Hearing the last line, the officials were puzzled. This poem had appeared in the capital in the spring, and had long since spread throughout the land. Aside from the words "Great River", which were somewhat uncomfortable to read, many poets had always thought that there was nothing to nitpick about the poem. But the essence of the poem was in the last four lines, and they did not know why Zhuang Mohan had said so.
Zhuang Mohan said coldly, "The reason why I say the first four lines are good is not because the last four lines are bad, but because... the last four lines were not written by Master Fan!"
As soon as these words were said, there was an uproar in the hall, and then a deathly silence. No one spoke.
Fan Xian pretended to be surprised, but he understood many things. He calmed down, and his drunken body leaned against the table, smiling at Zhuang Mohan.
A few months ago, Lin Wan'er had said that someone in the palace said that his poem was copied. At the time, he did not care, but he did not expect it to explode today. Guo Baokun had clearly been instructed by some noble to stir up this matter.
After he entered the capital, the only thing he could use was his so-called literary reputation. If she completely destroyed his reputation, in a world where literature and virtue were highly valued, he would have no choice but to break off the engagement.
After hearing Zhuang Mohan recite the first four lines, Fan Xian felt much more at ease. Seeing that Master Zhuang still did not know that the "Great River" was the Yangtze, he knew that what he feared most had not happened. If he wanted to accuse Fan Xian of plagiarism, Zhuang Mohan could only rely on his own knowledge and reputation to suppress others.
But he did not know how the Eldest Princess had persuaded Zhuang Mohan, who had always had a good reputation, to come all the way here to be a villain.
— — —
After a long time.
His Majesty frowned. Plagiarism was a serious accusation. If Zhuang Mohan did not have something to rely on, he would not have dared to make such irresponsible remarks in the palace of the Kingdom of Qing.
"Words are no proof." The assistant minister of the Ministry of Rites, Zhang Ziqian, who had been sitting next to Fan Xian, smiled. "Master Zhuang Mohan is a master of his generation. When his students were young, they often studied the scriptures he had written. Naturally, no one in the world would dare to doubt his words. But in this case of plagiarism, perhaps he was deceived by a villain. "
He glanced at his superior's son, Guo Baokun, and did not reveal who he was referring to.
Zhuang Mohan raised his head. His eyes, which were full of wisdom, were filled with a complicated emotion. "The last four lines of this poem were written by my master when he was traveling in Tingzhou. Because it was written by my master, I have kept it in my heart for decades. I don't know how Master Fan managed to come across these lines. Originally, I felt that it was good that the Dust-Burying Pearl could see the light of day again. It's just that Master Fan is using this as an excuse to ask for my name, but I won't take it. A scholar's first priority is to cultivate his heart and virtue. I value talent as much as my life, and I do not wish to rashly expose this matter. My original intention was to come to the Kingdom of Qing and see what kind of person you are. Who would have thought that Master Fan would not repent? Instead, he has surpassed me. "
Fan Xian almost laughed in spite of himself. Shameless, he thought. But no one else could laugh. The atmosphere in front of the palace had long become oppressive. If this was true, not only would Fan Xian never have the face to enter the officialdom and literary circles, but the entire Qing court would lose all face.
All the scholars in the world respected Zhuang Mohan's moral conduct and writings, and could not bring themselves to doubt him. Furthermore, Zhuang Mohan had said that it was written by his master. Given the hearts of the scholars in the world, this was tantamount to using his master's character as proof. Who would dare to doubt him?
Deep in their hearts, the officials had already determined that Fan Xian's poem had been copied. They looked at him with strange disgust, but they could not let this matter become the truth. After all, this involved the face of the Kingdom of Qing. So His Majesty looked coldly at Grand Scholar Shu Wu of the Imperial Library. After a moment of awkwardness, Grand Scholar Shu stood up awkwardly and bowed to Zhuang Mohan. "Greetings, Master."
