Chapter 79: The Mountain Gains Renown Because of Its Noble Dweller

Ye Chang shuddered, almost trembling from the chill. Du Fu? A man named Du Fu, styled Zimei—surely this was none other than the Sage of Poetry himself. Throughout his life, Du Fu had not stood out in the dazzling constellation of the Great Tang; his fame as a poet only rose to rival Li Bai’s in the era of the Song. Yet to Ye Chang, this man’s influence on later generations far surpassed that of He Zhizhang or Zhang Xu!

He focused intently on the poet-historian before him: of medium height, thin in build, yet vigorous and not at all frail. His brows were refined, a slight beard adorned his face, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence. When he noticed Ye Chang’s scrutiny, he offered a shy smile—he resembled not a thirty-year-old man at the threshold of maturity, but rather a young scholar freshly graduated from his studies.

Unable to restrain himself, Ye Chang stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “Master He calls you a man of poetic talent, and your family name is Du. Then you must be Zimei, the very one who ‘surveys all mountains as small’?”

Ye Chang recalled that the poem “Gazing at the Mountain” was written by Du Fu in his youth, before he had tasted much hardship, brimming with ambition. Thus, he ventured to ask.

“To think my humble name has reached your honored ears!” Du Fu’s face lit up at these words, modest in speech but secretly musing to himself: They say Li Taibai’s tongue is a lotus in bloom, but so it seems is Lord Ye’s!

Ye Chang had not expected much from He Zhizhang’s visit, but to have him bring Du Fu along! Truly a buy-one-get-one gift. His heart rejoiced, and without delay he invited everyone to his country villa.

“Upon reaching Luoyang, Zimei came to call, and I, delighted by his poetry, invited him to meet with you, my eleventh brother,” He Zhizhang explained as they walked. “You have always enjoyed befriending men of talent—I trust you won’t fault me for meddling.”

“Fault you? You’re quite mistaken, Master He. When I first read ‘Gazing at the Mountain,’ I was astounded by its celestial quality and sought everywhere to find its author. I learned it was Brother Zimei’s work, but he was said to be roaming the world, not at home, so I gave up. That you have brought him here fills my heart with joy—tonight, I shall wash my hands and personally prepare a feast to welcome you all!”

He Zhizhang knew well of Ye Chang’s cooking skills, having tasted them before in Chang’an. At the mention of privately brewed wine, his longing for drink grew even greater, and he urged them all along.

They followed Ye Chang along winding village paths, drawing nearer to the foot of Covered Cauldron Mountain. From afar, the hills were blue as indigo; up close, the waters of Lake Wu Ze shimmered, filling them with delight. As they walked, the greenery thickened, the road ahead seeming to vanish amidst the foliage. Rounding a thicket, the view suddenly opened: a wooden fence appeared before them.

Jiao Sui was waiting by the gate, his head gleaming bald. He Zhizhang was taken aback and asked repeatedly why this was so. Jiao Sui tried to explain, but stammered awkwardly, his words halting. Du Fu, noticing his stutter, secretly wondered: Why would even He Zhizhang befriend such a man?

But He Zhizhang knew Jiao Sui’s quirks and handed him his wine gourd. After a few gulps, Jiao Sui grew lively, his tongue unloosed, and he launched into tales of recent events—chief among them, Ye Chang impersonating the Lord of the Underworld to judge a dispute over cattle. Yuan Gonglu, listening on, could only smile wryly: this Eleventh Lord Ye was indeed as bold and reckless as he’d heard—first pretending to be a Bodhisattva, now the Lord of the Underworld. Truly…

He could hardly find words to describe Ye Chang.

As Jiao Sui spoke, Du Fu glanced curiously through the fence. Amidst the shade of the trees, he caught sight of a simple wooden pavilion.

Ye Chang, laughing, interrupted Jiao Sui, leading everyone through the rustic gate. The sound of a mountain stream, clear and musical, greeted their ears. Following the stream, they soon reached the little pavilion. He Zhizhang, engrossed by Jiao Sui’s tale, paused there.

Du Fu entered the pavilion, listening, but his gaze was drawn to a stone stele outside. Approaching, he saw it bore an inscription.

