Appreciation of a Fine Essay | Who Inscribed the Red on the Peony Pavilion

Back then, he was still a boy beneath the skies of Yunling; whether his literary awakening began with The Peony Pavilion remains uncertain. All he knew was that in autumn, nothing was more delightful than the golden breeze sweeping across the village square, lifting the rice sheaves into towering stacks—each as high as three or four stories, standing shoulder to shoulder. Taking advantage of the space between two such stacks, the boy would clamber upward. Just after an evening rain had washed the earth, the setting sun warmed the ripening ears of grain, making them seem to glow faintly. Lying at the heart of the stack, bathed in its gentle warmth, he could gaze up at the starry sky and feel the heavens and the earth drawn so close together. As night fell, the firmament deepened, a startling shade of blue—like the blue khadags he would later come to know among the Mongolian people. The Big Dipper was set against the vaulted dome, its handle pointing north. In mid‑autumn, when the days were still warm, fireflies flickered on and off, darting through the night, their tiny lights weaving the Milky Way into a bridge for the Qixi Festival. Or perhaps it was the Nai River Bridge before Qingliang Temple: a lone boat moored at the shore, fireflies never ceasing to dance in the dark, and even bean‑flying beetles flitted about in the blackness, bumping into one another—and into the fair maidens. On the far side of the bridge, he saw Du Liniang standing there, her figure both plaintive and poignant. Who was she waiting for?

Eight years had passed since Tang Xianzu resigned his post and returned to his hometown. His “Four Dreams of the Pavilion of Jade Fragrance” were now complete; among them, The Peony Pavilion: A Tale of Resurrection was first staged by a troupe performing in the Yihuang dialect, its performance so dazzling that it set the city of Linchuan abuzz. Along the banks of the Fu River, in towns and villages alike—wherever there was a well—the tale of resurrection was sung and retold. The woodblock edition of The Peony Pavilion from Zhujiao in Jinxi soon became so sought after that paper grew scarce in Luoyang. In Loujiang, there lived a young woman named Yu Erniang, gifted with wit and eloquence, barely twenty years old, in the bloom of youth. Though still unwed, she “was passionately devoted to the legend of The Peony Pavilion, filling its margins with painstakingly tiny annotations. Her thoughts were deep and her sentiments poignant; she even found fault with certain passages.” Her father, deeply moved by his daughter’s fragile fate, feared that, like Du Liniang, she might languish in melancholy and “die of a broken heart,” succumbing at the age of seventeen to despair. And what slipped from her delicate hands was none other than the Jinxi woodblock edition of The Peony Pavilion. Upon learning of this, Tang Xianzu took up his brush and composed two elegiac poems titled “Lament for the Young Woman of Loujiang”:

The painted candle flickers in the golden chamber, while pearls seem to weep at the embroidered window. How can this melody wound the heart, yet linger only by the Lou River?

Why would one die for love? Sorrow, surely, has its divine source. For a fleeting moment, through the craft of words, all those with a tender heart are moved.

A wandering spirit, a flower’s lament, love’s death! Will the soul return? In “The Golden Thread Melody,” a dream of resurrection—whose mournful tears shall I gather in my palm? Was Tang Xianzu’s weeping stirred only by Du Liniang, who poured her heart into “The Story of the Resurrection,” or perhaps by Yu Erniang, whose reading broke her very soul? Maybe so—but not entirely. As he penned these two poems that rend the heart of youth, Tang Xianzu’s tears soaked his robe; he set down his wolf‑hair brush upon its stand, rose, and paced before the small window of his study. Gazing into the distance, he beheld early winter in Linchuan: misty rain veiled the city walls, low clouds hung over the cold, vast river, and the cries of a lone wild goose in the west wind seemed to shatter his very heart. Turning eastward, his gaze swept to the ancestral burial ground of the Tang clan on Lingzhi Mountain in Wenchangli; not far away, at Zhengjue Temple, the remains of Lady Wu, the principal wife, had lain in repose for twenty-two years, still waiting—for after a hundred years, they would share a single tomb, resting together on Lingzhi Mountain.