Grand Scholar Shu had traveled to Northern Qi and received instruction from Zhuang Mohan, so they greeted him with the courtesy of a teacher and student. He had long since believed Zhuang Mohan's claim that Fan Xian's poem had been copied. But under His Majesty's stern gaze, he had no choice but to stand up and speak on Fan Xian's behalf. "Master, Master Fan has always been talented in poetry. Even this short song was excellent. It is hard to believe that he plagiarized it, and it does not seem necessary."
Zhuang Mohan had already sat down. He coughed twice and warmly said, "Shu Wu, could it be that you suspect I am stealing the name of my master?"
Grand Scholar Shu was sweating profusely and repeatedly said he did not dare. He no longer cared about His Majesty's cold gaze and obediently retreated. At this moment, if anyone still doubted him, it would be tantamount to saying that Zhuang Mohan was a shameless man who had no master or father. No one would dare bear this reputation.
But His Majesty was no ordinary scholar. He was not Imperial Consort Shu, nor was he the Empress Dowager. He did not like Zhuang Mohan at all, so he coldly said, "The Kingdom of Qing values the law. It is somewhat different from the weak state of Northern Qi. If Master Zhuang wishes to accuse someone of a crime, then you must have some proof."
All the officials could hear that His Majesty was angry. If Zhuang Mohan really did accuse Fan Xian of plagiarism, it would be difficult for Fan Xian to ever see the light of day again.
Zhuang Mohan smiled slightly and had his attendant bring out a piece of paper. "This is my master's handwriting. If anyone from the Fang family were to look at it, they would naturally know the date." He looked at Fan Xian and said sympathetically, "Master Fan is talented in poetry, but he is too preoccupied with drawing tigers. He does not know that poetry is the heart of the heart. How could the last four words of this poem, given Master Fan's experiences?"
Inside the hall, only Zhuang Mohan's slightly aged but incomparably steady voice could be heard interpreting the poem. "Ten thousand li of sorrow for autumn, how cold it is? A hundred years of sickness. It was when my master, in his twilight years, ascended the heights alone. The torrential river filled the eyes with desolation … Master Fan, you are still young. How do you explain this hundred years of sickness? "
The more Zhuang Mohan spoke, the more everyone felt that such a poem could not have been written by a young man. Then they heard Zhuang Mohan's voice once again. "Frost on the temples is a cluster of white hair. Master Fan, with a head of black hair, is a bit too forceful to describe."
...
...
Finally, Zhuang Mohan said softly, "As for the last line, 'Dejected, I stop drinking from my mug.' Let's not talk about Master Fan's glorious family background and how dejected he is, but I'm afraid Master Fan does not understand why my master said these words." He looked at Fan Xian, and there seemed to be some pity between his brows. "My master contracted a lung disease in his later years, so he could not drink, so he used the words' Dejected. '"
Hearing this, the officials of the Kingdom of Qing finally lost their breath. There was no need for that piece of paper. With these unexplainable problems, it would be difficult for Fan Xian to escape the charge of plagiarism.
Suddenly, there was a burst of applause in the quiet palace hall!
Fan Xian, who had been leaning over the table in a drunken stupor, suddenly stood up and smiled at Zhuang Mohan. He slowly lowered his hand, and in his heart, he felt a bit of admiration. Naturally, no one knew who this Zhuang Mohan's master was, but for him to be able to deduce the circumstances of Du Fu's life and his illness from this poem, he was truly worthy of the title of the greatest master of literature in the world.
But Fan Xian knew that Zhuang Mohan was trying to frame him, and that the piece of paper had probably already been dealt with, so he could not admire him to the end. A trace of madness appeared on his elegant face, and he laughed drunkenly. "Today, Zhuang Mohan does not even care about your master's reputation. I really don't know what has made you disregard your former reputation."
Others thought that he had lost his mind after being exposed, and that his speech was becoming more and more unbearable. They all frowned. The empress quietly ordered someone to call in the guards to prevent Fan Xian from doing anything rash. Unexpectedly, His Majesty waved his hand coldly, telling everyone to listen to what Fan Xian had to say.
Fan Xian staggered out, his eyes full of ridicule and ridicule. "Bring the wine!" he yelled.