He Zhizhang, old eyes squinting, peered at the inscription until the words came clear. The opening line read, “A mountain need not be high; its fame lies in the presence of an immortal. Water need not be deep; it becomes spirited if a dragon dwells there.” He couldn’t help but clap in admiration: “A masterful piece by Eleventh Lord Ye!”

Ye Chang shook his head with a smile. “No, not so. It is but something I heard in a dream.”

He Zhizhang could only laugh and shake his head. Ye Chang always attributed his writings to dreams, as if afraid to be seen as a man of letters!

This “Inscription of a Humble Abode” had been altered by Ye Chang into the “Inscription of a Modest Dwelling,” with a few lines changed. For example, “No commoners come and go” became “Only kindred spirits pass through.” His circle of friends was wide—people like Jiao Sui and Shanzhen were of humble origins, and the original line might discomfort them. When all had read the piece, He Zhizhang sighed, “This valley shall be famed for this inscription!”

Everyone agreed. The county magistrate, too, owed some of his achievements to Ye Chang, and news had arrived from Chang’an that, thanks to Ye Chang’s irrigation technique, he would soon be promoted. Naturally, he joined in the praise. Yuan Gonglu, though still wary of Ye Chang’s ways, added his own compliments.

Du Fu now looked at Ye Chang with changed eyes.

At this time, Du Fu’s name was little known. At first, Ye Chang’s warmth and his quoting of “surveying all mountains as small” had brought Du Fu great joy, feeling Ye Chang truly recognized his worth. Now, seeing Ye Chang’s literary prowess, Du Fu thought: No wonder He Zhizhang would go to such lengths to visit this man!

How many men of excellence there were in the world!

“To set this inscription here is, first, to express my own aspirations; second, to ward off vulgar visitors; and third, I confess, to show off a little.” Ye Chang laughed heartily. “See how I’ve startled Master He, the magistrate, the steward, and Brother Zimei!”

Everyone burst out laughing; his openness left even the most doubtful unable to object.

“Jiao Sui, do go on—why on earth did that ox insist on licking your head?” After their literary interlude, He Zhizhang urged him on.

Jiao Sui then unraveled the mysteries of his tale. By the time he finished, they had reached the innermost part of the valley, where Ye Chang’s residence lay.

“Eleventh Lord Ye is clever as a fox spirit, a man of extraordinary deeds and mind,” He Zhizhang sighed. “What a pity you never met Li Taibai in Chang’an—for certain you two would have been kindred spirits.”

“If the mountain does not move, the water does; if the water does not, then people will—and meet we surely shall. Speaking of which, Master He, did Li Taibai compose a farewell poem for your return home?”

He Zhizhang, with a good memory for poetry, at once recited a verse.

The poem closely resembled the “On Sending Master He Back to Siming by Imperial Command” from Ye Chang’s memory, though with slight variations—likely because He Zhizhang had left Chang’an earlier than in history.

“Only one poem from Li Taibai?” Ye Chang pressed.

He Zhizhang, who had called Li Bai the Banished Immortal and recommended him to the nobility and even Emperor Xuanzong, replied that Li Bai had written only this poem for his departure, not the two that history records. There were, he added, some official farewell poems, but he could not recall them all. However, he carried a manuscript with him and allowed Ye Chang to copy them before returning it.

“I must go and prepare the meal,” Ye Chang excused himself after seating the guests. “Please allow me to withdraw.”

With so many guests, the tea at home quickly ran out, but fortunately there were mountains and water at Wu Ze Pi. He sent someone to the village, and before long, neighbors brought every kind of ingredient: hunters brought rabbits and pheasants, fishermen supplied carp, others brought home-cured bacon, plus his own free-range chickens and vegetables. Soon, everything was ready.

Ye Chang personally oversaw the kitchen, preparing a splendid meal. While he worked, arrangements were made for his return to the ancestral clan. Clan leader Ye Dan came to accompany them; it was his first time dining with the county magistrate, the constable, and such important guests, and he was both nervous and exhilarated.

As they awaited the food, they chatted, listening as He Zhizhang recounted Ye Chang’s deeds in Chang’an—even how he had dined with the Princess Yuzhen. Yuan Gonglu, who had once kept his distance from Ye Chang out of caution, changed his mind completely: since Princess Yuzhen herself supported Ye Chang, what was there to fear?

