In the vigor of youth, one does not feel the value of time — it is the easiest thing to overlook. Then one looks back, and finds that ten or eight years have slipped by; the teachers who once imparted knowledge and helped one grow into one’s ability are now all bent and white with age.

Hearing Academician Zou’s words, Pei Shaohuai’s mind went suddenly, wholly blank — he did not know what to say.

The venerable Scholar of the South had ranked first in the metropolitan examinations at nineteen, traveled from post to post across the land as an official, devoted his life to the study of monetary policy and tax reform, and nurtured and guided a great many students. He had risen to the rank of Grand Secretary — a life of immense scope and turbulence.

And yet now, in his old age, he was enduring the slow, helpless unraveling of all the knowledge he had acquired through years of arduous study — strand by strand, piece by piece, drifting away from him. How unutterably sad, and how utterly beyond remedy — the passing of years cannot be resisted.

No wonder the letters Pei Shaohuai had sent to the Scholar of the South over the past two or three years had sometimes been answered promptly, and other times took months to receive a reply — it must have been the illness making itself felt.

“And where does the Scholar of the South reside now?” Pei Shaohuai asked.

“In early spring, he was moved from Suzhou into the city of Nanjing,” Academician Zou replied. “Several of my father’s former students have been managing all the arrangements from every direction — they have settled him in comfortably. His youngest son holds no official position, and he too arrived in Nanjing early to stay by my father’s side.”

The next step was for Zou Xianjing to finish presiding over the prefectural examinations, and then the whole family would settle permanently in Nanjing.

Seeing that Pei Shaohuai’s expression still carried a trace of worry, Academician Zou offered words of comfort: “Prefect Pei, your concern means a great deal. But my father has reached the age when one leans upon a staff at court — there are some things one can only do one’s best about, and cannot demand of fate.”

Pei Shaohuai understood this well enough. It was simply that the emotion had taken a moment longer to settle.

The conversation then turned to the Nanjing Hanlin Academy post that Academician Zou was about to take up. Pei Shaohuai said, “To make such a decision, Deputy Prefect Zou — the filial devotion it demonstrates is plain to see, and truly worthy of admiration.” By accepting a post at the Nanjing Hanlin Academy, he was effectively setting aside his entire official career and resigning himself to occupying a cold, unrewarding seat in thankless academic labor.

After Da Qing moved its capital to Shuntian Prefecture, the old capital of Nanjing had been preserved as a garrison city — an empty shell kept in place. A full complement of the Six Boards and Nine Courts had been left in Nanjing, but they held no real power or influence, and were in no way comparable to their counterparts in the capital. Officials posted here were either demoted and exiled, or pushed out by rivals in the capital — it was rare for anyone to come of their own free will.

If Nanjing’s garrison administration could be described as a meaningless backwater, then the Nanjing Hanlin within it was worse still — it had become a place of cold obscurity and grinding hardship.

When Pei Shaohuai was still serving in the capital, he had once heard that the Nanjing Hanlin had submitted a petition reporting that its government building, once a place of great distinction, had fallen into such disrepair from years of neglect that the beams and columns were leaning, the roof leaked above and the walls let in drafts from the sides — it had grown so dilapidated and run-down that repairs could no longer be put off.

Furthermore, the number of official posts actually filled in the Nanjing Hanlin was extremely small. Nominally it was a fifth-rank position of Academician, but in practice one had to handle everything personally, without the benefit of subordinates — it was nothing like holding a position of bureau chief in the capital.

Others avoided it by any means necessary — yet Zou Xianjing had volunteered of his own accord.

Even as he felt a quiet sorrow on Academician Zou’s behalf, Pei Shaohuai felt glad for this father and son — the slight estrangement between them that had never quite amounted to a real rift seemed, at last, to have been spoken through and resolved.

“Where others would not willingly go — for me, it is a fine place,” Academician Zou said with a smile. “After all, wherever I sit, I am sitting. I can bring a pot of tea from home and sit there the whole day through. To spend my idle hours reading the rare and unique volumes housed in the Hanlin’s collection — that too is a kind of fortune.”

In this respect, though Academician Zou had not inherited his father the Grand Secretary’s mastery of monetary policy and tax reform, he had inherited the old man’s sincere devotion to scholarship — and that was equally worthy of admiration.

After seeing Academician Zou settled into the examination hall, Pei Shaohuai made his way back to the prefectural yamen.

On the road, passing by a clan school, he heard a wave of young, clear reading voices drifting out in the sweltering summer heat — easily drowning out the incessant shrilling of the cicadas in the trees.

At the front of the room, a white-haired old scholar; below him, a hall of wide-eyed young students.