The palace maids in the back saw his deranged expression and did not dare to come forward. An official, who had been feeling unjust on Fan Xian's behalf, brought over a jar of wine that weighed about a kilogram, and brought it to Fan Xian.
"Thank you!" Fan Xian laughed and broke the clay seal on the wine jar. He lifted the jar and drank like a whale drinking from the ocean. In a moment, the wine had been poured into his stomach. After a drunken belch, he felt tipsy. He had drunk a lot that day, and now that he was in a rush to drink, his face was ruddy, his eyes sparkling, and his body swayed uncontrollably.
He staggered to the head of the table like he was dancing, and pointed at Zhuang Mohan's nose. "Master, do you really insist on saying this?"
Zhuang Mohan smelled the scent of wine, and frowned slightly. "It is good that you have a repentant heart. There is no need to hurt yourself like this."
Fan Xian looked into his eyes and smiled slightly. His words seemed to be a little unclear. "Everything has a cause and effect. Master Zhuang accused me of plagiarizing my teacher's four lines. Why did I copy it? Could it be that I cannot win this fame in life and in death just because of that short song from before? "
The words "fame in life and in death" were very good, and even Zhuang Mohan was moved. His mind was preoccupied with an urgent matter, and he had no choice but to deliberately frame the young man in front of him. He could not bear to do so, and he slowly moved his head away. "Perhaps Master Fan also copied this poem."
"Copied from whom? Could it be that I wrote this poem was copied? Could it be that Master Zhuang's students are all over the world, and his poems are known all over the world, and you have the right to accuse me of plagiarism? "
Seeing Zhuang Mohan's finger lightly tapping on the scroll on the table, Fan Xian laughed coldly. "Master Zhuang, this kind of trick may work on children, but you say that I copied your teacher's poem. I find it strange that before I wrote it, this poem has never appeared in this world."
Zhuang Mohan did not seem to want to argue with him. It was Fan Xian who said in a soft voice, "Master Zhuang, my hair is not white, so I cannot speak of the frost in my temples. My body is healthy, so I cannot speak of a hundred years of illness … But you do not know that I have always liked to cause trouble, and I intend to start all over again in this life. You do not know my past, so you wrongly accuse me and harm me. How boring."
He did not know whether it was because he had drunk too much, or because he had a rare opportunity to vent his pent-up depression, but Fan Xian's elegant face suddenly had a hint of madness.
"Poetry is the heart." Zhuang Mohan looked at him warmly. "My young friend Fan did not have such a past, so how could you write this poem?"
"Poetry is the way of literature." Fan Xian looked at him coldly. "The way of poetry is always about talent. Perhaps my poem is a forced expression of sorrow, but who says that things that have not been experienced cannot be turned into one's own poetry?"
His words were extremely arrogant. He compared himself to a genius, using this to prove that all of Zhuang Mohan's deductions about poetry did not exist!
Hearing this, Zhuang Mohan's eyebrows furrowed slightly. He laughed bitterly. "Is Master Fan really capable of writing something that has nothing to do with his own experience?" This master did not believe it. Even a genius in poetry would not have such ability.
Seeing that the other had fallen into his trap, Fan Xian smiled slightly. He took the wine jug from the other's table and drank a mouthful. He looked at him quietly, the drunkenness in his eyes growing stronger. Suddenly, he waved his sleeve and shouted three times.
"Paper!"
"Ink!"
"Servants!"
The drunken man shouted three times. Everyone in the hall did not understand what he meant. Only the Emperor calmly ordered the serving girls to follow Fan Xian's orders. In a short while, they had prepared everything. There was a large empty space in front of the hall. There was only a table, an inkstone, and a man standing alone and proudly in the center.
Fan Xian could not stand still. He forced himself to bow to the Emperor. "I would like to borrow Your Majesty's writing eunuch."
Although the Emperor did not understand, he still lowered his head slightly and allowed it. A writing eunuch walked to the table and sat down. He spread out the white paper and ground the ink. Unexpectedly, Fan Xian resisted the drunkenness and shook his head. "One is not enough."
