surely I can handle this. This is a minor scene—hold steady—it’s fine.
Sun Feiquan took a step forward, flipped through a few pages of the book, and said earnestly to Meng Fu: “Your Majesty, please see, this article is one that we officials selected after days of discussion and careful selection. The annotations and reflections within are those we revised multiple times after repeated deliberation. Please see if there’s anything inappropriate.”
Meng Fu lowered her head and flipped through a few pages with Sun Feiquan’s commentary, looking at them one by one. After that, she put the book down and couldn’t help but lift her eyes to glance at the still-talking Sun Feiquan. This daren truly had a bit of the ability to spout nonsense with his eyes wide open.
Meng Fu called out to him: “Sun Feiquan?”
Sun Feiquan jolted all over, quickly shut his mouth, bent forward and saluted toward Meng Fu, responding: “This humble official is here.”
He felt panic churning in his heart, not knowing whether to feel happy or worried. What virtue or ability do I have for His Majesty to remember my name?
Then he heard Meng Fu ask him: “Zhen remembers, you’re a disciple of Meng Yanxing, aren’t you?”
“Replying to Your Majesty, yes.”
Sun Feiquan couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed—so it turns out it had nothing to do with himself; His Majesty only remembered him for the teacher’s sake. It turned out he wasn’t worthy.
But how much must one dislike the teacher, to still especially notice a student of that teacher after all these years? Sun Feiquan suddenly felt that this calamity today wouldn’t be easy to get through. The Fengtian Study Hall might really be conscripted for military rations.
Wuwuwu, he still didn’t know how to plant sweet potatoes…
Meng Fu looked at him again. Though Sun Feiquan’s expression didn’t change much, the air of one who had lost both parents radiated from within.
Meng Fu asked him again: “When Meng Yanxing lectured at the Guozijian, didn’t he talk to you all about this article?”
The annotations and reflections were written following the line of thinking Meng Yanxing proposed back then; there was no novelty. So with just this little material, it actually took them several days to write it? This really made Meng Fu begin to feel a bit like, If it were me, I could do it too.
“Ah…”
Sun Feiquan didn’t expect His Majesty to suddenly bring this up. He remembered that when Meng Yanxing was lecturing at the Guozijian, His Majesty seemed to be in the Northern Frontier… Just how much does His Majesty hate our teacher, to keep such close tabs on his every move even from thousands of miles away?
Sun Feiquan thought to himself: I’m doomed.
He gave a dry laugh: “He did teach it, he did—this humble official just momentarily forgot.”
“Really?”
Meng Fu said casually.
Sun Feiquan’s heart thudded once. This matter—wasn’t exactly big, but it wasn’t small either. But before this Emperor, it was definitely the end. In a daze, he felt as if a massive axe was hanging over his head, ready to fall at any moment. Maybe today he wouldn’t be carried home, but buried on the spot.
If the Late Emperor were here, they might still dare to argue a few lines for themselves. But with the current Holy One’s temperament… they feared that arguing would turn “execute after autumn” into “immediate beheading.”
Sun Feiquan had never seen this Emperor with his own eyes before, but all kinds of brutal stories about him had reached his ears one after another. He instinctively believed His Majesty would not let him off lightly. Maybe if he admitted that he was old and his mind didn’t work well, His Majesty might spare his life, only remove his title and drive him out of the study hall?
Sun Feiquan took a deep breath and was just about to confess to His Majesty when he heard him ask:
“All right, you continue.”
Still… still say what?
Hold steady, don’t panic, Sun Feiquan, you can do this! Sun Feiquan silently cheered himself on, then picked out another suigan [随感; casual reflection or informal essay] and said to Meng Fu: “Your Majesty, what do you think of this article? We waited half a month just for this piece alone.”
Meng Fu glanced at it and said: “Written by Wang Miao? It’s all right, but it doesn’t compare to the White-Haired Ode he wrote three years ago. When he wrote that White-Haired Ode, how long did it take him?”
Sun Feiquan really didn’t want to answer this question. When Wang Miao wrote White-Haired Ode, he was still under twenty years old, full of pride in his talent. That day, he was attending a banquet with fellow scholars—there was singing and dancing—when he noticed an elderly dancing girl weeping quietly behind the crowd. He called her forward and gently inquired. After this brief exchange, Wang Miao was struck by inspiration and immediately composed White-Haired Ode, which gained fame in the Imperial Capital and became a celebrated tale of its time.
Sun Feiquan replied in a low voice: “Less than half an hour.”
