A Noble Family – The First English Translation of a Chinese Classic

A lost classic finally speaks in English. The Story of a Noble Family—one of the most celebrated novels in twentieth-century China—is now available to English readers for the very first time. This is the book that defined an era, read across generations and adored for its sweeping romance, its sharp social satire, and its haunting portrait of privilege on the brink of collapse. Imagine The Great Gatsby rewritten in the language of Confucius and silk: a glittering love story that exposes the rot beneath elegance.

What readers are buying here is more than a translation—it’s an awakening of one of modern China’s most enduring epics. Zhang Henshui’s tale of a young aristocrat and a calligrapher’s daughter, bound by desire yet divided by class, feels shockingly alive a century later. The fever of wealth, the ache of status, the fragile search for sincerity—all burn with new relevance in today’s America, where glamour and ruin still dance in the same mirror.

A century apart, the questions remain the same. How far will love bend before it breaks? Can virtue survive its own reflection? Beneath every civilization’s polish, are we not all made of the same restless, dreaming stuff? The Story of a Noble Family is both a rediscovery and a reckoning—a mirror held up to our own age of spectacle.

The complete English translation is now available as an ebook on Kobo for $9.99.

Buy the complete ebook on Kobo.

The Story of a Noble Family

Title (Chinese): 《金粉世家》 (Jīn Fěn Shì Jiā)
Author: Zhang Henshui (May 18, 1895 - Feb 15, 1967)
Translator: llama3.3:70b

Original Publication Detail: A novel originally serialized in a Chinese newspaper over the course of five years, beginning in February 1927 and concluding in May 1932.

Supplementary materials are available at
https://the-story-of-a-noble-family.github.io/Supplementary-Materials/

The pages that follow are not merely a story but an atmosphere—perfumed with wealth, shadowed by ruin, trembling at the threshold between sincerity and performance. To read The Story of a Noble Family in English for the first time is to stand before a mirror that reflects unevenly: something exquisite glimmers there, though behind it the image is already fading. What the translation reveals, it also conceals—a disintegration glimpsed in motion, an ache that refuses to name itself.

The Chinese characters on the cover, 東廉春, is a provocation. While the original novel is titled 金粉世家 (Jīn Fěn Shì Jiā), this invented phrase summons an atmosphere both intimate and perilous, a rediscovered scandal, summoning an atmosphere both intimate and perilous. The invented phrase 東廉春 (Dong Lianchun) sounds like a name—perhaps that of a forgotten courtesan, or the fragile pseudonym of a moralist who once fell from grace.

Dong Lianchun could be read as Springtime of the East’s Integrity, an irony so sharp it nearly cuts through the canvas. The woman on the cover, demure and defenseless, is painted as though she carries that false promise in her name. Her integrity, her廉, will be tested and undone. The man behind her—half-visible, almost spectral—is the agent of that undoing, a figure of temptation who hovers between protector and predator. To a Chinese reader, the phrase 東廉春 would sound plausible yet strange, like a name plucked from a lost memoir, suggesting a story of virtue compromised by desire and a society too refined to forgive it.

The Story of a Noble Family thus begins with a false signature, a whispered alias—an invitation to step into a world where names lie, reputations shimmer like gold dust, and every spring carries the promise of decay.

Springtime of the East’s Integrity… The Story of a Noble Family.

The city’s streets were a tapestry of memories, woven from the threads of time. I recalled the vendors selling mud-crafted rabbit gods, their wares a testament to the passing of seasons. The smell of incense and sugar wafted through the air as people prepared for the Lunar New Year. It was as if yesterday’s festivities had given way to today’s, without pause.

As I navigated the crowded streets, my gaze fell upon a group of people gathered near the White Tower Temple. A woman, her face etched with weariness, sat at a desk, writing calligraphy with elegance and poise. Her eyes sparkled as she worked, like stars on a clear night. An older woman stood beside her, collecting money from onlookers.

I watched, intrigued, as the younger woman wrote bespoke couplets for each customer. Her brush danced across the paper, leaving trails of ink in its wake. I felt an inexplicable sense of connection to this stranger, a sense of solidarity that transcended our differences.

As I observed her work, a small boy approached me, holding a wooden block with a few scribbled characters on it. “Mr. Wenhuai,” he said, “my mother wrote these for you.” The couplets read:

“Articles reach the Minister of Rites,

Axe and shield cannot bend Dong Hu.”

