Chapter Eighty-Three: Among All the Talents Under Heaven, Yulang Holds Eight Parts Out of Ten (End)

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Ever since Su Dongpo’s “Prelude to the Water Melody” appeared, all other Mid-Autumn lyrics have paled into insignificance. — Hu Zai, “Later Collection of the Fisherman’s Idle Talk,” Volume Thirty-Nine

Although tonight is not the Mid-Autumn Festival, it is still a night bathed in silvery moonlight. Moreover, the lyrics make no direct mention of the Mid-Autumn Festival or a full moon, so Zhang Yu felt there was little harm in presenting them now.

Lifting the wine cup from the table, Zhang Yu inhaled its fragrance as he strolled leisurely through the grand hall, as if walking in the void, drawing exclamations of amazement from the onlookers.

“I long to ride the wind and return home, yet fear the crystal towers and jade palaces—so cold in those heights. Dancing, I play with my shadow in the clear light; how unlike life in the mortal world.”

“Is this… poetry? Or a song?”

“Each line is uneven, some long, some short—neither quite poem nor song. I have never seen such a literary form.”

“Yet, as with his seven-syllable verses, the quality soars unbridled as a heavenly steed, the ideas as elusive as an antelope’s horns caught in the boughs. I have nothing to say but to sincerely praise its beauty.”

The astonishment Zhang Yu brought the gathering that night was already more than enough; so much so that, no matter how unorthodox his behavior, none dared to raise objections against him.

“Turning around the vermilion pavilions, lowering at the carved lattice windows, casting its light upon the sleepless.

There should be no regret, so why does the moon shine roundest at parting?

Men have sorrows and joys, partings and reunions; the moon has its phases of shadow and light, waxing and waning—such things have been hard to perfect since ancient times.

I only wish for enduring companionship, that we may share this beauty, though a thousand miles apart.”

As the lyric ended, the hall fell into silence, except for Cai Yan, whose eyes grew ever brighter.

“You call this a lyric? What is its title?”

“Indeed. This is ‘Prelude to the Water Melody: When Will the Moon Be Clear and Bright?’ ‘Prelude to the Water Melody’ is the tune pattern’s name.”

“Father, this lyric—no, this form—seems especially suited to be set to music for banquets. It has something of the old ballads, yet it is more meticulously crafted, and its sound is distinct.”

The laymen admired the spectacle, but the connoisseurs saw the craft. Lyrics were originally written as songs for feasts and music, with fixed patterns for tunes, lines, and tones—freedom and constraint coexisting amid apparent irregularity, flourishing in the Song dynasties.

Yet nowadays, seven-syllable verse is considered vulgar and neglected, and with the jewel-like splendor of the old ballads still shining, Zhang Yu could not be sure how this seemingly neither-here-nor-there lyric form would be received in his era.

He was not concerned about the common folk; few could read, and whatever was pleasant to hear and easy to sing would gain popularity. The key lay with the scholar-officials—whether they could accept this form, so far ahead of its time, would determine its standing.

That was why Zhang Yu had chosen what he considered one of the greatest lyrics, “Prelude to the Water Melody.” If he could, with Cai Yan’s help, popularize both the tune patterns and the lyrics, then to make “Song Lyrics” flourish ahead of their time was hardly impossible.

“Lady Cai, you see to the heart of things. These lyrics are indeed composed for music, their structure divided by musical sections, their lines by rhythmic beats, their words chosen for the rise and fall of the melody. I call it ‘composing lyrics to match the tune,’ though this particular lyric I wrote alone.”

Wang Can, having found paper and brush from somewhere, was already copying down Zhang Yu’s lyric, stirring a fresh wave of discussion in the hall.

“This banquet is truly held for Zhang Yu alone!” Wang Tang muttered in frustration, lifting his wineskin for a hearty swig—only to nearly spit it out, for it was nothing like the fine wine from earlier.

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What Cai Yong cared about most was not the merit of the lyric itself. What interested him was the form—the new literary genre.

“Zhang Lang, what exactly is this tune pattern?”

“As I said earlier, Master Cai, lyrics are composed for music. The tune pattern refers to the structure of the lyric, the name of the melody.

Different tune patterns have specific requirements for the total number of lines, the number of characters in each line, and the alternation of tones.”

“So there is more than one tune pattern?”

“Indeed. For example, ‘Prelude to the Water Melody’ is a tune pattern that prescribes the rhythm and structure, while ‘When Will the Moon Be Clear and Bright?’ is the actual lyric’s title.”

“So, if we wish to write lyrics, we must follow the formal structure of the chosen tune pattern, and give each new lyric its own title afterward?”

No sooner had Cai Yong finished asking than a young scholar beside him spoke up, “I am Liang Cheng, and I am greatly fond of ‘When Will the Moon Be Clear and Bright?’ The concept of lyrics sounds fresh and intriguing. I would like to try my hand at it—may I ask, Zhang Lang, how many tune patterns are there?”

