“Ha ha ha ha, truly marvelous! This hundred-meter banquet far surpasses those tedious longevity scrolls. You must know, the character for ‘longevity’ has many strokes and naturally countless ways to write it, but this simple ‘rice’ character can be transformed into so many variations—one can imagine the skill involved. Rare indeed, rare indeed! Let’s drink a big cup to celebrate!” A middle-aged man in a purple robe smiled as he raised his wine cup to Edward Clark, then tilted his head back and drained it in one go. Behind him, a beautiful young lady was massaging his shoulders, a clear sign of his charm and elegance.

With a hint from Samuel Adams at his side, Edward Clark finally learned that this man in purple was none other than the imperial son-in-law, Commandant Robert King Wang Shen, and he couldn’t help but feel extremely fortunate. Back then, when he tried so hard to win Samuel Adams’s trust, this young prince-in-law played a significant role. Now it seemed that his chance encounter with Samuel Adams at the market was truly a stroke of fate. Since the historical records say Zhao Ji was an emperor obsessed with calligraphy and painting, at the age of eleven he should already be meeting some great artists—maybe Edward Clark could find his own opportunity as well.

“Your Highness flatters me. I was merely joking around and had no intention of making fun of Mr. Mi.” He had just wanted to say something modest when a cold snort sounded in his ear.

“What ‘imperial son-in-law’, what ‘Mr. Mi’? What fun is there in being so formal? Old Su already said, today is a gathering of literary friends, regardless of status or official rank. If you like, just call me Yuan Zhang; if you want to be even more casual, calling me Mi Dian is fine too!”

Edward Clark broke out in a sweat on his forehead, but then heard Robert King chime in from the side, “Yuan Zhang is right. This isn’t a court assembly, there’s no need to stick to convention. By the way, little brother Gao, do you have a courtesy name? It would make addressing you much easier.”

Having just arrived in the Song Dynasty, Edward Clark had been busy dealing with both his family and Samuel Adams, with no time to think about a courtesy name. Only now did he recall that Song-era scholars often addressed each other by courtesy names as a sign of respect and camaraderie. He was about to make one up when he caught a glimpse of Samuel Adams smiling, as if he had an idea.

“To be honest, when I was studying as a child, my tutor did give me a courtesy name, but I disliked it and never used it. Now I’d like to adopt it, but I can’t remember what it was. Scholar, you are like a great teacher to me—would you be willing to bestow a courtesy name upon me?”

Samuel Adams had already intended to do so, and with everyone urging him on, he agreed at once. In ancient times, only elders or teachers would give someone a courtesy name, so this was tantamount to acknowledging Edward Clark as one of the The Adams Disciples. “In that case, I just happen to have one in mind—how about Bozhang?”

Edward Clark had no idea whether it was good or bad, but hurriedly expressed his thanks over and over. For a while, the banquet was filled with laughter and joy, and soon, the main event of composing poetry began. Since there were many people, as was customary, Samuel Adams personally placed slips with different ci tune names into a box, and everyone drew one at random, composing a poem to match the tune they picked. When it was Edward Clark’s turn, his heart pounded like a drum, but he forced himself to appear calm as he carefully drew a slip.

He silently prayed, then looked at the slip: it read “Dian Jiang Chun.” He immediately felt relieved. But after silently reciting Li Qingzhao’s famous poem of the same tune, he suddenly felt troubled. Though both men and women wrote ci, there were differences, and for a man to write of a woman’s boudoir sorrows seemed a bit affected. Little did he know that these Song poets often wrote from a woman’s perspective—he had worried for nothing.

He was still lost in thought when, before he knew it, it was his turn. He had no choice but to brace himself and say, “Please forgive me, everyone. I’m not naturally skilled at poetry and song, so I probably won’t produce anything good.” Seeing some people look disappointed, he quickly added, “But this time is truly a coincidence. Last night I dreamed up a ‘Dian Jiang Chun’, and today I happened to draw it—perhaps it’s fate!”

“Oh? You can compose fine verses even in your dreams? That’s remarkable!” The previously silent Jonathan Reed became interested and urged, “George, recite it for us!”

Having left himself a way out, Edward Clark felt a bit bolder. He stood and recited softly:

“Lonely in the deep boudoir,

A tender heart, an inch long, a thousand threads of sorrow.

Pity spring as it passes,

A few drops of rain hasten the falling flowers.

Leaning on the railing again and again,

Yet there is no mood at all!

Where is my beloved?

Withered grass stretches to the sky,

I gaze in vain down the road for your return.”

“What a line—‘I gaze in vain down the road for your return!’” Robert King clapped in admiration. “Between the lines, it seems to express a woman’s grief at losing her husband. For George, a grown man, to dream up such a sorrowful poem is truly astonishing!”

“They say what you think of by day, you dream of by night, but this is really strange—I don’t know why,” Edward Clark said, feigning honesty and shaking his head with a bewildered look.

“No matter what, a marvelous poem is a marvelous poem! Hurry and write it down—let the songstresses sing it, and maybe it will spread throughout Bianjing. Then George will be famous everywhere!”

“That’s right, that’s right! Who would have thought George could dream up such fine lines? It will surely become a celebrated story.”

……

Chapter Twelve: Coercion