The words resonated deep within me, like the gentle chime of a bell. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I realized that this woman was no ordinary calligrapher. Her artistry was rooted in a profound understanding of the classics.

I introduced myself to the older woman and asked about the younger one’s name. “She is Gold, from the Cold family,” she replied, her eyes clouding over with a mixture of sadness and nostalgia.

As I conversed with Gold, I discovered that she was a widow, struggling to make ends meet in a city that seemed determined to crush her spirit. Her son, a bright and curious boy, stood by her side, his eyes shining with an unspoken understanding of their precarious situation.

I offered to help Gold find a position as a tutor or writer, hoping to alleviate some of the burden she carried. She accepted my offer, and I soon found myself entangled in a web of intrigue that would unravel the secrets of her past.

As we parted ways, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Gold’s story was only just beginning to unfold, like a lotus blooming in the darkness. And I, a humble writer, was honored to be a part of it, to help bring her tale to light, no matter how small my role might seem.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. I found myself drawn back to Gold’s story again and again, like a moth to a flame. My friend, who had introduced me to her, shared with me the fragments of her life, each piece a thread in the intricate tapestry of her existence.

As I listened to his tales, I began to weave them into a narrative, a testament to Gold’s unyielding spirit and the secrets she kept hidden behind her eyes. The words flowed from my pen like water, carrying with them the whispers of the past, the sighs of the present, and the hopes for a future yet to be written.

And so, dear reader, I invite you to join me on this journey into the heart of Gold’s story, a tale of love, loss, and redemption, set against the backdrop of a city that never sleeps. Let us embark on this odyssey together, and may the words guide us through the twists and turns of her remarkable life.

The imperial relics of a bygone era slumbered beyond the western gate of Beijing, where the sprawling gardens of Yiheyuan lay shrouded in a mist of nostalgia. It was said that the coffers meant to bolster the empire’s naval prowess had been siphoned off to construct this pleasure palace, a testament to the hubris of a dynasty in decline. Once the exclusive domain of emperors and their consorts, Yiheyuan now stood as a relic of a bygone era, a haunted monument to the transience of power.

As spring’s warmth slowly seeped into the northern climes, the trees regained their vibrancy, and the flowers burst forth in a riot of color. The hills surrounding Kunming Lake donned a mantle of emerald green, while the waters themselves shimmered like liquid jade. It was as if the very essence of the season had been distilled into this fleeting moment, when the world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of summer’s arrival.

Beijing’s denizens, ever enamored with the trifecta of epicurean delights – a taste of fine cuisine, a sip of premium spirits, and a dash of merriment – could hardly resist the allure of Yiheyuan during this golden interlude. As the sun shone bright and the breeze carried the whispers of blossoming trees, the roads leading to the gardens became a tapestry of sound and color, with carriages, sedans, and horse-drawn carts converging upon the scene like a joyous, anarchic parade.

It was during one such day, in late March, that the throngs of revelers poured out of the city gates, their laughter and chatter mingling with the sweet scent of blooming flowers. Amidst this sea of humanity, a coterie of young aristocrats stood apart, their disdain for the humble modes of transportation – rickshaws, horse-drawn carriages, and automobiles – matched only by their haughty disregard for the lowly donkeys that plodded along the roadside.

One such scion, a certain Jin Huawa, had already distinguished himself as a paragon of elegance and refinement. At eighteen years of age, with a name that meant “magnificent” and a style that rivaled the gods, he cut a dashing figure on horseback, his slender frame clad in silken attire, his face aglow with an air of nonchalant superiority. As he rode through the gardens, the wind whipping his hair into a frenzy, the flowers swaying in time with the rhythmic pounding of hooves, he embodied the very essence of spring’s exuberance – unbridled, untamed, and unforgettable.

In this rarefied world of beauty and excess, Jin Huawa was a star around which the lesser planets orbited, his every gesture, every smile, and every careless remark hanging in the balance like a promise of wonders to come. And yet, as he rode through the gardens, the sun dipping below the horizon like a fire slowly being extinguished, one couldn’t help but sense that this fleeting moment of perfection was already slipping away, lost in the ephemeral dance of light and shadow that governed the whims of fate.

