Chapter 13: There Is No Limit to Foolishness

Though this ancient grain wine appeared mild, it could be just as intoxicating if consumed in excess. As the saying goes, wine only deepens one’s sorrows.

Ah, his poor house!

Indeed, the drunken Shen Shi himself could not quite explain why he harbored such deep resentment toward his house. No, he must sober up, or else, in his inebriation, he might blurt out the truth about his troubles with the house and frighten this whole gathering of scholars. And the enormous secret of his journey through time—he could never let that slip.

To clear his head, Shen Shi forced himself to stay alert, sipping at the Qionglai blossom tea on the table, one mouthful at a time.

He did not know how long had passed. The incense burner’s fragrant smoke had faded to nothing, and the hourglass in the center of the hall had emptied completely.

So, in the time it took to get drunk and drink some tea, a whole hour had slipped away? No wonder, he thought—his former boss never invited him to banquets. With his tolerance, he’d likely be outdrunk even by a female hostess and embarrass his superior.

Seeing that the time was almost up, the county academy’s instructor rose with a smile and announced, “The hour has come. Gentlemen, please submit your papers.”

At his words, the scholars set down their brushes and respectfully placed their manuscripts on the instructor’s desk.

Now, holding the papers in his hands, the instructor felt at ease, thinking: Surely there can’t be any more poems from some dignitary hidden among these, can there?

After all, he was but an eighth-ranked instructor, fit to judge budding scholars, but any civil official outranked him, and judging one’s superiors was a nerve-wracking business he had no wish to endure.

But now, all was well. He quickly leafed through the papers, tossing aside the uninspired ones and smiling whenever he encountered a clever line, offering praise.

An instructor is, after all, a teacher, and a teacher must have the air of one who marks his students’ work.

Those whose papers were praised wore looks of satisfaction, while those whose manuscripts were discarded did not lose heart. After all, poetry depended on inspiration, and failing to produce an immortal verse in a single hour was nothing to be ashamed of.

Composing poetry is not complex—anyone who has studied for a few years and understands rhyme and meter can string together a few lines.

Moreover, none of them had come for a poetry contest, nor was this truly a literary gathering. What mattered was which of them would catch the eye of the courtesan. The poetry itself was just a pretext. So everyone relaxed, exchanging thoughts, each trying to display their finest qualities, and if a companion praised them, so much the better.

That is how it is among men of letters. Unless a true genius appears to outshine the rest, their talents are much of a muchness. In the end, what matters is the courtesan’s opinion.

The instructor understood this well. Seeing all the papers submitted, he smiled and rose: “Whether these poems are good or bad is not for me to say—they must be judged by the courtesan herself. If you have nothing else to do, you may drink and enjoy yourselves here, or wander the garden in search of inspiration—perhaps a fine verse will spring to mind.”

He made it clear that he was only there to maintain order—he had no right to decide the winner. The brothel hosted the gathering; it was not his place to judge.

For scholars, it was about reputation; for the brothel, it was about profit—a mutually beneficial arrangement.

At that moment, Qian Shengju stood, bowed, and said, “Sir, what pleasure is there in drinking or strolling about? Would it not be better if we all waited here for the poems to be judged and then held a tasting and poetry discussion?”

The Qian family traded in timber. Though Song society did not look down on merchants, any man with ambition longed to join the scholars’ circles. Why did Qian Shengju spend silver to buy poems? If everyone left, what use would his purchase be? As luck would have it, the topic had changed and his poem still fit.

“Yes, indeed!” came the chorus of agreement.

Some cheered to join in the fun; others thought highly of their own verses.

The instructor showed no displeasure and readily agreed, smiling: “Very well, young sir, as you suggest. I shall invite the courtesan to judge the works.”

Since his own suggestion was accepted, Qian Shengju did not forget Shen Shi, the fallen martial man. He signaled to his younger brother, and Qian Shengwen immediately played along, rising and loudly exclaiming at Shen Shi’s table, “Why, Brother Shen, have you written nothing at all? Only a blank page?”

The entire hall turned to look. Even the instructor paused, noting Shen Shi’s drunken state, his glistening lips, stained clothing, and his brows knit in disapproval.

Brother? Are we so close? Shen Shi glanced around and, under everyone’s gaze, smiled serenely as if unashamed. “I am but a man of little learning. Not a single word could I write.”

“Haha, Brother Shen, though you come from a military family and turn your heart to letters, why hide your talent? Even a few words would be a delight,” Qian Shengju chimed in.

“So he is Shen Shi!” someone whispered, “from the military family?”

“The Qian brothers have gone too far, bullying a man of the army,” muttered another.

The Qian brothers’ habit of picking on Shen Shi for their own sense of superiority was no secret in Jinhua. Today, seeing them at it again, some felt indignant.

“What military family? He’s just a brute. Ours is a country for scholars,” someone retorted bluntly. As long as Shen Shi remained outside the ranks of scholars, picking on him was politically correct.

Thus, even if some harbored a sense of justice, none would stand up for a man of the sword.

“Didn’t Brother Shen’s last poem turn out quite well?” Qian Shengju said.

He did this on purpose. The original Shen Shi was no poet—had he been, he’d have passed the first exam by now. His verses always languished at the bottom.

A delight, perhaps, in making others shine by comparison?

In gatherings of scholars, only by having a fool to contrast with could they show their own brilliance—just as any woman seems beautiful next to a plain one.

On an ordinary day, Shen Shi would have walked right into their trap. But today, he remained unmoved. Qian Shengju signaled his brother to press harder.

“Yes, yes. To attend a poetry gathering and not write a poem is an insult to culture. This is a gathering of refined men—yet someone remains silent, leaving a blank page, like a rat dropping spoiling the whole pot.” The brothers were sly, but also foolish.

Their actions might be “politically correct,” but “putting down the military” was not something to boast of, let alone force. Shen Shi had already admitted defeat; still, they pressed on.

They knew the Song favored scholars over warriors, but did they understand the consequences of going too far? Or perhaps, what was their true aim? Even the Zhao family would not dare to be so brazen.

It was fortunate that these two were only scholar candidates—if ever they became officials, they would surely meet their downfall.