“Half an hour? Zhen knows.” Meng Fu nodded, not commenting further. He said to Sun Feiquan, “You may continue.”
His Majesty knows what? Can a moment of inspiration and a lack thereof really be compared?
Sun Feiquan wanted to explain to His Majesty, but His Majesty hadn’t actually said anything. Even if he wanted to explain, there was no opening to do so. And to speak truthfully, this particular article by Wang Miao was indeed a major case of procrastination. He clearly said he could finish it in three days, but dragged it out for half a month. But at the time, Sun Feiquan hadn’t thought much of it. After all, the people in the Fengtian Study Hall were all just workhorses.
In this world where everyone runs about for name, profit, and wealth, their Fengtian Study Hall was a clear spring in muddy waters.
Sun Feiquan couldn’t help but glance back and glare at Wang Miao. Wang Miao didn’t dare speak. His Majesty had only mentioned his name and that White-Haired Ode that once made countless gifted scholars bow their heads, yet from just a few of the Emperor’s questions, Wang Miao could feel His Majesty’s indifference. His Majesty must believe Wang Miao’s talent had run dry—was nothing more than this—so much so that he didn’t even want to say another word.
Wang Miao wished dearly that he could grab a brush right now and prove himself to His Majesty, but if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to explain why it had taken him half a month to produce such a mediocre reflection. He was practically suffocating.
Frustrated, Wang Miao glared right back at Sun Feiquan. If Sun Feiquan had pushed him more back then, would things have turned out like this today?
If Sun Feiquan had known what Wang Miao was thinking, he would surely have argued fiercely with him. But right now, he had no time to bother with Wang Miao. He had to find a strong enough reason to explain to His Majesty why Fengtian Study Hall had only produced so little in two months’ time.
He felt his face burning hot. His Majesty’s silence was the deepest form of mockery. Sun Feiquan, with no other option, braced himself and continued explaining to Meng Fu: “The annotations in this scroll were particularly difficult to write. This humble official spent a long time consulting materials.”
“Is that so?” Meng Fu said slowly. “But Zhen recalls that these annotations should already exist in Asking the Heavens Book, Annals of the Nine Provinces, Talks Beneath the Moonlight, and Night Chats of Lan Yao, no? Did Zhen remember incorrectly?”
“Ah, Your Majesty has reminded this humble official—this humble official has a poor memory, it didn’t come to mind, didn’t come to mind.”
Sun Feiquan spoke while wiping the sweat from his brow.
Meng Fu gave a light grunt, his voice flat and toneless: “It seems Lord Sun’s memory is indeed not very good.”
Sun Feiquan didn’t dare offer a single word of rebuttal. At this moment, he would rather His Majesty scold him outright, then have him dragged out and buried. As a scholar—one of the top scholars under heaven—Sun Feiquan had not experienced such disgrace in a long time.
The situation wasn’t much better for the other colleagues of Sun Feiquan in Fengtian Study Hall. Though His Majesty hadn’t questioned them directly, they too were overcome with shame. Listening to His Majesty’s series of questions, they wished they could find a crack in the ground and crawl into it. How could we have written such things?
Before His Majesty came to Fengtian Study Hall, they had thought His Majesty would just glance over things casually and leave shortly, that he wouldn’t care about such small details. And even if he noticed, they thought tricking His Majesty would be as easy as slicing tofu.
How could it be like this?!
His Majesty was still having Sun Feiquan continue his explanation. Sun Feiquan’s face was red to the roots of his ears, yet he still had to rack his brains to respond to His Majesty’s questions.
Among those present, half were thinking: How long must we endure this torment before it ends?
The other half were thinking: They probably wouldn’t last until the end anyway.
At this moment in the Xuanping Marquis Manor, the Old Madam heard that Xie Wenzhao was ill and hurried over to see him. She sat by the bedside, looked at Xie Wenzhao lying there without saying a word, and let out a long sigh, asking him: “Son, what’s wrong with you this time?”
Xie Wenzhao dazedly stared at the Buddhist scripture in his hands and didn’t speak. He had not opened his mouth all morning. No matter who spoke to him, he ignored them. Although Hua Xiaoling didn’t succeed last night, it still reminded Xie Wenzhao that he had already violated the oath he made to Meng Yu. He had already shared skin-to-skin intimacy with Hua Xiaoling—he was no longer worthy of Meng Yu.
Why does Heaven always enjoy tormenting lovers like them? Why can people who love each other not be together?