February 14th, the Sacred Longevity Festival. The rain had just cleared, and auspicious omens abounded: Yearly Virtue, Heavenly Grace, Heavenly Nobility, Great Brightness.
The emperor held court in Fengtian Hall. The ministers came to offer their congratulations, performing the thirty-three prostration ceremony and toasting the emperor’s long life. The emperor in turn bestowed tea upon the officials.
The entire birthday ceremony was solemn but not overly lengthy, mainly because Emperor Jinglong had little patience for superfluous rituals and had simplified many aspects of the previous dynasty’s traditions.
After the main ceremony, it was time for officials to present their gifts. The atmosphere noticeably relaxed as everyone stepped forward with their offerings.
Ever since a few years ago when a bootlicking official tried to curry favor by presenting a giant red coral tree over a zhang tall, only to be scolded by the emperor: “How many lives were lost at sea to harvest this?”—and was subsequently found guilty of extorting the people and stripped of his office—no one dared to offer rare treasures again, lest they bring disaster upon themselves.
The overall atmosphere was refined and elegant, so most of the birthday gifts offered by the officials were poetry, calligraphy, paintings, and musical scores. The palace attendants carefully categorized and collected them.
Su Yan’s birthday gift was among them, placed under the category of “Music.” Apart from his habit of scheming and fiercely retaliating when attacked, Su Yan was not someone who liked being in the spotlight. After submitting his music score, he quietly returned to his place in the ranks.
Coincidentally, Bian Yue, the Shaoqing of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, also offered a musical score. Upon seeing Su Yan’s Spring River in the Moonlight, he said to Su Yan, “Is this a musical score? Isn’t Spring River in the Moonlight originally Zhang Ruoxu’s poem? Did you submit it under the wrong category?”
Su Yan replied, “It is indeed a musical score. The original title was Xunyang Moonlit Night, but after rearrangement, I found it more aligned with the mood of Spring River in the Moonlight, so I renamed it.”
Several nearby officials overheard and quietly praised, “We’ve always known that Lord Su is eloquent and talented in poetry, but we didn’t know he was musically gifted as well.”
Su Yan quickly demurred, “I wouldn’t dare claim such a thing. I once heard an old man playing this tune by the river and found it quite pleasant, so I memorized it as best I could—just picking up on others’ work, really.”
Bian Yue became even more displeased upon hearing this. As someone in charge of ceremonial music at the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, he had heard every type of music, but he had never come across anything called Xunyang Moonlit Night. He suspected it was just some folksy street tune, renamed to piggyback on a famous poem, and now brazenly presented as a birthday gift to the emperor—utterly laughable.
He immediately grew competitive, determined to embarrass this pretentious Su Yan. Thinking quickly, he stepped forward, cupped his hands to the emperor, and recited his congratulatory poem in a loud voice: “… Bountiful blessings as vast as the sea, triumphant songs celebrating life everlasting. This humble servant also has a tune to welcome His Majesty, and wishes to perform it before Your throne.”
—Shameless flatterer. Su Yan secretly mocked him. Blessings as vast as the sea? Life everlasting? So tacky. Why don’t you just chant “Our mighty Emperor Jinglong, both civil and martial; may he reign for a thousand autumns, unifying all lands”? That would sound even grander.
The emperor said, “Oh? Bian Shaoqing wishes to present a tune?”
Bian Yue cupped his hands: “Your Majesty, I have led the musicians of the Imperial Music Bureau in diligently studying the refined music of the ancients, and we have composed this Tune to Welcome the Emperor’s Carriage to celebrate Your Majesty’s noble birthday.”
The emperor nodded. “Very well, let’s hear it together.”
Bian Yue immediately summoned the musicians, who arranged their silk, bamboo, string, and bronze instruments in order and performed in perfect harmony. The music was grand, elegant, and dignified, causing the attending officials to stroke their beards in satisfaction and nod with approval.
Su Yan, however, didn’t particularly like ceremonial court music. Court music emphasized “correctness,” rarely using key changes to avoid deviating from the norm, and employed simple, uniform techniques, making the melodies sound bland and dragging. In modern terms, it would be called “officially sanctioned, empty grandstanding.”
Although in upper-class ceremonial occasions elegant music was considered the lofty “Songs of the High Spring and Pure Snow,” among the common folk it never found much appreciation; they thought even brothel ditties were more pleasant to the ear. And in fact, many nobles also could not endure the dreariness and stiffness of elegant music, and secretly listened to indulgent tunes instead. That was why Confucius once lamented, “Rites collapse, music decays.”
But if anyone were to openly say in a formal setting that elegant music was unpleasant, then the moral guardians would accuse them of having vulgar taste, even of ignorance of propriety.
Su Yan had no interest in that kind of pretentious posturing. To say folk music was vulgar? His response would be: “The people delight in it and love it. You don’t like it—so what, who do you think you are?”