Counting roughly: Pei Shaohuai had been fifteen when his essay first met with the Scholar of the South’s commentary. The two of them — the young and the old — had met in person beneath the spring willows beside the lotus pond. Since that day, a full ten years had now passed.

He thought too of how young Pei Yunci and Xiao Feng had already grown to waist height — proper little children now.

Three years is not long. But what it means in terms of length is not the same for a child, for a young person, and for an old person.

It was time to go back and see them. First, a stop at Nanjing — to stay a few days — and then, on to the capital.

……

In the days that followed, the Grand Academic Master delivered lectures to the assembled candidates, examined their learning, and according to their results, revised the lists of stipend licentiates, supplementary licentiates, and attached licentiates.

The prefectural examination itself proceeded smoothly in every respect — with the sole exception of the sheer number of candidates registered, which was exceptionally high, making it a particularly competitive year.

Student candidates from every district came eagerly to sit the examination — something that had much to do with the fairness of the county examination in the fourth month, the fact that scholars from humble backgrounds had topped the results board, and the reputation that Pei Shaohuai himself had built.

Fortunately, the Quanzhou Prefecture examination hall had been built large enough, and after temporarily borrowing an additional set of desks and chairs from several nearby locations, it managed — just barely — to accommodate everyone.

Even Academician Zou could not help but exclaim: “In all my years overseeing examinations elsewhere, I have never before seen a turnout on so grand a scale.”

When the time came to grade papers and determine who would pass, Pei Shaohuai still saw fit to “exercise a little personal bias” — he raised a few suggestions with Academician Zou, and spoke a few words on behalf of the candidates from poor families: “When the Superintendent is reviewing examination papers, should he come across any that demonstrate originality in breaking open the subject, a strong and upright central argument, and realistic and practical proposals — yet fall somewhat short in terms of formal rhythm and literary elegance — I would respectfully ask him to weigh such papers with greater care and read them more thoroughly, to see whether their strengths might compensate for their shortcomings, and give those candidates a chance.”

As for the specific names of individual candidates, Pei Shaohuai did not raise them with Academician Zou — to do so would have been truly unfair.

“Why does Prefect Pei say this?” As a classical scholar, Academician Zou placed considerable value on formal rhythm and literary elegance.

Pei Shaohuai explained, “Of those who pass the prefectural examination and earn the title of licentiate, nine out of ten will never go on to pass the provincial examination and enter official service — the majority will remain in their home districts as local gentry. Among so many candidates, those who excel in both argument and literary grace will naturally be selected first. But between one who has fine literary style yet lacks a strong central argument, and one who has a strong central argument yet lacks fine literary style, I believe that the ability to extend one’s thinking beyond oneself — to feel the hardships of the common people and to give voice to what is right in the world — matters more than polished and ornate prose.”

He added, “Moreover, children from poor families have limited funds for schooling — the number of texts they have been able to read is limited. When putting brush to paper, their vocabulary may be somewhat sparse, and they may fall short in a few points of formal rhythm. That is not difficult to understand. Once they earn the title of licentiate and the family’s circumstances improve, it will actually be easier for them to make up for those shortcomings — and to advance even further.”

This reasoning persuaded Academician Zou, who replied, “I will take it into consideration when reviewing the papers.” Thinking of his father’s teachings from years ago, Academician Zou added with feeling, “No wonder my father felt an immediate and deep affinity with you — and came to regard you as a friend across the gap of generations.”

On the day the results were posted, under a fierce and blazing summer sun, the examination hall gates saw once again a spectacle of a thousand voices calling out the names on the board.

With all matters concluded, Pei Shaohuai saw Academician Zou — or rather, Academician Zou in his new capacity — off on his way, and the two agreed to meet again in Nanjing in the autumn to continue their conversation.

……

Autumn lake water lay flat as a mirror; ten thousand miles of golden wind swept over swaying waves of rice.

Before long, early autumn had arrived. The naval fleet dispatched by the court had taken up position in Quanzhou Prefecture and Shuang’an Prefecture, and the military harbor at Jiahe Island was filled to capacity with vessels. The officer in command was no ordinary man — it was the formidable and renowned Admiral Hu, supreme commander of the naval forces.

Within the prefectural yamen, when the runners and staff began to notice that Pei Shaohuai’s official chamber was gradually being cleared out, and that more and more affairs were being transferred for Deputy Prefect Li to handle, they began to sense that something was not right.

Among the townspeople, it became apparent that the households of the Pei and Yan families were loading cart after cart of belongings and transporting them to Shuang’an Harbor, then moving them onto the official vessels.

And so everyone understood: their Prefect was leaving.

……

In two more days they would set sail. The entire Pei household was busy with preparations and packing.

There was not, in truth, a great deal to pack. Yang Shiyue had not set up any shops or properties in Shuang’an Prefecture — what needed to be gathered were simply the ordinary household belongings.