“What, pray, is love, that it should compel one to pledge life and death to it?” The ci poet Yuan Haowen of the previous dynasty, in his “Mo Yu Er: Yanqiu Ci,” struck a chord deep within Tang Xianzu’s heart. Though “The Peony Pavilion: A Tale of Resurrection” draws its material from the Six Dynasties’ supernatural tales collected in the “Youming Lu” and from miscellaneous works like the Tang chuanqi, was it not, in essence, written for his own wife, Lady Wu? Counting on his fingers, it has been twenty-two years since she passed; yet she lives on in Tang Xianzu’s memory—like a young maiden whose radiant beauty withers as swiftly as summer blossoms. With her gone, what does death matter? Life and death, death and life—only in this cycle does true existence endure. The famous lines from the preface to “The Peony Pavilion,” “Love knows not whence it springs, yet once kindled, it runs deep. The living may die, the dead may live. But those who cannot part with death while alive, or who cannot be revived after death—such are not lovers at the height of passion,” were addressed to Du Liniang; yet they also reflect Tang Xianzu’s own ardent devotion, and, above all, stand as an offering to his departed wife, Lady Wu.

The lone wild goose cries long and mournfully; clouds collide with the wind, and thunder rumbles through the alleys of Linchuan. Who is singing, who is chanting, as if calling to the waters? Twenty-two years—life and death, both shrouded in vast, unfathomable distance; though I try not to think of it, how could I ever forget? At that time, Tang Xianzu was fifty-six. His wife had passed away the year after he succeeded in the spring imperial examination. Past events are like mist and rain, and his soul is broken by the southward‑flying geese—just as the cold clouds above the window, scattered at the slightest breeze. Yet, as a man, Tang had let down his beloved wife’s painstaking care and deep affection. The world of officialdom runs as deep as the sea; twenty-two years have slipped by, and still he remains but a minor functionary—a chief clerk in the Department of Rites at the Nanjing capital, serving for eight long years, essentially holding an idle post, doing nothing of substance. When the spring sacrificial rites arrive, he takes offerings, joss paper, oxen and sheep to the tombs of the High Emperor and such great generals as Xu Da. Paper boats and bright candles blaze skyward, while he also sets out offerings before the stone figures—stone men, stone lions, white elephants, and stone horses—burns a few sticks of incense, and then, in a perfunctory manner, recites a ritual address to show his piety. All this, Zhang Dai has recounted in the very first chapter of his “Dream Memories of a Taoist Hermit.” Life in Jinling weighed heavily upon Tang Xianzu: he kept no contact with his fellow officials, and scorned the mainstream literary establishment. At that time, Wang Shizhen served as vice minister and later minister of the Southern Capital’s Ministry of Punishments, a leading figure of the mid‑Ming revivalist school. Tang Xianzu, moreover, was under Wang Shizhen’s junior brother, Wang Shimao. Yet he joined forces with his literary peers, taking Li Mengyang, Li Panlong, and Wang Shizhen—the towering figures of Ming‑era letters—as targets of ridicule, deriding the “revivalists” as mere gatherers of scraps of Han history and Tang poetry, dabbling here and there with phrases and turns of phrase borrowed from those eras, all too often tinged with plagiarism. Thus, a generation’s foremost literary master became the subject of mockery on the chopping block. Upon hearing this, Wang Shizhen could only laugh wryly, left with no recourse. In his dealings with the court and his close ties with rustic recluses, Tang Xianzu truly seemed to stray from orthodoxy. After forming a spiritual bond with the eccentric Li Zhi and with Zen masters, he came to harbor a deep aversion to officialdom, his resolve wavering between staying and leaving.

The edict, sharp as a sword, began with a memorial titled “On the Grand Secretaries and Censors,” which lashed out at the chief grand secretary Shen Shixing and the censors Yang Wenju and Hu Runing—those who, though occupying the pinnacle of state power and wielding decisive influence over the censorial corps, had formed cliques, embezzled public funds, perverted justice, and cruelly exploited starving commoners. In the end, even Emperor Wanli was dragged into the fray: after twenty years on the throne, he had neglected governance, proving both incompetent and muddleheaded, thus undermining the very foundations of imperial rule. The memorial reached the emperor’s throne, and the Shenjong’s countenance flared in fury: “Outrageous! A single memorial has pierced nine layers of heaven; banish him to Leizhou, eight thousand li away—like Su Shi of old, let him be exiled to the ends of the earth.” There he was assigned to serve as a minor clerk in Xunwen County. Lying in his official chamber, he listened to the wind rustling through the coconut groves; across the sea, he could only dream of Dongpo strolling upon the grasslands. Such a lowly clerk, at best, held a ninth‑rank post. Tang Xianzu continued his downward spiral. A year later, he was pardoned and reassigned inland to Zhejiang, where he became the magistrate of Suichang. Even then, he still sought to accomplish something: “Abolish the iron clamp, dismantle the wooden gallows, lighten the tax burdens, curtail unnecessary meetings,” and he built an archery hall and renovated a scholarly academy. He went to the countryside to encourage farmers to boost yields, and he exchanged literary ideas with the young scholars—undertakings that, however modest, bore the mark of good governance. Yet at year’s end, he did something earth‑shaking: he ordered the jailer to open the gates and let the prisoners return home for the New Year, sparking uproar throughout the court and among the people. Realizing he could no longer remain in office, Tang Xianzu tendered his resignation and returned home, resolved to devote himself entirely to writing plays.