The path ahead was obstructed, a deliberate blockage. Yan Xi reached beneath his camel-hair coat and extracted a silk handkerchief adorned with snowflake patterns, dabbing at the sweat on his face as he smiled wryly. “What’s all this about?” Jin Rong explained, “With so many people on the road today, it’s not safe to rush. If we were to fall, it wouldn’t be good for us, and if we were to collide with others... well, that would be even worse.” Yan Xi chuckled, “You’re all such paragons of virtue? I recall just the other day, you were practicing driving a car and nearly ran over a patrol officer.”

Jin Rong laughed, “Yes, indeed! Your equestrian skills are about on par with my driving abilities. Perhaps we should exercise some caution.” He added, “We’re out to have a good time, after all. If we were to get into trouble, it would be a shame, even if we weren’t afraid of the consequences. It would certainly put a damper on our outing.” Yan Xi nodded in agreement, “You make a valid point.” Li Fu spoke up, “In that case, we’ll take the lead.” And with that, their four horses turned around, proceeding ahead.

The path they were on was a broad, three-zhang-wide thoroughfare, lined with willows whose long, drooping branches stretched out like tentacles, brushing against people and horses alike. Yan Xi had been riding at a brisk pace, working up a sweat, when the gentle eastern breeze carried the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers through the trees, bringing an instant sense of refreshment. As they rode downwind, the scent of orchids and musk wafted over from upstream, entrancing Yan Xi. He felt as though he had stumbled into a perfumer’s workshop, rather than being out in the wilderness. The combination of sights and aromas was almost too much to take in, and Yan Xi found himself lost in thought as he rode along, his horse’s reins held loosely in his hands.

The streets unwound like a skein of silk, guiding him through the city’s labyrinthine heart. As he rode, the scent of perfume wafted on the breeze, teasing his senses and drawing his gaze to a quartet of rickshaws, each occupied by a young woman with skin as pale as alabaster. Their hairstyles, adorned with intricately woven braids and tassels, seemed to shimmer in the sunlight like the gentle lapping of waves against a summer shore.

Yan Xi’s eyes, drawn inexorably to the last rickshaw, met the gaze of a girl whose beauty was at once understated and captivating. Her features, delicate as a watercolor painting, were set off by a sprinkling of subtle color on her cheeks, like the first blush of dawn on a summer morning. The soft folds of her qipao, a gentle blue that seemed to evoke the stillness of a lake on a windless day, rustled softly as she moved, releasing the faint scent of perfume into the air.

As their eyes met, Yan Xi felt an inexplicable jolt, like the sudden stop of a clock’s ticking. He was torn between the desire to prolong the encounter and the need to maintain a semblance of decorum. His horse, sensing its rider’s distraction, slowed its pace, allowing the rickshaws to draw ahead once more.

Goldie, riding alongside Yan Xi, shot him a sidelong glance, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Seven, what’s gotten into you?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. “You’re not usually one for ogling the ladies.”

Yan Xi’s face grew warm as he realized his mistake. He urged his horse forward, attempting to create some distance between himself and the rickshaws. But Goldie was relentless, his words dripping with mirth. “I think I know what’s going on here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve got a crush on that little beauty in blue.”

Yan Xi’s response was immediate and defensive, but Goldie merely chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mirth. As they rode, the tension between them grew, until finally Yan Xi relented, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Fine,” he said, his voice low and resigned. “I’ll admit it. I find her intriguing. But you have to promise not to tease me about this.”

Goldie’s grin was like a sunrise over the city’s rooftops. “I promise nothing,” he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But I will tell you this: I think I know where she lives. And if you’re interested, I can take you there.”

The prospect was both exhilarating and terrifying, like standing at the edge of a precipice, staring into an unknown abyss. Yan Xi’s heart pounded in his chest as he considered Goldie’s offer, weighing the potential risks and rewards. Finally, with a sense of trepidation, he nodded, his fate sealed.

As they approached the Summer Palace, the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the distant sound of laughter, a gentle reminder that life was full of surprises, some of which might just change the course of one’s destiny forever.

But for now, Yan Xi was content to simply ride, his heart filled with anticipation, his senses heightened as he navigated the winding paths of the palace grounds. The world seemed full of possibilities, like a blank canvas waiting to be filled with color and texture. And at the center of it all, the enigmatic girl in blue, her smile etched in his mind like a delicate brushstroke on silk.