And then there were all the strange and assorted little treasures that the two children had collected over their time there: the small spoons they had grown accustomed to using, the little wooden horses they had designed themselves, the grasshoppers they had woven from bamboo, the first page of characters each had ever written, the first painting each had ever made…

Pei Yunci and Xiao Feng were unwilling to part with a single one.

Pei Shaohuai himself traveled light in all things and had very little he wished to bring. He held a few writing brushes in his hand and stood before the ink-washing basin. The well water, freshly drawn, was wonderfully clear — it reflected his own form back at him.

He placed the brush heads into the water, breaking the reflection apart. Pei Shaohuai pushed back his wide sleeve, felt the coolness of the well water against his skin, and gently worked his fingers along the brush bristles. A bloom of ink spread out through the water like mist and cloud.

The autumn-fine bristles shed the last of their ink; in the basin, dark marks spread and deepened.

Young Pei Yunci came running over. His small hands gripped the rim of the basin and he stretched up on his tiptoes to peer curiously at his father washing the brushes. He asked, “Father, of all the things you could bring, why are these the ones you’re taking back to the capital?”

Why? Pei Shaohuai thought to himself. Perhaps because he had gradually grown into this world — and for the sake of keeping a scholar’s integrity within him.

“To come and go with a clean conscience,” Pei Shaohuai explained to his son. “We hold a brush to write, and though we dip it in ink, the brush itself must be kept clean.”

Young Pei Yunci seemed to half understand. He nodded and said, “So that’s why Father scolded me that time I broke the inkstone and got ink all over myself.”

Pei Shaohuai hung the washed brushes on their rack to dry, wiped the moisture from his hands, and ruffled his son’s hair. “The brush handle is as long as it is precisely so that the ink won’t get on you.”

Xiao Feng, meanwhile, was crouching in the courtyard, heartbroken that she could not bring the flowers and plants she had grown back to the capital with her.

Pei Yunci and Xiao Feng had still been very young when they came south, and held few clear memories of the capital — so for them, returning to the capital felt more like the start of a new and exciting journey.

After the midday meal, the wife of the second household servant, Shen, was tidying the dining table and exchanging a few idle words with Nanny Chen.

“I meant to buy a few bolts of fabric to bring on the ship — to have something to sew during the voyage. Yesterday I walked to several cloth shops, and there wasn’t a single bolt of blue fabric to be had anywhere. Quite strange, really,” she said.

Nanny Chen replied, “If there’s no blue fabric, just pick out a few bolts in another color — what’s the trouble in that?”

“Now that the children can read, wearing the round-collar blue robe gives them a more scholarly look.”

Ah — so that was her thinking.

……

The following day, the three clan elders of Tong’an County arrived at the Pei household gate with several cart-loads of local specialty products and gifts — of considerable value.

As the saying goes: “The county magistrate is like a broom, the prefect like a dustpan, the provincial governor like a saddlebag — and when they return to the capital for review, they shake it all out wherever they go and leave behind a fortune.” Bringing “local specialty products” for the powerful and influential at court when returning after a term of service had long become an unwritten rule among officials everywhere.

This kind of scene, Pei Shaohuai had already witnessed once before — when he was in Taicang Prefecture.

“When the Prefect returns to the capital, to go without bringing some local products would invite his colleagues to look down upon him — and would also make it seem as though the people of Shuang’an Prefecture don’t know how to conduct themselves,” Elder Qi said.

Elder Chen also stepped in: “As the saying goes, stones from other mountains can polish jade — the Prefect ought to accept these.”

Pei Shaohuai refused to receive any of it. Though he knew that the three clan elders meant well, he still rebuked them firmly: “By presenting gifts in this manner, what position are you putting me in? And how am I to look the word ‘integrity’ in the face?”

“Take it all back at once!”

Pei Shaohuai assumed the full bearing of a man who was genuinely displeased.

The three clan elders looked sheepish. “These goods were gathered by the clan members on their own initiative — how can we possibly return them?”

“Then convert it into silver, use it to repair the clan school, or to fund the education of poor children — put it to real use for the clan.” Pei Shaohuai gave a sharp sweep of his sleeves, turned, and walked back into the residence — the gate shut behind him.

……

On the day of departure and the farewell send-off, the entire length of the street for several li was packed with townspeople surrounding the Pei family’s carriage, calling out “Prefect! Prefect!” without pause, escorting them all the way to the ferry crossing.

Every household had placed a basin of clear water at their doorstep and hung a bright mirror — many of them wept as they called out. For their Prefect was not merely “clear” and “bright” — he had also been deeply “close” to them, like one of their own.

At a crossroads along the main street, a group of villagers who had come from outlying counties knelt down in the road — each with a blackened fire-stoking rod strapped to their back.