He first heard “The Peony Pavilion” on the old street of his hometown. There was an elderly woman surnamed Qian, born at the end of the Qing dynasty; that year she was in her seventies, and in her youth she had attended Kunming Women’s Middle School. In her later years, she set up a small stall on the old street of Dabanqiao, selling needles, thread, and sundry household items. She wore reading glasses, wore her hair in a bun, and exuded a certain wistful charm, as if spring had already slipped away like falling blossoms and flowing water. After dinner, the children would gather around her stall, eager to listen as she told stories. “The Palace of Eternal Life,” “The West Chamber,” and “The Injustice to Dou E” were among the tales she recounted most often, yet it was “The Return of the Soul in The Peony Pavilion” that most captivated his imagination.

The bond between man and ghost remains unbroken. From life to death, from the dead to rebirth—beneath the peach blossom tree stands the Stone of Three Lives, and on the Peony Pavilion unfolds the tale of a lifetime’s fate. In this world and in heaven, does such a love truly exist? Gazing at the moon and the stars above, he lay down on the threshing pile and fell asleep. The moon rose—a slender crescent of gold, like a hook, yet also a golden-sailed ship carrying him far away. He was now so close to the heavens that he could almost reach the stars. It seemed as though wings had grown upon his back—though in truth, it was the white clouds rising from the heap, borne by the hand of the divine, that had bestowed upon him those snowy wings. As he journeyed through the clouds, he thought he saw Tang Xianzu, pen in hand, about to compose an epitaph for his first wife, Lady Wu.

The lone wild goose lingered again and again above Tang Xianzu’s study. Beyond the window, the beloved was far away; its mournful cry—whose lament was it? At that time, the winter solstice was drawing near. In the South, it is customary on this day to pay respects at the graves and perform earth‑moving rites. Lady Wei, Tang Xianzu’s maternal great‑aunt, had been reinterred in the Tang family ancestral tomb on Lingzhi Mountain in Wenchangli. He could no longer make Wu Ruren wait any longer. In the desolate, chilly stillness of Zhengjue Temple, she had waited for him twenty-two years; her incense had burned out, her jade-like form had withered, leaving only an empty coffin and bare bones. Where had her fragrant spirit gone, and where did she now abide? The gentle Gan‑dialect voices seemed to swirl above the Peony Pavilion, or drift within the cold clouds over the city of Fuzhou. The night was chilling; even the water for grinding ink had frozen. Tang Xianzu warmed the ink with the heat of his body, spread a scroll of plain white paper, and, for his beloved—the one he thought of day and night, whom he longed to meet again in the Peony Pavilion—wrote a brief epitaph.

The green lamp and yellow scrolls are not scriptures, but tears—love itself. With his brush, Tang Xianzu summoned the divine; in his strokes, emotion ran deep. Wherever his ink fell, there were tear‑stains; in every line, the traces of youth lingered. Twenty-two years have passed, yet though I try not to dwell on it, I cannot forget—those faces, that smile, seem as if they were only yesterday.

“Lady Wu’s childhood name was Yuying; she was the daughter of Yin Jun Changcheng, the third son of Magistrate Huai of Wu in Taqiao, Dongxiang County. Lady Wu was born in Yongzhou, while her father held the post of Deputy Military Governor, and she was both intelligent and well-versed in the classics, much cherished by her grandmother Rao and her mother Zhang…”

In those days, women’s social status was extremely low; in most families, daughters were known only by their family name, without a given name. “Ruren” was a generic term for married women. Fortunately, Wu Yuying was born into an official’s household. She attended a private school with her younger brother, learned to read and write, and was raised in the yamen, where she won the deep affection of both her grandmother and her mother.