When a performance of “Tune to Welcome the Emperor’s Carriage” ended, Emperor Jinglong praised it with a “not bad.” Bian Yue, proud and smug, looked at Su Yan: “I wonder, the piece Lord Su claims to have heard from that ‘old man by the riverside’—what rustic tune might that be? Could it be your own composition, only too embarrassed to sign your name, so you pretend it was overheard, and smuggled it before His Majesty to make up the numbers?”
Su Yan knew Bian Yue was deliberately provoking him—no more than feeling his professional territory had been encroached upon. If he had merely played for his own amusement at home with a few musicians, Bian Yue might have let it pass. But presenting it as a tribute before the emperor was, by implication, stepping on his turf. So he wanted to stir up trouble—in essence, competing for imperial favor.
Su Yan was too lazy to waste words with that sort of man. He merely gave a perfunctory smile: “Lord Bian, you offer your elegant music, I offer my folk music. The great road leads to heaven—why not each walk our own path? Why insist on burdening yourself with worrying which the emperor will prefer? Besides, you don’t have the standing to shoulder such a worry.”
Hearing the veiled barb, Bian Yue’s temper flared. He cupped his hands toward the emperor: “Your Majesty is wise; this humble minister harbors no presumption. Only, as overseer of ritual and music, I merely wished to hear Lord Su’s piece. If it proves decent, then perhaps it may be included in the Music Bureau’s compendium of scores—there would be no harm in that.”
Several officials friendly to him chimed in: “Lord Bian is a master of music theory. If even he has not heard this tune, then surely it is a new creation never before seen. Why not let Lord Su have it performed here at court, to delight His Majesty, and also allow us to witness Lord Su’s rare talent?”
Their words sounded reasonable, but Su Yan could hear clearly enough the hidden mockery—accusing him of showing off in front of experts. Should his work prove amateurish, he would be the laughingstock of the court.
Emperor Jinglong glanced at Su Yan, intending to shield him: “The piece is newly composed, and the musicians are not yet familiar with it. Hastily attempting it may prove difficult.”
Bian Yue hurriedly said: “Your Majesty, if Lord Su himself is not adept at instruments and unwilling to play, the Music Bureau’s musicians are all skilled and accomplished. Even with a fresh score, a glance or two would be enough for them to grasp it.”
The emperor paused in silence, then said: “Since it is a birthday tribute, I have already accepted it; there is no need that it be performed at this very moment—”
“Your Majesty!” Su Yan suddenly raised his voice. “It is true that I am not proficient with instruments. But since Lord Bian has such faith in the Music Bureau’s musicians, there is no harm in having them perform the piece I present here and now. And there is no need for a full ensemble—one pipa and one flute will suffice.”
Since he spoke with such confidence, the emperor’s lips curved faintly in a smile, and he nodded: “Granted.”
Bian Yue summoned two musicians and said to Su Yan: “These are the best pipa and flute players in my Music Bureau. Later, don’t go claiming they lacked the skill to do your score justice.”
Su Yan smiled carelessly and handed over the score delivered by the eunuch.
As it was arranged for duet, the notation was split into two scrolls, one for pipa and one for flute. The two musicians each took one, studying it carefully—their faces gradually flushed, brows drawn tight, lips pressed together, eyes nearly blazing with light.
Bian Yue took a glance and said to them, “The more skilled you are, the harder it is to endure a clumsy score. I’m sorry to put you through this.”
The two musicians hastily replied: “Not at all! Not in the least! We’ll begin at once.”
Su Yan asked, “Do the two masters need to look over it a few more times, or practice a bit?”
Bian Yue sneered slightly, “We officials don’t mind waiting a moment, but we cannot delay His Majesty’s time. Lord Su, no matter how much you stall, in the end you will have to perform before everyone.”
Su Yan ignored him, turned, and bowed toward the imperial throne, saying, “This humble servant is unworthy, and will now disgrace everyone with my performance.”
The hall immediately fell silent. The officials prepared with interest to listen, eager to hear what kind of music this so-called “rustic folk tune” Bian Yue disparaged really was.
The two musicians took their places — one seated with a pipa, the other standing holding a dongxiao flute — their eyes fixed on the score, surprisingly showing a hint of nervousness.
A few gentle plucks and slides, the pipa began softly, warm and calm, seemingly nothing remarkable.
Bian Yue lifted his chin and squinted, showing disdain.
The mellow, lingering tone of the dongxiao joined in, blending with the pipa like the afterglow shining on the river surface, a gentle breeze stirring ripples. Su Yan glanced around, picked up a drumstick, and lightly rolled it on a drum.
It was like the distant temple bell and morning drum echoing in the mountains, circling the sky — vast and profound in imagery. A beautiful theme arose; the first movement, “River Tower Bells and Drums,” immediately immersed listeners in the rich atmosphere of a southern riverside town.
Those knowledgeable in music sensed the refined meaning behind the melody. Bian Yue’s narrowed eyes slowly opened wide in surprise as he looked at the musicians.
The second and third movements, “Moon Rising over East Hill” and “Wind Circling the Curved Stream,” felt like the setting sun had vanished, a silver moon hung in the empty mountain, river breezes stirring fragrant waterside plants, the scent and moonlight reflecting together on the water, shimmering and wavering in layers.
