I had been ill for four days and nights before I could do without medicine. Mother and Aunt's household all showed rejoicings on their faces. On this third day of the third Moon [or perhaps 3 March of the Western calendar] it was fine and fresh. Approaching the window I rolled up the curtain, gazing out. Scenic hills brightening my eyes, flowers and birds pleasing my spirit; my heart was thus soothed. At this instant I recalled something: it was the clear fragrance that came through my nose when I woke up in the past few days. There, in a wide-belly vase on the zitan-wood [explained below] bedside table, always a new bunch of fresh flowers was changed. Flowers glistening with energy, their stamens still carrying dew droplets. This morning when I discovered a jade brooch left under the bedside table, I came to realise that it was hers. Naturally, the flowers were the beauty's gift. Excerpt from Chapter 11; translated by the Gardener |
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Manshu's poem |