Even the meeting between Tang Xianzu and his wife was no exception to the traditional practice of arranged marriages brokered by parents. That year, the Chinese lunar calendar marked the Guihai year—1563—when Tang Xianzu was thirteen. He entered the tutelage of Xu Liangfu, an official in the Censorate, devoting himself to the study of classics and the pursuit of learning. On the day of his formal apprenticeship, Wu Yucheng, father of Wu Yuying, happened to be present. Struck by Tang Xianzu’s innate talent and extraordinary demeanor, he hailed him as a prodigy and promptly offered his eldest daughter, Yuying, in marriage. That same year, Tang Xianzu was appointed to take the boy‑exam at the local government office and subsequently enrolled in the Imperial Academy, becoming a student of the prefectural school. Assuming that this favorable appointment stemmed from the noble lineage and influence of his future in‑law, he politely declined. At twenty, upon reaching adulthood, he brought his bride home; his father had chosen two attendants for the ceremony—one, Zhou Kongjiao, and the other, Rao Lun—both of whom had been his classmates at the prefectural academy. Later, all three would pass the imperial examinations in the same year, rising to high offices such as censors or vice‑chancellors, with ranks surpassing even Tang Xianzu’s own. Yet during their days as students, whenever Wu Yuying finished her studies, she would often bring gifts to the academy and, on occasion, leave a small token for her husband’s classmate, Rao Lun. She once noticed that when her husband donned a new garment and hung it on the rack to sleep, by morning Rao Lun had already slipped into it and departed. Meanwhile, Tang Xianzu, rising late, put on Rao Lun’s worn-out clothes and stepped out without realizing the exchange—a coincidence that struck him as oddly fitting. Seeing this, his wife covered her mouth and laughed, remarking, “Since Master Rao has received a new outfit, he ought to return your old one, tattered and threadbare.” Still unaware of the truth, Tang Xianzu returned home only to learn from his wife that the newly tailored garments she had prepared for him had been taken by Rao Lun. At that time, Tang Xianzu was still a poor scholar, and Wu Yuying frequently entrusted him with one or two bracelets from her dowry, keeping them handy for emergencies. He kept these precious tokens in his bookbag; when Rao Lun exhausted his funds, Tang Xianzu again retrieved his wife’s bracelets and let him pawn them. Upon returning home, he informed her of what had transpired. Wu Yuying burst into laughter, saying, “My dear husband, you are truly Rao Lun’s benefactor!” Far from reproach, her tone carried a deep sense of compassion, deeply moving Tang Xianzu.

Tang Xianzu could never forget the great fire that consumed his home on New Year’s Eve in the year Ren-Shen. At the time, his new wife had been with him for only two years, and their vast fortune was reduced to ashes in a single blaze. After the catastrophe, Wu Yuying, accompanied by her mother-in-law, was forced to move three times between town and country; grief and indignation took their toll, leaving her with an enduring illness. Later, their second daughter, Yuanxiang, died in infancy—a further blow that utterly broke his wife. Her suffering festered into a chronic malady, and she was plagued by incessant coughing, afflicted by the dreaded pulmonary tuberculosis of the day. Unwilling to play second fiddle to the son of the Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng, Tang Xianzu repeatedly failed the imperial examinations. By the winter of the year Ren-Wu, he was already thirty-two—by then, a seasoned candidate. The following spring, another provincial exam was imminent; he would have to set out in the depths of winter, journeying to Beijing to take the imperial examination, with success or failure hanging in the balance. His wife, summoning all her strength despite her illness, accompanied him and his mother-in-law to Ta Shui. The next morning, as she rose, she personally washed his feet, tears streaming down her face as she did so. Her parting tears were bitter, her resentment at the brevity of the day profound; they fell in a steady cascade, shed for him alone. Yet Tang Xianzu smiled and said, “Take heart. If I do not pass this time, I shall have no face to return and see my parents, my wife, and my children. I shall go forth to roam the Five Sacred Mountains, lest I disappoint them.” Upon hearing this, his wife wept even more bitterly.

