"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!" Countless gazes fell upon Fan Xian. He smiled shyly and cupped his hands in salute. He did not put on a flowery headscarf and pretend to be an artist. After all, he was Fan Xian, not Fan Wei.
Seeing him like this, the Crown Prince almost laughed. He did not believe what Miss Fan had said. A ten-year-old might be able to write a good poem, but such a careful and measured tribute poem was unlikely. He guessed that Fan Xian had written it the night before and had Ruoruo bring it out on purpose, so that he could shock the world at the poetry conference.
He did not dislike this. On the contrary, he found it interesting that someone as carefree as Fan Xian could write such a poem. Fan Xian did not know what the Crown Prince was thinking. He only knew that this poem, written by Meng Haoran in his previous life to flatter Zhang Jiuling, was of a higher standard than the people present, so he was satisfied. At least he had fulfilled his father's request.
Guo Baokun looked at the gazes of the crowd and was furious. He had never imagined that this "embroidered pillow" would have such a life-saving poem. He was not willing to let it go. He laughed coldly. "Brother Fan, what other good poems do you have? After all, this is... your masterpiece when you were ten. "
It was clear from his words that he did not believe that the poem was written by himself.
Fan Xian sighed in his heart. Why did people always like to force him to do such things? When it came to composing poems, who in this world could be his match? After all, he was possessed by the three gods of Li, Du, and Su, and had five thousand years of poetic experience. He smiled. "I never write essays with a topic."
Guo Baokun looked at his fearless appearance and gritted his teeth. "Then please, Brother Fan, write as you please. Let the scholars of the capital see."
Fan Xian frowned and looked coldly at the annoying fellow. He threw down a poem, got up, and left the garden. Led by the servants of the manor, he went to the latrine.
As soon as the poem was spoken, the whole garden was shocked. It was like falling flowers and flowing water, sweeping away an army of a thousand.
After a round of applause, the crowd was still savoring the taste. Guo Baokun's face was green and white, and he did not know what to say. At this moment, the Crown Prince no longer cared about how to hold the fan in his hand so that he would not fall for Fan Xian's criticism of his strength of character. With a snap, he closed the fan and recited,
"The wind is strong, the apes howl mournfully, the white birds fly back on the clear sand. Boundless trees rustled down, and an endless river surged forth. Ten thousand miles of sorrowful autumn is often a guest, a hundred years of illness alone on the stage. Hardship and bitterness hate the thick frost on the temples, dejected and destitute the wine cup. "
…
…
"Sorrowful, clear, boundless, endless, ten thousand miles, autumn, guests, a hundred years, illness, loneliness, the sorrow of eternity, all in a cup of muddy wine! Good poem, good poem! " The Crown Prince exclaimed in admiration. Suddenly, he thought of his father, who looked carefree on the outside but was actually depressed on the inside. He did not know why, but his heart ached. He shook his head and remained silent for a long time.
It was only after a long time that he came to his senses. Fan Xian was young. Although his life was wretched, how could he say that his hair was sickly? This was really inexplicable, it didn't make any sense at all. But everyone was still immersed in the atmosphere of the poem. Looking at the setting sun, whether it was the rich or the poor, they all felt that life was impermanent, and that sorrow was always present. So the crowd inadvertently forgot that Fan Xian's life experience did not match the heaviness of the poem.
No one suspected that it was written by someone else. After all, this poem could not have been written by anyone other than a great master of poetry. If it was a great master, he would not even be willing to write for the Emperor, let alone a child of the Fan family.
"With this poem, it doesn't matter if Master Fan never writes poetry again." Crown Prince Jing sighed. The scholars by the lake were all silent. They knew that no matter what, they could not come up with a better poem today. So the entire poetry gathering sank into silence because of Fan Xian's poem. They did not notice that the author had long since slipped away.
— — —
Actually, this poem was not suitable for the occasion, nor was it suitable for the occasion. But Fan Xian was really impatient, so he hurriedly recited a poem to defeat his enemy. Impatient, on the one hand, was because of that bastard Guo Baokun. On the other hand, he was really impatient. He had been bored earlier, so he had drunk a little too much wine.
Holding his pants up, he came out of the bathroom and sighed comfortably. He fastened his belt, took a towel from a servant, and wiped his hands. On the way back, he suddenly saw a nursery that was growing very pleasantly, with tender green leaves and fragmented flowers. Under the tall trees, in the twilight, there was a sense of vitality.
Fan Xian turned around and asked the servant if he could go take a look. Of course, the servant knew that this was the eldest son of Fan Manor. Miss Fan and Young Master Sizhe had always walked around the manor as they pleased, so naturally they would not say no. They respectfully replied, "No problem."
Fan Xian was a little happy. He sent the servant away and walked into the nursery himself. He casually looked around and found that this garden did not have the exotic flowers and plants that rich families liked. Instead, there were many plants that he did not know the names of. They all looked very crude, and were probably wild vegetables or crops.
He was a little curious. This King Jing's home was really different, to have grown so many things.
Walking casually in the garden, the sky was actually still very bright, but there were trees overhead, so it seemed more secluded. You could hear the cheerful chirping of birds returning to their nests above your head. Surrounded by green, it was very comfortable. Fan Xian was very happy to be rid of that boring poetry gathering. He hummed a little tune as he walked deeper into the garden. As he walked, he smiled and thought to himself, "I won't be like Duan Yu and meet a fairy sister, will I?"
"Who are you?"
A person stood up from among the plants and looked at Fan Xian curiously.
...
...
Fan Xian was shocked. Even with his hearing, he had only noticed this person when he was so close. If this person was an assassin, then he was doomed. Only then did he realize that after entering the capital, he had become much less vigilant.
He looked at the person in front of him and laughed at himself.
Of course, this person could not be Wang Yuyan, nor could it be the white-clothed woman that he could not forget. It was a gardener in his forties or fifties. He held a hoe in his hand and had a mud basket at his feet. His face was fair, but there was a slight panic in his eyes. He must have seen Fan Xian's clothes and was a little afraid.
Fan Xian smiled slightly and bowed to the gardener. "I must have startled you. I am a guest of the prince's manor and happened to pass by. I saw that the garden was well kept, so I decided to take a look around."
The old gardener wiped his hands on his clothes, as if he did not know how to greet him. Hearing Fan Xian praise the garden, he laughed in a simple and honest manner.
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