"Fan Xian, what nonsense are you making?" The Crown Prince, who was sitting close to him, could not help but speak. But the Emperor still calmly granted his request. His eyes gradually revealed a smile, as if he had guessed what was about to happen.
Fan Xian smiled and looked at Zhuang Mohan. The drunkenness in his eyes grew stronger. He spoke to the three eunuchs beside him. "I'll read, you write. If you write too slowly and don't copy it, I won't write it a second time."
The three eunuchs became nervous for no reason. Many people were guessing what Fan Xian was preparing to do. How could he make the world, between him and Zhuang Mohan, believe that he was the true poet of his generation? It was not long into the night, and the wind at the end of summer was not very cool. But the atmosphere was like the sound of drums on a battlefield.
...
...
"... Wildfire cannot burn, the spring wind blows, it grows again... Chaotic flowers gradually dazzle the eyes, only the shallow grass can cover the hooves of horses... The sky and the earth are eternal, but this hatred will never end."
Without warning, without any preparation, Fan Xian blurted out a paragraph, all of which were written by Bai Juyi. In a short while, there were more than a dozen poems. He stood by the table and gazed out at the night sky outside the palace. He recited all the famous poems that his strange brain could remember. The eunuchs wrote quickly, but they could not keep up with his speed.
Everyone was silent, thinking carefully.
In the face of endless conspiracies and schemes, under great pressure, he finally exploded. In his madness, he only cared about reciting the poem in his mind. He did not care if the eunuchs remembered it or not, nor did he care if the people around him understood it. The fragrant words from his previous life passed through his thin lips, echoing endlessly in the palace of the Kingdom of Qing.
Zhuang Mohan's eyes gradually changed in a strange way.
And the officials, who had been purely watching the show, could not help but mutter to themselves. They had never heard of any of these poems, but they were truly wonderful sentences. Could it be... that they were all written by Master Fan?
"The sky wishes for snow in the evening, to drink a cup..." This was Bai Letian drinking.
"Do you not see..." Next, it was Taibai Letian's turn to drink.
"The shadows form three people..." This was Taibai Letian still drinking.
"But the master can get the guest drunk..." This was Taibai Letian still drinking.
"Those who abandon me, yesterday cannot be kept; those who disturb my heart, today is full of worries..." This was Taibai Letian drinking.
...
...
The people in the palace no longer cared about their lack of etiquette. Gradually, they sat around Fan Xian, listening to him recite poem after poem. Their faces were full of shock and disbelief. Everyone had ears to listen to a poem. There were many geniuses in the world, but since ancient times, there had never been a scene like this.
They had seen poems, but they had never seen one like this! Composing a poem was definitely not like carrying cabbages in a market. But countless lines of poetry poured out of Fan Xian's mouth, as if he didn't need to think about it. It was no different from carrying cabbages!
Although some of the lines in these poems were strange, that was because the officials did not know of the allusions of that world. But the officials were still shocked and frightened. These poems... each one was excellent!
Fan Xian still did not stop. The officials began to look at Fan Xian strangely. They felt that this elegant young man in front of them was no longer of the mortal world, but a descendant of the heavens. In their fear, the scholars of the Imperial Library, who had long since sobered up, replaced the three eunuchs whose wrists were weak. They began to bury their heads and diligently copy the lines of poetry. Sir Fan junior had said earlier that he would only say it once.
Fan Xian did not know what was happening around him. His eyes remained closed, his mind working quickly. On one hand, he was recalling these lines of poetry, and on the other, he was thinking about what to do next. If the officials knew that he had the spare time to think about other things, they would probably be even more shocked.
He felt a little thirsty, so he stretched his hand into the air beside him. A perceptive imperial scholar had already brought wine over and carefully placed it in his hand, afraid to disturb his current mood.
From the Book of Songs about a gentleman's desire for sex, to Gong Zizhen's silence of ten thousand horses, the bright moonlight of the Tang Dynasty, the spring river of the Song Dynasty, Du Fu building a thatched hut, Su Dongpo cooking Huangzhou fish, Du Mu visiting a prostitute, Liu Sanbian also visiting a prostitute, Yuan Zhen once having a mistress, Li Yi 'an embroidered zither thinking about his youth, and Ouyang Xiu loving his niece to death.