That winter was long and drawn out. In the city of Linchuan, cold clouds shrouded the waters, and the freezing rain seemed to weep; at last, when the spring imperial examination results were announced, Tang Xianzu passed as a jinshi and returned home in triumph. Yet his beloved wife lay bedridden, unable to witness the grand spectacle of her husband riding high on a prancing steed, adorned with red embroidered balls, parading through Fuzhou. By the twelfth month of winter, summoning all his strength despite his illness, he took a boat to the official residence of the Southern Taichang, where he was reunited with his wife and shared in the glory of his success in the imperial examinations. But his cough grew ever more severe, relentless day and night, and he often ran a fever; even the medicine sent from his maternal uncle’s family brought no relief.

Happiness is fleeting—how much more fragile when buffeted by wind and rain. Tang Xianzu, overcome with grief, wrote in anguish: “Lady Wu was born at the hour of Xu on the second day of the twelfth lunar month in the year Jia Yin, and passed away at the hour of Si on the tenth day of the twelfth lunar month in the year Yi You. When it came time for her burial, I escorted her to Qinghe, and as we parted she said, ‘I am already gone! In all my life, I have known joy only four or five times. Since my marriage, I have borne two sons and brought you the glad tidings of your two victories; all the rest has been years of sorrow for me.’ With a wave of her sleeve, she bade me farewell, though no one near her was ill.” Was this a dream? Was it on the stage of The Peony Pavilion, or in the mortal world beneath the celestial palace? A moment in heaven, a century on earth. At the very end of her life, Wu Yuying feared infecting Tang Xianzu with tuberculosis; so she did not embrace her husband as they parted, but stood at a distance, turning away with tears streaming down her sleeves.

Farewell, farewell—on the orchid‑wood boat they urge me to depart. Overcome with sorrow, I see you off to the gate; we gaze at one another in silence, and only tears stream down in countless streams. At this point in the epitaph, Tang Xianzu’s voice choked with emotion, as if he were weeping blood upon the stage of The Peony Pavilion: “The wife, secluded and filled with grief, was pitied by her grandmother‑in‑law. When the grandmother‑in‑law came to be interred, rites were performed to join her soul to that of the deceased. With official duties and scholarly pursuits carrying him far away, the chamber lay empty, its former occupant long gone. The tomb remained bare, its hollow still unfulfilled. Life and death are but a single span; how can one not mourn such a good man? Turning eastward, I think of your home; looking westward, I yearn for your son. May he find some solace there, whether in tears or song. Through the ages, may his young children and grandchildren remember him.” — On the twenty‑first day of the twelfth month, in the year Bingshen of the Wanli era of the Great Ming, at the hour of si. Tang Xianzu, a newly‑granted jinshi, serving as chief clerk in the Department of Rites and Ancestral Sacrifices of the Ministry of Rites in Nanjing, inscribed these words upon the stone, his tears streaming as he did so.

The epitaph was inscribed just as the clock struck nine in the morning; Ziyang burst through the clouds, carrying rain with it. Tang Xianzu laid down his brush and pondered who should be entrusted with the task of calligraphically inscribing the text and carving it into stone. During the Ming dynasty, especially in its middle and late periods, there were no truly outstanding masters standing apart from the crowd; the so‑called “Southern Dong and Northern Wang” of the late Ming were later labels. Dong Qichang was five years younger than Tang, and though he enjoyed some modest renown in painting and calligraphy, his fame was confined to the Jiangzuo region—yet he had not even passed the imperial examination. As for Wang Duo, still a youth, he remained obscure, let alone capable of undertaking such an important commission. Better to leave it to his eldest son, Daqi. At that moment, Tang Xianzu thought: if his firstborn, Shiqu, were still alive, he would be the obvious choice to execute the inscription. His talent was in no way inferior to that of Zi Jian or Wang Bo. By the age of five he could compose poetry; at eight or nine he could recite ten thousand words, expounding fluently on the Five Classics, the various rhapsodies, and the historical texts—truly a prodigy of Lincuan. While his wife was still alive, Tang Xianzu had once believed that Shiqu’s innate gifts far surpassed his own. But she shook her head, a look of disapproval crossing her face. Astonished, Tang asked why she disliked such a gifted child. The lady replied simply, “You will understand one day.” Indeed, no one knows a son better than his mother. Ten years after Wu Yuying’s passing, Shiqu’s name finally made a sensation—but alas, his unruly temperament and reckless abandon led to an untimely death at Nan’yong. Like a shooting star streaking across the sky over Lincuan, his mother’s words proved eerily prophetic.