The whispers of the past lingered in the air, echoes of a bygone era that refused to be silenced. In this grand estate, where the wealthy and the privileged resided, secrets and scandals swirled like the wisps of incense that wafted from the altars of forgotten deities.

Yanxi, a young master with a penchant for mischief, had just returned from a leisurely stroll, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of a mysterious young woman he had encountered earlier. Her face, a vision of loveliness, had left an indelible mark on his psyche, and he found himself consumed by an insatiable desire to uncover the truth about her.

As he entered the manor, he was greeted by the sound of laughter and the soft rustling of silk fabrics. His sister-in-law, Wu Peifang, a paragon of elegance and poise, smiled at him from behind a screen of intricately carved wooden latticework. “What brings you here, young master?” she asked, her voice like the gentle tinkling of wind chimes.

Yanxi hesitated, unsure how to articulate his thoughts. He had been searching for a particular hat, one that matched the shade of his attire, but his mind kept wandering back to the enigmatic young woman. Peifang’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she teased him about his carelessness, and Yanxi couldn’t help but feel a twinge of embarrassment.

Just then, a tiny, mischievous figure flitted into view. It was Xiaoling, a young maid with a penchant for getting into trouble. She had been watching the exchange between Yanxi and Peifang with great interest, her eyes shining like polished onyx. As she approached Yanxi, she asked, “What hat are you looking for?” Her voice was like the soft chirping of a cricket on a summer’s day.

Yanxi’s thoughts were a jumble, but Xiaoling’s words brought him back to reality. He described the hat he sought, and Xiaoling’s face lit up with recognition. “I think I know where it might be,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. As they walked through the corridors, the soft creaking of the wooden floorboards beneath their feet seemed to echo the beating of Yanxi’s heart.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and soon they found themselves at the entrance to the garden. The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and the soft chirping of birds could be heard in the distance. It was as if the very essence of spring had been distilled into this one moment.

As they strolled through the garden, Xiaoling pointed out various landmarks – a delicate ceramic vase, a intricately carved stone bench – each one a testament to the craftsmanship and beauty that permeated every aspect of life within these walls. Yanxi’s thoughts, however, remained fixed on the mysterious young woman, his mind a maelstrom of curiosity and longing.

The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the garden. The air grew cooler, carrying the whispers of secrets and stories yet untold. As Yanxi and Xiaoling walked, the silence between them grew thicker, like the petals of a flower unfolding in the stillness of the night.

In this world of elegance and refinement, where the boundaries between reality and fantasy blurred like the edges of a watercolor painting, Yanxi found himself lost in a labyrinth of his own desires. The mysterious young woman remained an enigma, a siren’s call that beckoned him deeper into the heart of the unknown. And as he walked, the shadows seemed to grow longer, like dark tentacles reaching out to snare him in their grasp.

The moon cast its silvery glow over the narrow alleys, as if beckoning him to return to the scene of his earlier fascination. Gold Phoenix, still reeling from the encounter with the enigmatic young woman, found himself wandering back to the vicinity of Cold Mansion, his feet seemingly moving of their own accord.

As he strolled through the deserted streets, the sound of children’s laughter and the clinking of coins drew his attention to a group of youngsters huddled near the entrance of a small tobacco shop. He watched them with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, his mind still preoccupied with the vision of the young woman who had captured his heart.

The wait seemed interminable, but finally, the door to Cold Mansion creaked open, and a gentle voice called out, “Who’s there?” Gold Phoenix’s pulse quickened as he caught sight of the young woman, her face aglow in the soft light of the setting sun. But, to his dismay, she seemed oblivious to his presence, her gaze drifting past him as if he were invisible.

He felt a pang of disappointment, but his determination only intensified. As he turned to leave, he noticed a small, unassuming door hidden behind a tangle of trees. The branches appeared to stretch over the wall, like nature’s own ladder, inviting him to explore the secrets that lay beyond.

Gold Phoenix’s mind began to spin with possibilities as he made his way back home, the city’s sounds and smells blurring into a kaleidoscope of sensations. Upon arriving at his residence, he was greeted by the warm glow of electric lights and the murmur of conversation from the guests gathered in the inner chambers.