Fan Xian closed his eyes, took a sip of wine, and "composed" a poem. Three jugs of wine, three hundred poems!
In the spacious palace, there seemed to be countless lights and shadows dancing, gradually condensing into a picture that he could only see clearly with his eyes closed. It was the family of poets from his previous life, the old handsome man and the young handsome man from his previous life, singing under the bamboo, baring their bellies on the bed, walking on the Great Path in the pavilion, and weeping by the river.
This was everything from his previous life. Everything from Fan Xian's previous life had suddenly descended upon the world of the Kingdom of Qing, striking at everyone's hearts. Fan Xian, with the help of countless heroes from his previous life, was battling Zhuang Mohan.
He suddenly opened his eyes and looked coldly at Zhuang Mohan, but it was as if he was looking at some distant world.
"Do you not see, the waters of the Yellow River come from the heavens?" Who could be more free and easy than Li Bai?
"The waves wash away the heroes of the ages." Who could be more heroic than Su Shi?
"Last night's rain was light and the wind was strong, and a deep sleep did not dispel the lingering wine." Who could be more graceful than Li Qingzhao?
How could the heroes of the ages be defeated by one man?
...
...
With a crisp clang, Zhuang Mohan's trembling hands could no longer hold onto the wine cup. The cup fell to the stone floor, shattering into countless pieces.
Silence. Silence.
After some time, Fan Xian finally stopped his crazy performance, but the people in the great hall of the Kingdom of Qing's palace were still unable to shake off their emotions. The scholars and eunuchs, who had already been replaced a few times, were the first to wake up. They fell to the ground, rubbing their sore right hands, looking at Fan Xian as if he were a god.
Fan Xian had drunk too much. He staggered over to Zhuang Mohan, stretched out a finger to point at his nose, and shook it. After a drunken hiccup, he said softly:
"In interpreting scriptures, I am not as good as you. In writing poetry, you … are not as good as me. "
The hall was still silent, so although these words were spoken very softly, they fell clearly into everyone's ears. The officials, of course, believed these words. They had long since prostrated themselves in admiration of Sir Fan junior's poetic talent. No matter how high Zhuang Mohan's reputation was, when it came to poetry, anyone who had heard Fan Xian "recite" 300 ancient poems would never believe that anyone could surpass Fan Xian in poetry.
At this time, there was no need to bring up the matter of plagiarism. Everyone had long believed Fan Xian's words. There were so-called geniuses in this world, people who did not need to experience certain things, and yet could still write astonishing poems. What was that just now? That was the skill of immortals in poetry! Copy my ass, attack my ass!
Since no one believed that Fan Xian, with his talent, would still copy poetry, then naturally Zhuang Mohan was lying. At this time, everyone in the hall looked at Zhuang Mohan with disappointment, pity, and disdain. They thought that this great master of his generation, who had lived half his life with a clean reputation, had unexpectedly fallen short of virtue in his old age, fighting for fame with a younger generation.
Zhuang Mohan looked at Fan Xian as if he were looking at a monster. His eyes revealed a gloomy expression, and for some reason, his chest suddenly tightened. He covered his mouth with his white sleeve and spat out a mouthful of blood.
The Emperor's expression was one of a smile that was not a smile. He looked at Fan Xian and said, "With such talent, why don't you show it normally?"
Fan Xian seemed drunk, but not drunk. He looked back at the Emperor and said, "Poetry is something to cultivate one's character, not a skill to fight bravely."
These words were a little shameless. Wasn't he fighting bravely and ruthlessly tonight? Fan Xian finally could not hold back his complaints and the smell of alcohol. He fell on his butt on the steps in front of the Emperor. He squinted at Zhuang Mohan, whose lips were trembling slightly. He mumbled, "I am drunk and want to sleep. Go to hell."
Finally, he finished his last pose of Li Taibai's, and Fan Xian fell into a drunken dream at the Emperor's feet.
...
...
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