With the posthumous writings from Jieshi now complete, who could possibly inscribe the epitaph for Lady Yu Ying? It should be his eldest son, Da Qi, who ought to do it. Upon hearing his father’s words, the son was overcome with anxiety, declaring that he was but a poor scholar of modest talent, without merit or renown—how dare he undertake such an honor as composing the inscription for his mother’s tomb? He suggested inviting a renowned calligrapher, or perhaps having his father himself write it by hand. Tang Xianzu smiled and replied that his “Four Dreams of Linchuan” were sufficient to ensure their performance by theatrical troupes across generations, while “The Peony Pavilion” would live on through the ages, sung from ancient times to the present.

“Compose for my son a eulogy for his loving mother, to be interred in the Tang family ancestral tomb on Lingzhi Mountain. Someday, it may once again see the light of day, and future generations will finally know who that great elder truly was—what style of calligraphy does it resemble?”

“The style of your calligraphy should be just like your father’s!” the venerable elder replied.

Tang Xianzu shook his head and said, “If calligraphy were graded on a seven‑level scale, my writing would be no better than that of a seventh‑rank county magistrate—far too mediocre.”

“The father has been humbled.”

Tang Xianzu said: “If you are to inscribe on a tablet, you must possess the bearing of a high-ranking minister, embody the grandeur of the imperial court, and carry the elegance of a noble statesman—thus manifesting the refined style of a master calligrapher.”

“Father, whence does this aura arise?”

“Of course it’s Linchuan City.”

His son, Da Qi, laughed and said, “In the city of Fuzhou, from the Sui dynasty onward, over five centuries, two thousand jinshi were produced, and six became zhuangyuan—what other place can boast such a grand legacy? Wang Jiefu, Yan Shu, Yan Jidao, Zeng Bu, or Lu Xiangshan?”

Tang Xianzu remained noncommittal, muttering, “The talented men of Linchuan are all dashing and elegant; yet, as far as the art of calligraphy is concerned, they all lack that primordial grandeur. Only one governor of the Eastern Jin and one prefect of the Tang possess such magnificence.”

“My father was talking about Wang Yishao—Yan Lugong.”

“Indeed!” Tang Xianzu said, nodding. “The Right Army’s calligraphy began at the Goose Pond in Kuaiji, Shanyin, and reached its culmination at the Ink Pool of the Prefect of Linchuan. Let me take you to the high slope east of the county town to pay our respects.”

“Father, after a span of one thousand two hundred and seventy-five years, the residence of the Jin dynasty’s taishou in Xinjun of Linchuan has long since fallen into ruin—buried beneath thick weeds, with crumbling walls and shattered remnants. Where, then, can we still seek the spirit of Xizhi?”

“The ink pool is still there. The spirit of Wang Xizhi, with his majestic calligraphy and literary soul, lingers within the city of Linchuan.”

“Can one also be resurrected like Du Liniang?”

“Haha!”

The father and son, the Tangs, stepped aboard their boat. At that time, Tang Xianzu was fifty-six, and his son twenty-seven. The vessel followed the Fu River, threading through the city until it reached the eastern hillside of Dongjun in Linchuan, where they disembarked. Though the man himself had long since departed, the ink‑pool remained. Tang Xianzu sighed: “Wang Xizhi’s calligraphy absorbs the grand, upright spirit of antiquity—just as Ouyang Xun put it: ‘Since the advent of writing, seal script and clerical script flourished, giving rise to countless styles and schools, all diverse and discordant. Yet when it comes to attaining supreme perfection and divine mastery, to set a model for generations to come, to win lasting fame and acclaim, surpassing all past and present—only Wang Yishao, the Right Army, stands alone.’” Ouyang Xun, himself of noble birth, possessed a keen and distinctive insight into the great calligrapher Wang Yishao, who hailed from an illustrious lineage. “My son, as you inscribe the epitaph for your mother, do not seek to emulate the Right Army’s youthful vigor—the convivial toasts, the flowing wine along the stream, the unrestrained revelry of a lifetime. Rather, learn from the Right Army’s later years, when his spirit was serene and balanced, neither agitated nor overbearing, yet his brushwork brimmed with subtlety, and his style carried a grace that reached far and wide.”

“I’ve got it, Father.”