He hovered at the periphery, observing the scene with a mixture of detachment and curiosity. The two foreign ladies, their skin as pale as alabaster, seemed to be the center of attention, their laughter and chatter weaving a spell that entranced the assembled company. Gold Phoenix’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before he retreated, his thoughts consumed by the enigmatic young woman and the mysterious door hidden behind the trees.

As he slipped away into the night, the city’s secrets whispered promises in his ear, drawing him deeper into a world of intrigue and desire. The moon, now a burning crescent in the sky, cast its silvery light upon his face, illuminating the contours of a heart that beat with an insatiable longing for connection, for mystery, and for the unknown.

The room was a sanctuary, lined with the tomes of a thousand midnights. The air was heavy with the scent of paper and ink, the whispers of forgotten tales. It was here that Yanxi retreated, surrounded by the shadows of his own making.

As he waited, the soft rustle of silk and the muted laughter of women drifted through the doorway, a gentle precursor to the arrival of his guests. Wu Er, resplendent in her finery, swept into the room, followed closely by a young woman whose features seemed chiseled from the very marble of beauty itself - Qiu Xizhen.

Yanxi’s eyes lingered on Wu Er, their gazes meeting in a fleeting moment of understanding. He knew that she had brought this stranger to his doorstep for a reason, one that only she could fathom. As he turned to greet Qiu Xizhen, a spark of curiosity ignited within him. Who was this enigmatic creature, with her coiffed hair and her eyes like dark pools of water?

The conversation unfolded like a delicate dance, each step carefully choreographed to reveal the subtle nuances of their characters. Wu Er played the role of facilitator, guiding the discussion with the ease of a seasoned diplomat. Qiu Xizhen, on the other hand, was a cipher, her words laced with a quiet intensity that belied her youthful appearance.

As they delved into the realm of literature and art, Yanxi found himself drawn to their passion, their zeal for life. It was a quality he had long admired, one that reminded him of his own forgotten dreams. The world outside receded, leaving only the three of them, suspended in a bubble of time, where the past and present blurred into a kaleidoscope of color and sound.

In this intimate setting, Qiu Xizhen’s true nature began to emerge, like a lotus blooming in the depths of a tranquil lake. Her fascination with the cinema was more than mere hobby; it was an all-consuming passion, one that drove her to seek out the hidden patterns and rhythms of the human experience.

Yanxi listened, entranced, as she spoke of the movies, her words weaving a spell of enchantment around him. He felt the weight of his responsibilities, the expectations that had been laid upon him, slowly lifting, like the ebbing tide. In this moment, he was free to be himself, to indulge in the whims and fancies that had long been suppressed.

As the evening drew to a close, Wu Er rose from her seat, a subtle signal that their visit had come to an end. Qiu Xizhen, however, lingered, her eyes locked onto Yanxi’s, a spark of connection flashing between them like a promise yet to be fulfilled. It was then that he knew, in the depths of his being, that this chance encounter would blossom into something more, a thread that would weave their lives together in unexpected ways.

The moment it landed in my palms, its fate was already sealed: borrowed time. A temporary reprieve from the void, a fleeting acquaintance with the weight of its pages. I felt the thrum of expectation, the promise of secrets and tales that would soon be mine to devour. Yet, even as I wrapped my fingers around its spine, I knew our union was doomed from the start. It was never truly mine, merely a waystation on its journey to another’s hands, another’s eyes. The thought sent a shiver through me, a whispered reminder that nothing lasts, not even the words we cling to. And still, I opened it, releasing the musty scent of old paper and forgotten dreams into the air, beckoning me to enter the world within.

The words hung in the air like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown: “Leave now, we’ll discuss it another day.” But Yan Xi’s curiosity was piqued, and he pressed on, his voice low and insistent. “Is Mistress Wu always so busy?” he asked, his eyes locked on the woman’s retreating back.

Mistress Wu turned to face him, a fleeting smile dancing across her lips like a whispered secret. “Busy?” she repeated, her tone a gentle mockery. “It’s not that there’s anything terribly important to attend to, but nor is there time to sit and chat idly.” Her words were a delicate balancing act, a high-wire performance that left Yan Xi wondering what lay beneath the surface.

He took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. “I didn’t mean to keep you from your duties,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have something I need to discuss with you.” Mistress Wu’s eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing as she asked, “What is it?” The question seemed to catch Yan Xi off guard, and for a moment, he was at a loss for words.