One by one they called out: “Such-and-such clan of such-and-such county, who once — during the time when grain prices were high — wrongly misjudged the Prefect, have come to beg forgiveness and ask to be punished.” In the early part of the previous year, when grain prices had soared, people from various counties had knelt before Pei Shaohuai begging him to intervene and force the prices down, but to no avail — and at the time, some resentful words had indeed spread.

When parents in farming families discipline their children, they often reach for the fire-stoking rod and give them a beating — and so these villagers had come with the fire-stoking rods from their own homes strapped to their backs.

Pei Shaohuai sat inside the carriage and did not dare to lift the curtain to look, nor to say a single word in reply. At that moment, his heart was fuller and more bittersweet than it had ever been.

That the people showed such feeling proved that everything he had done was right, and was worth it.

It was not until they reached the ferry crossing outside the town that Pei Shaohuai prepared to step down from the carriage. Several old women, carrying bamboo baskets, pressed their way through to the front of the carriage, calling out to him again and again in the local dialect: “Prefect, it’s autumn now — have a persimmon for a sweet taste before you go!”

Of all the sweet fruits across this vast land of Da Qing, only the red persimmon could be grown from south to north alike.

From south to north, everyone knew the sweetness of the persimmon.

Pei Shaohuai could refuse the “local specialties” of the three great clans, and he could endure the tearful farewell of the common people — but how could he refuse a single red persimmon offered by an old woman? He had tasted his “first sweetness” at the beginning of the year — how could he miss this “sweetness of autumn”?

It was as though eating one persimmon made everything complete.

When he took the persimmon and bit into it, he could not even register what it tasted like — he was too busy telling the people once more, “It’s truly sweet.”

“May the Prefect’s path be as auspicious as a persimmon ripening on the branch — may all things fall into place, and may every endeavor bear fruit…” the crowd called out cheerfully, playing on the sound of the word for persimmon.

Pei Shaohuai was pressed by the people to remove his boots, and he received a ten-thousand-household umbrella. After all the cheerful commotion that followed, he finally managed to board the ship.

The official vessel cut through the river’s surface and moved slowly forward. Pei Shaohuai stood on deck and waved farewell to the gathered people.

He had thought the send-off would draw to a close here — but no sooner had the ship barely reached the middle of the river, not even a full li from shore, than the sound of a singing procession suddenly rose up from both banks.

Voice upon voice rang out and echoed across the Nine Dragon River.

Looking toward the banks, he saw two long, neat rows of scholars standing on either side — a thousand in number, each dressed in the round-collared blue robe that marked them as men of learning. They held wine cups in both hands, and as the ship drifted slowly away from them into the middle of the river, they chanted together in unison:

“The swallows take their flight, their wings spread wide. My beloved sets off; we send her far out into the open plain. As I strain my eyes to catch a last glimpse, my tears fall like rain.”

“…My beloved sets off; I escort her far away. As I strain my eyes to catch a last glimpse, I stand motionless, weeping.”

“…My beloved sets off; we escort her far to the south. As I strain my eyes to catch a last glimpse, my heart is truly heavy with longing.”

The words “my beloved sets off” rang out from the scholars’ lips, again and again, gathered into a single voice — solemn, reverent, and long-lingering. A blessing for one departing on a far journey, delivered with gravity and full of reluctant farewell.

The sound seemed to stir the very surface of the river into soft ripples. Perhaps it was the mist rising thick from the water — but as Pei Shaohuai gazed at the neat rows of figures lining both banks, his vision slowly blurred.

These verses were from “Yan Yan,” a poem in the Airs of Bei in the Book of Songs — a celebrated farewell poem spanning the ages.

Again and again they chanted, the voices unceasing.

Pei Shaohuai strode to the stern of the ship and, facing the crowd growing ever more distant, made three deep, long bows — the last bow held so long that he could not straighten himself back up.

Not until the ship passed from the river into the open sea, and the sound of the waves swallowed the voices of the scholars, did the echo finally begin to fade from Pei Shaohuai’s ears.

……

In the Qi Family Hall, the twenty-seventh elder summoned Elder Qi and, holding back his sorrow, said, “Shizhen, gather the households of all the clans and surnames — it is time to prepare a petition of ten thousand names to submit to the court.”

Qi Yu did not understand, and asked, “Great-Uncle, can a petition of ten thousand names keep Prefect Pei here?”

“It cannot. Prefect Pei does not belong only to our Shuang’an Prefecture.” The twenty-seventh elder shook his head.

He belongs to all of Da Qing.

After a pause, he said further, “We submit the petition not truly to detain him — but to spread his name and reputation. If an official like this cannot have his name celebrated throughout the realm, then what manner of official ever could?”