The audience instinctively held their breath, afraid that a heavy breath might disperse the faint fragrance or shatter the moonlight.
“River and sky share one pure hue without a speck of dust, the lone moon glows bright in the empty sky,” a broad and distant scene arose in the fifth movement, “Deep Waters at Cloud’s Edge.” The pipa’s tempo quickened, like white sails dotting the river; the dongxiao’s long notes approached from afar, a clear fisherman’s song riding the waves.
Then the pipa swept through rapid notes, like a fishing boat cutting through water, oars rowing in unison, spray flying, stirring waves like snow crashing on the shore — stirring and exhilarating. The melody built layer upon layer, reaching its climax in the ninth movement, “Rowing Home.”
After the emotional peak, the music abruptly stopped and returned to a gentle and delicate mood. Flower branches cast shadows, waves stirred the moon’s reflection, the light boat gradually vanished where water met sky, the night over the spring river was peaceful and serene. The ethereal and lingering ending made the audience feel like travelers reluctant to leave, intoxicated in this “Spring River in the Moonlight” scene, unwilling to wake…
The musicians breathed out, the pipa player wiping the sweat from her brow.
The female pipa player, seeing no immediate reaction from the crowd, timidly said, “This piece’s melody is highly varied, with shifting keys, changes of head and tail sections, and even onomatopoeia like water waves and oar strokes. I was afraid to play it poorly and ruin such a delicate score, so I was quite nervous and my fingers were clumsy. I hope the esteemed audience will forgive me.”
“…A wonderful piece!” A heartfelt exclamation burst from the crowd.
“Truly a beautiful composition! Like a clear and elegant long scroll of landscape painting, with profound imagery that draws one in.”
“Just the pipa and dongxiao duet feels slightly thin, but if other instruments were added, it would have even more grandeur while remaining refined. With some enrichment, this piece could be passed down through the ages!”
“Adding lyrics would surely create a new experience.”
“Lord Bian, so this kind of music is considered ‘vulgar music’ in your Taichang Temple?”
“If this is vulgar music, then those of us who are enchanted by it must be even more vulgar than the vulgar commoners.”
Bian Yue’s face flushed red with shame; he dared not look at Su Yan again and bowed deeply toward the throne, saying, “This humble servant was ignorant and rude to disparage Lord Su’s masterpiece, causing great embarrassment…”
“Lord Bian, you misunderstand. ‘Spring River in the Moonlight’ is not my composition; I just happened to hear it and wrote it down,” Su Yan emphasized again.
Bian Yue turned and asked, “Then may I ask who the composer is?”
Su Yan hesitated, unable to name one. He thought to himself: This is a classic among classics, refined and evolved for over two hundred years, with the title changed multiple times. How would I know who the author really is? It’s more like a collective wisdom of the people.
Bian Yue sighed, “The more humble Lord Su is, the more it highlights my earlier arrogance… I have learned my lesson and will remember that there are always greater talents beyond.”
Su Yan explained, “I truly did not compose it! I’m merely a historian passing down the story…”
But who believed him? His words were drowned out by the rising tide of admiration.
The emperor rose and stepped down from the throne. Immediately the officials quieted and returned to their ranks. The emperor walked to the musicians, took the score in hand, and smiled at Su Yan, saying, “Your birthday gift pleases me deeply. I will reward you. After the court disperses, come to the Yangxin Palace to receive your prize.”
Su Yan was quite interested in the reward but for some reason felt an inexplicable unease at the emperor’s smile. He bowed his head and cupped his hands, “I humbly accept your gracious favor.”
The emperor tucked the score into his sleeve and turned back up the jade steps, asking, “Are all the birthday gifts presented? If so, court is dismissed. The Longevity Festival is observed with three days off. We shall reconvene on the seventeenth day of the second month.”
Lan Xi, reminded by these words, glanced around and hurried over to the emperor’s side, whispering, “The Crown Prince has not yet arrived.”
The emperor glanced at the sky, “It’s nearly noon. He hasn’t come; it seems he doesn’t intend to.”
Su Yan’s heart skipped — something felt wrong. On such an important day, why wasn’t Zhu Helin here? Even if only as a son, he couldn’t refuse to come celebrate his father’s birthday! Something must have happened to hold him back…
If someone caught wind of this, they could accuse Su Yan of disrespect to his lord and father, of disloyalty and impiety. That would be trouble!
Su Yan grew anxious, hoping the ceremony would end soon so he could go to the Eastern Palace to find the Crown Prince. If he wasn’t there, then search the market outside the palace — he must make sure the prince returned to pay respects before nightfall, even if it meant secretly kowtowing a few times.
Just then, a palace attendant hurriedly ran in, careless of protocol, and knelt before the throne, panting, reporting, “Your Majesty, your Majesty, the young master is in trouble… no, the disaster victims are in trouble…”
Emperor Jinglong frowned and said in a deep voice, “Make it clear—who exactly is involved, and what exactly happened?”
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