He laughed nervously, the sound dying on his lips like a spark snuffed out. He looked down, his mind racing with thoughts and doubts, before finally speaking up. “Never mind,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of disappointment. “We can talk about it tomorrow.” As he watched Mistress Wu disappear into the distance, her figure fading into the shadows like a ghost, Yan Xi couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just missed an opportunity, that something precious had slipped through his fingers like sand in the hourglass.

The sun had long since set, casting a warm orange glow over the crumbling mansion. Yan Xi stood in the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the worn stone walls as he pondered the weight of his brother’s words. The memory of Wu Er’s laughter still lingered in his mind, but it was now tainted by the whispers of scandal and shame.

“Old Seven, what are you doing out here all alone?” a voice called out from behind him.

Yan Xi turned to see his older brother, Jin Fengjiu, approaching him with a look of concern etched on his face. “I was just getting some fresh air,” Yan Xi replied, trying to brush off the feeling of unease that had settled in his chest.

Jin Fengjiu raised an eyebrow. “You’re not fooling anyone with that excuse. I saw a woman’s shadow flash by earlier, and then I heard the sound of high heels clicking away. You were talking to someone, weren’t you?”

Yan Xi sighed, knowing he couldn’t evade his brother’s prying eyes forever. “It was Wu Er,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jin Fengjiu’s expression turned grave. “I warned you about those two sisters from the Wu family. Their reputation isn’t exactly... pristine.”

Yan Xi felt a pang of defensiveness, but his brother’s words struck a chord deep within him. He had indeed heard whispers about the Wu sisters’ questionable morals, and now he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he had been blinded by his own infatuation.

As they spoke, Jin Fengjiu dropped a bombshell: Wu Er was known as “Xian Shui Mei” – a nickname that sent shivers down Yan Xi’s spine. The words echoed in his mind like a curse, and for a moment, he felt as though he had been punched in the gut.

The conversation with his brother left Yan Xi reeling, but it also sparked a newfound determination within him. He would investigate the Wu family’s secrets, no matter the cost. And so, he called upon his trusted servant, Jin Rong, to help him uncover the truth.

Jin Rong, ever the loyal and resourceful aide, set out to gather information about the Wu family’s financial dealings. He navigated the winding alleys and backstreets of the city, following a trail of clues that led him from the seedy underbelly of the entertainment district to the rarefied world of high society.

As Jin Rong dug deeper, he discovered that the Wu sisters’ lavish lifestyle was built on shaky ground. Their father’s meager income couldn’t possibly support their extravagant spending habits, and rumors swirled about their involvement in shady dealings. The more Jin Rong learned, the more he became convinced that Yan Xi had narrowly escaped a disastrous entanglement.

Meanwhile, Yan Xi’s thoughts turned to the humble abode of the Cold family, nestled in the heart of the city. He had caught glimpses of their daughter, a demure and elegant young woman who seemed to embody the very essence of traditional virtue. As he pondered his next move, a plan began to take shape in his mind – one that would require him to navigate the treacherous waters of real estate transactions and family politics.

With Jin Rong’s help, Yan Xi set out to acquire the old mansion on Circle Alley, a property that seemed to hold the key to unlocking his future happiness. But as they delved deeper into the world of negotiations and counter-offers, it became clear that nothing would come easily – not even the pursuit of love and redemption.

As the night wore on, Yan Xi found himself alone in his room, staring at the cold, unforgiving walls as he struggled to make sense of the turmoil brewing within him. The sound of laughter and music drifted through the window, a cruel reminder of the world outside, where people lived and loved without the burdens that weighed upon his heart.

In the darkness, Yan Xi’s thoughts turned to the enigmatic figure of Xiao Lian, a woman who seemed to dance on the periphery of his life, always just out of reach. Their banter was a delicate game of cat and mouse, with each player waiting for the other to make the first move. As he lay in bed, Yan Xi couldn’t shake off the feeling that their encounter had left him with more questions than answers – and that the truth about his own desires remained elusive, hidden behind a mask of wit and charm.

The city outside was alive and pulsing, its rhythms and melodies weaving together in a grand symphony. But for Yan Xi, the music had stopped, leaving only an unsettling silence – a reminder that, in the end, it was not the external world that held the key to his happiness, but the uncharted territories of his own heart.