Zhang Yu answered with a smile, “I am still compiling them, but they generally fall into the following categories: some take the titles of old ballads or musical pieces, like ‘Song of the Six States’;

some are named after phrases from the works of famous masters, like ‘Phoenix Seeks Its Mate’;

others derive from historical figures or stories, like ‘Washing Sand by the Stream.’

In time, should you all become famous for your lyrics, you could even invent your own tune patterns, and let the world compose lyrics to your rules!”

Such a prospect was a great temptation—scholars might disdain profit, but who does not crave fame? With these words, Zhang Yu could feel the temperature in the hall steadily rising.

“Zhang Lang, since lyrics have never before appeared in the world, forgive my dullness, but I do not know how to begin. Could you teach me?”

“Since ancient times, all literary forms have been refined through the test of time—gradually shedding the dross and gathering the essence, perfected by the hands of countless sages and masters before becoming established,” Ruan Yu interjected, his tone difficult to read. “Do you, Zhang Yu, believe that by your own strength you can accomplish what took a hundred years, traversing that long road alone?”

“Moreover, lyrics are transmitted through music, and are from the outset considered beneath poetry and rhapsody, even harder to accept than the seven-syllable verse, and burdened with many constraints. Compared to the natural ease of the old ballads, they fall far short.

Forgive my frankness, but I cannot yet appreciate the subtlety of these lyrics.”

“I intend to write a book,” Zhang Yu replied, not meeting the challenge directly.

“A book devoted to lyrics—from tune patterns to formal rules, introducing this genre to the literary world. When it is finished, I will present a copy to each of you. It will not be long.”

A single stone stirred up a thousand waves.

“A book? Just what is Zhang Yu’s background?”

“To publish one requires not only great talent, but also a towering reputation—”

Zhang Yu continued, “When you read this book, you will surely come to understand the concept of lyrics. Though the forms are less regular than poetry, the scope less grand than rhapsody, and the content not as free as that of the old ballads, I believe they combine the best of many genres and possess their own unique charm.”

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“I hope that, if you are willing, you will join me in witnessing the rise of lyrics, and together help restore the reputation of the seven-syllable verse.”

“If he can revive the seven-syllable form, that alone would place him among the masters of literature.

But who would have thought this young man’s ambition surpassed even my own imagination—he actually intends to create a new literary genre?

Seemingly wild and unrestrained though it sounds, if someone else had said it, it would be little more than a joke—but coming from Zhang Yu…

Take that ‘Prelude to the Water Melody’ just now—were it adapted into five or seven-syllable verse, it would still be an unparalleled masterpiece.

Zhang Lang, just how much talent do you possess?”

Cai Yong, who had read more than ten thousand books and was the most renowned Confucian scholar in the land, had known many extraordinary prodigies in his life, yet never had he admired a young man so much.

It was not only Zhang Yu’s peerless appearance, but also his very temperament and literary brilliance—a perfect blend of the ordinary and the extraordinary, both gifted and inspired.

He sensed, faintly, that this was someone who might one day usher in a new era, with his seven-syllable verse, his lyrics, and his boundless potential.

“Zhang Lang, you should consider Yuanyou’s words. A good literary form is not the same as a single good poem. To make it flourish by the strength of one man or even a single generation—such a thing has never happened,” Cai Yong advised, speaking as an elder.

“But as the ancients say, ‘Though I see no sages before me, how can I know there will be none after?’ Our ancestors once rose and rested with the sun, the sky their canopy, the earth their mat, their songs in the wilderness leaving but a few scattered words—who could have foreseen the splendor of poetry and rhapsody we know today?

There must always be those who dare to lead the way. Though I am not worthy, I am willing to try!”

“Well said!” This cry of praise came from most of the scholars present.

“If your book is completed, I shall write the preface for you.”

“Thank you, Master Cai!” Cai Yong’s support truly moved Zhang Yu. His family lacked neither wealth nor connections—he could always ask Yuan Shao for help in official matters—but reputation was both the most vital and the hardest to attain.

Gratefully glancing at him, Zhang Yu returned to his seat behind the desk.

“If the lyric form truly flourishes, it may gradually separate from music and become an independent genre. I will strive for this together with all of you!”

He drained his wine and found it sweeter than before. Just as he was about to speak to Xu Gan beside him, he heard Ruan Yu across the table laugh and say,

“Your talent, Zhang Yu, I acknowledge with both heart and words. If my teacher is the most learned man in my eyes, then you, the Jade Gentleman of Zhongshan, are the most gifted. Please don’t take our earlier disagreements to heart. I toast you with this cup!” It was a gesture suggesting bygones be bygones.

“Thank you, Brother Ruan.”

“An old man like me can hardly claim to be learned—it’s just a matter of reading more books over the years. But Zhang Yu, your talent is truly unparalleled. If the sum of all the young talents I have seen amounts to a single peck, you alone possess eight bushels.”

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