“With such talent, why does the court not keep Lord Ye as an official?” At last, Du Fu voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

“Eleventh Lord Ye is indeed gifted, and has been recommended to His Majesty by Princess Yuzhen, Han Jingzhao, and others. But he is proud of his talent and has indeed offended some powerful people. For instance, he publicly rebuked the son-in-law of Princess Ningqin—Zhang Ji, the son of a former prime minister, who is favored by the emperor. It is said that Zhang Ji helped secure Ye Chang’s pardon and release. Moreover, Eleventh Lord Ye is still young and sometimes reckless—he even dared provoke the Twenty-Ninth Princess…”

It was not He Zhizhang who replied. For all his candor, he was a seasoned official and would not answer such questions so openly. Instead, Jiao Sui spoke, having heard He Zhizhang, Zhang Xu, and Yan Zhenqing lament Ye Chang’s wasted talent in Chang’an, and adding his own analysis, spoke eloquently. Others nodded in agreement, thinking it no wonder this man was a friend of both Master He and Eleventh Lord Ye—his insights were extraordinary.

He Zhizhang did not stop him. First, this was Jiao Sui’s nature, and it was precisely this nature that, despite his broad connections in Chang’an, had kept him from success. Second, He Zhizhang hoped these words would reach Ye Chang’s ears, so he might learn to be more cautious in the future.

As the conversation continued, the first dish was finally served. In the Tang era, unlike later times, formal banquets were served as individual portions. He Zhizhang, being the eldest and most distinguished, sat at the seat of honor, with Ye Dan, as Ye Chang’s elder, seated beside him to host the guests. The rest were seated around, each with a small plate of food.

The first dish was stir-fried eggs with mushrooms—a homely dish, but as stir-frying was not yet common in the Tang, Ye Chang had added scallions, garlic, and pepper, creating a flavor of remarkable freshness. At first, the guests thought little of it, but after tasting, they were astonished. Even He Zhizhang, whose taste had dulled with age, praised its deliciousness. “How is this dish so fresh, Eleventh Lord? Such ordinary ingredients, yet such flavor!”

“I only added a few seasonings,” Ye Chang replied modestly.

In truth, there was a secret: he had made his own chicken essence. Far from the sea, he could not use sea cucumber for MSG, so he devised a method using mushrooms, ginger, and chicken meat, ground into a paste and baked at high temperature.

“Amitabha, the monk has finished eating.” While the others were still praising the food, Shanzhi had already cleaned his plate and glared at Ye Chang. “Eleventh Lord, how stingy you are—just this tiny bowl for each of us, how can it be enough?”

Everyone burst out laughing. Ye Chang shook his head with a wry smile. “Be patient, the next dish is coming soon.”

The second and third dishes were equally delicious. The guests feasted and praised him endlessly. Jiao Sui, in particular, was nodding with satisfaction, until the fourth dish arrived—at which point he slammed the table. “Ye Eleventh, you slight me!”

All were taken aback.

“How so?” Ye Chang, knowing his temperament, laughed.

“Such fine food, but not a drop of good wine to accompany it! If you only slighted me, so be it. But see—Du Zimei, your new friend; the magistrate, the steward, your very own local officials; and Master He, who has always looked after you in Chang’an—if you don’t serve wine to them, are you not slighting them too?”

The room erupted in laughter, everyone teasing Ye Chang: “He’s right, Jiao Sui speaks the truth!”

“Jiao Sui, you drunkard, you’re just after my hidden wine!” Ye Chang scolded playfully. “But today, thanks to these fine gentlemen, I’ll open a jar for you all to taste!”

Soon a wine jar was brought out and set before them. The others were calm, but Jiao Sui could hardly contain himself, gulping, his eyes red with longing. Ye Chang shook his head with a smile. “This wine is not yet at its best. If we waited two more years, it would be truly mellow and fine!”

As he spoke, he broke the seal. A rich fragrance filled the hall, intoxicating even before a drop was drunk.

“Wonderful wine! Wonderful wine!” Jiao Sui sniffed greedily. “Fill the cups, fill the cups!”

Ye Chang poured for everyone, leaving Jiao Sui for last. Jiao Sui, impatient, seized the jar himself, grumbling, “Why am I last?”

“If you were first, your cup would already be empty,” Ye Chang jested.

Everyone laughed, stood, raised their cups, and with a cry of “To victory!” drank together.