The walls of the old house seemed to whisper secrets, as if the very foundations were exhaling the weight of generations. In this labyrinthine world, where relatives and obligations tangled like vines, Yanxi navigated with a mix of trepidation and determination.

His plan, hatched in the quiet hours of dawn, was to solicit funds from the female members of his family, rather than brave the patriarch’s disapproving gaze. His mother, perhaps, or one of his sisters might be persuaded to part with some money. The thought had barely formed when he made his way to Cuiyi’s quarters, deliberately making a racket as he approached.

As he listened from outside, Cuiyi was on the phone, her voice husky and urgent, recounting a tale of woe: “Yesterday, I lost over a thousand yuan...the old man wouldn’t even let me play four rounds.” Yanxi’s ears pricked up; this wasn’t the best time to ask for money. He decided to try his luck with his third sister-in-law, Wang Yufen.

He made his way through the winding corridors and courtyards, passing by the residence of his second brother, Jin Hexun, where he encountered his sister-in-law, Cheng Huifang, brandishing a thick stack of small notebooks. She pounced on him, grasping his hand and saying, “Seventh Brother, I was just looking for you.” As she handed him one of the notebooks, he saw it was a donation ledger for the Hui Ming Girls’ School.

Yanxi chuckled, feeling a mix of amusement and unease. “Second Sister-in-law, why not ask Father? He’s the one with the deep pockets.” Cheng Huifang shot back, her voice laced with sarcasm, “Ask Father? You think I’m crazy? Last time I showed him the Women’s Association charter, he scowled and said, ‘What’s this nonsense about donating?’ as if I was trying to show off.”

As they bantered, Yanxi flipped through the ledger, noting the various donations: fifty yuan here, thirty there. His sisters had all contributed generously, while Cheng Huifang had written in a whopping two hundred yuan. He raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.

Just then, his second brother, Hexun, emerged from the inner room, grumbling about not wanting to donate. The conversation devolved into a spat between Hexun and Cheng Huifang, with Yanxi trying to mediate. As he prepared to leave, Cheng Huifang turned to him and said, “You’re quite the gentleman, Seventh Brother.” He smiled wryly, feeling like a reluctant participant in this family drama.

Yanxi’s quest for funds led him next to Wang Yufen’s quarters, where he found her admiring her reflection in a mirror. Her husband, Jin Pengzhen, was grumbling about being late, but the atmosphere seemed more flirtatious than fractious. Yanxi cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and Wang Yufen turned to him with a smile.

As they chatted, Yanxi learned that she was taking singing lessons from a certain Flower Moon Fragrance, and he teased her about being a devoted student of opera. Their conversation was interrupted by Jin Pengzhen, who growled about not wanting to be disturbed. Yanxi beat a hasty retreat, feeling like an unwelcome intruder.

Back in his own quarters, Yanxi couldn’t shake off the feeling of frustration. His plan to borrow money had been derailed, and instead, he’d ended up donating thirty yuan to the school fund. As he sat there, stewing in his own thoughts, his brother Jin Rong returned with news that their negotiation with Wang Desheng had hit a snag.

Yanxi’s impatience boiled over as he urged Jin Rong to conclude the deal within two days. “Just get it done,” he snapped, his voice echoing off the walls of their ancestral home. As Jin Rong beat a hasty retreat, Yanxi was left alone with his thoughts, wondering if he’d ever escape this suffocating web of family obligations and find a way to forge his own path.

The wheels were in motion, a well-oiled machine lubricated by the promise of easy profit. “We’ll shave fifty off the monthly rent,” the voice of expediency whispered, “and throw in an extra hundred for your trouble.” But their young master was a man in a hurry, his patience as thin as the autumn air. “Speed is of the essence,” he seemed to say, though the words themselves were left unspoken.

In a cramped, smoke-filled room, Wang Desheng held court, a minor potentate dispensing favors and collecting tributes. “Our humble abode may not be much to look at,” he said with a shrug, “but it’s yours for the taking, as long as you pay your dues on time.” The deal was struck, sealed with a handshake and a thousand yuan in cold, hard cash. The deadline was set: three days to transform the dusty relic into a habitable space, and on the fourth day, they would take up residence.

Gold and crimson silk, the colors of prosperity and good fortune, would soon adorn these walls, masking the scent of decay and neglect that clung to them like a bad omen. The landlord, a wily antique dealer with an eye for opportunity, had seen his chance and pounced, eager to reap the benefits of this unexpected windfall. He listened, entranced, as Wang Desheng spun his web of words, each one a subtle manipulation designed to extract the maximum advantage from this fleeting transaction.

As night descended, a team of skilled artisans, their hands moving with the precision of surgeons, set to work transforming the space. The sound of hammers and saws, the smell of fresh paint and varnish, filled the air, a symphony of creation that would give birth to a new reality, one where the boundaries between past and present blurred like the edges of a watercolor painting. And in this whirlwind of activity, Gold Rong moved with the quiet confidence of a man who knew that, for now at least, he held the reins of fate in his hands.

The sun cast its afternoon glow over the crumbling wall, where Headman Jin had led the way. As they walked, the sound of rustling and crashing echoed through the corridor, prompting Wang Desheng to chuckle and say, “You hear that? It’s just the noise we’ve been talking about. Let’s hurry along.”

They soon arrived at the rear courtyard, where a section of the eastern wall had collapsed, spilling bricks and debris everywhere. On the other side of the wreckage, two women and a young girl emerged from the adjacent house, their faces filled with concern.

A middle-aged woman, supporting the girl, exclaimed, “Good heavens! The wall has fallen!” The girl suggested that someone should inform the landlord, pointing in their direction. Wang Desheng nodded and took it upon himself to relay the message, saying, “I’ll take care of it. I’m already here, so I might as well let him know.”

As they conversed, Yan Xi stood by, listening intently and stealing glances at the young girl. She was dressed in a sleek black outfit, her sleeves short and revealing her pale arms, her collar framing her snowy neck. Her raven hair was styled in two neat buns, accentuating her porcelain complexion. The overall effect was one of striking contrast, a harmonious balance of light and dark.

Their eyes met briefly, and the girl quickly looked away, but not before Yan Xi caught a glimpse of her delicate features. He felt an inexplicable jolt, as if he had seen her before, yet couldn’t quite place her.

Later that afternoon, Clear Autumn, the young girl, strolled with her family’s housekeeper, Han Mama, towards the damaged wall. They chatted idly, and Clear Autumn mentioned her curiosity about the neighboring house. Han Mama revealed that it was a grand mansion, currently being renovated for the new tenant, a young man named Gold Seventh.

As they explored the premises, they stumbled upon Yan Xi, now dressed in a Western suit, standing near the wisteria trellis. He smiled and offered to guide them back through the maze of corridors. Clear Autumn’s face flushed with embarrassment as she hastily retreated, her heart racing with excitement.

Upon returning home, Clear Autumn’s mother, Cold Taizi, questioned her about the encounter. Clear Autumn recounted their visit to the neighboring house, where they had caught a glimpse of Yan Xi. Cold Taizi mentioned that Gold Seventh was rumored to be organizing a poetry society and would be living alone in the mansion.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Han Mama’s husband, Han Guanjiu, bearing an assortment of gifts: steamed pastries, wine, and other delicacies. The offerings were from Gold Seventh, who had sent them as a gesture of goodwill to his new neighbors. Cold Taizi recognized the custom, common in their southern hometown, where newcomers would present gifts to their neighbors to establish friendly relations.

Clear Autumn’s uncle, Song Runqing, appeared and examined the gift boxes, marveling at the extravagance. He spotted Gold Seventh’s calling card, adorned with a golden seal, and his eyes widened in surprise. “It’s really him!” he exclaimed, before explaining that he had heard rumors about Gold Seventh’s identity as the son of Prime Minister Jin.

The family deliberated on how to respond, ultimately deciding to accept the gifts and return the courtesy. Song Runqing suggested that he would visit Gold Seventh personally to express their gratitude.

The next day, Song Runqing donned his finest attire and set out to pay his respects to Gold Seventh. As he entered the mansion, he was struck by Yan Xi’s refined features and courteous demeanor. Despite their differences in age and background, they engaged in a lively conversation about poetry and literature. Yan Xi revealed that he was not an accomplished poet himself but hoped to learn from others.

As they parted ways, Song Runqing felt a sense of excitement and anticipation, looking forward to future encounters with his new acquaintance. The two had discovered a shared passion for poetry, and their initial meeting had laid the groundwork for a lasting friendship.

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