“I hope Jin, upon completing his studies, will return north soon, facing the Spring Examinations with ease.” His elder brother had written at the end of the letter.

A family letter carries no other sentiment — it simply urges an early return home, and in that simplicity, the longing runs all the deeper.

Over these two years, the two brothers had exchanged letters regularly. Beyond sharing news of family matters, Pei Shaohuai also frequently discussed affairs of the imperial court with Shaojin, posing questions along the way for his younger brother to ponder. Shaojin, in turn, would write his thoughts and insights in his replies.

Back and forth it went.

“The question Elder Brother posed this time is truly difficult to answer.” Pei Shaojin said to Xu Yancheng, analyzing the matter: “Under Da Qing’s maritime prohibition, merchant vessels may only return to port through Songjiang Prefecture and Taicang Prefecture. Even so, one can already identify many who resort to opportunistic tricks. If the sea were opened along the entire coastline, with merchant ships free to come and go unchecked, such unconstrained pursuit of profit would easily breed disorder.”

Merchant vessels evading taxes was only one concern. There were also those bold and reckless enough to smuggle prohibited goods in and out of the country in pursuit of enormous profits — violations both of Da Qing’s laws and of moral principles.

“What is sought must be attainable, what is prohibited must be stoppable, what is decreed must be enforceable.” Opening the sea did not mean prohibiting and restricting nothing — it meant merchant ships conducting orderly trade under the supervision of the authorities.

Pei Shaojin held his elder brother’s letter and paced back and forth, his expression contemplative. The sea breeze swept into the room, sending the pages of the letter fluttering up and down. A gleam appeared in Shaojin’s eyes as he said admiringly: “Elder Brother has not yet opened the sea, yet he has already foreseen what problems would arise once it is opened — guarding against trouble before it occurs, and devising countermeasures in advance.”

Shaojin spread his palm open, then closed it into a fist, continuing: “It is like a hand — opening and closing, loosening and tightening — all remaining within one’s control… Ziheng, it seems you and I must redouble our efforts to keep pace.”

A single question was enough to reveal the gap between them and Pei Shaohuai.

Only one who had walked a step ahead of others could possess such foresight — and only such a person could pose a question like this.

Xu Yancheng nodded in agreement: “Our study journey through Jiangnan is nearly at its end. We must make the most of our remaining time.” They would need to set off back to the capital by autumn at the latest, so as to avoid heavy snowfall blocking the waterways and delaying their journey.

Xu Yancheng then asked: “Zhongya, you are meeting with Master Nanju tomorrow — have you finished writing your essay?”

They visited the Zou residence in the south of the city every few days to consult with Master Nanju on various matters.

“It is finished,” Shaojin replied. “Lately, I have vaguely sensed a change in my writing style — my essays have become much more straightforward and unadorned. Yet I have not been able to understand the reason for it, nor grasp its essence.” It was a perfect opportunity to seek Master Nanju’s guidance.

“I feel the same way.”

Both of them, following Master Nanju’s advice, had moved to several different places over the past two years to gain real-world experience, and their essays had grown increasingly rich and seasoned.

Having come this far in their examination studies, further improving the quality of their writing depended precisely on this kind of subtle, ineffable feeling. Both Shaojin and Yancheng were eager to hold onto it.

……

As the setting sun slanted westward over the old city, shadows of carriages and horses rippled through the new city beyond. Taicang City lay to the west while the docks hugged the eastern bank. Over these two years, the eastern bank had grown prosperous, and the local residents had taken to calling it the “New City of Taicang.”

In the old city, cooking smoke curled lazily upward. In the evening, women called out for their children to come home, their long voices rising and falling one after another. In the dockside new city, lanterns were lit early, casting extra light upon the scene. Along the embankment, activity continued unabated — as long as the last sliver of sunset had not faded, ships and carriages came and went in an unbroken stream.

The warships of the Zhenhai Garrison were already fully prepared, tasked with tonight’s maritime patrol to guard against raids by pirates and Japanese marauders.

Only when the last glow of twilight had faded and the streets were dim did the yamen runners and militia on night duty take up their torches and head out to patrol the streets, urging the slower shopkeepers to hurry up and close for the night. By this hour, the road from the new city back to the old city was thronged with carriages and pedestrians. Pei Shaojin’s carriage was among them.

Pei Shaojin returned from the Supervising Revenue Office to the Taicang Prefecture Yamen, and the family gathered in the rear courtyard for dinner.

Lin Shi set down her chopsticks and bowl, and discussed the matter with Pei Bingyuan: “My lord, I have some items I would like to send back to the capital. I was thinking of having Shen’er the Second accompany the official ship on a return trip.” Everything was carefully selected by her personally — quite a few were perishable food items, and she did not feel at ease entrusting them to a courier agency.

It would be much more reliable to have Shen’er the Second travel with the official ship.

“Yes, yes — remind him to keep his travel permit close and not be careless about it,” Pei Bingyuan replied. “Checks on travelers along the waterways have been quite strict of late.”

“I understand.”

It was an ordinary exchange of a few words, but hearing it, a thought suddenly surfaced in Pei Shaojin’s mind. He sank into deep reflection, so absorbed that he had not lifted his chopsticks to pick up a single dish for quite some time — he simply kept eating plain rice.

“Shaojin, what are you thinking about so intently?” Pei Bingyuan reached over and placed some dishes into his son’s bowl, then asked.

“It’s… it’s nothing.” Shaojin snapped out of his reverie, then asked: “Father, if someone traveling between the north and south is found without a travel permit, how does the yamen handle it?”

“At the lighter end, they are refused passage and sent back to their place of origin. At the heavier end, they are punished according to Da Qing’s laws — a flogging awaits them,” Pei Bingyuan replied.

Pei Shaojin nodded with understanding. He scooped up the food in his bowl and finished it quickly, a hint of excitement in his eyes. Then he set down his chopsticks and said: “Father, Mother — I am done eating.” He rose, intending to return to his room.

“What is your rush?” Pei Bingyuan asked. His son’s usual appetite was certainly more than this.

It seemed he was hurrying off to attend to something important.

As Pei Shaojin walked out, he replied with excitement: “Elder Brother left me a question to work on. I am going back to my room to write him a letter.” He had just hit upon the key to regulating merchant vessels that put out to sea.

Pei Bingyuan called after him several times but could not hold his son back, and let out a laughing sigh: “This child…” He had no choice but to let him go back to his room.

Lin Shi teased: “All three of you — father and sons, big and small — whenever you get caught up discussing learning, you lose all sense of everything around you. The elder one learned from the old one, the younger one learned from the elder — all cut from the same cloth.” It had been the same when Shaohuai was traveling to study. Whenever ideas came flowing freely, he could not wait to write them down. Lin Shi added: “Later this evening, I will have the Shen family send some pastries over to Shaojin’s room. For now, let us not disturb him while he writes to his elder brother.”

Pei Bingyuan set down his chopsticks and “interrogated” Lin Shi: “When did I become the old one?”

“You are about to become a grandfather — and you are not old yet?”

The husband and wife then began to chat about the matter of returning to the capital. Since Pei Bingyuan was bound by his official duties and could not leave his post, Lin Shi, Shaojin, and Yancheng planned to take advantage of the southerly winds in June and July and sail north by boat back to the capital. Such was the plan for now.

By candlelight, the shadow of a brush swept across the paper, leaving behind line after line of a letter home. The ink had not yet dried — black characters and the brush’s shadow merged together. Only Pei Shaojin’s writing could be seen: “…Da Qing already employs travel permits to manage the movement of its people, so as to keep household registers in order, and salt permits to regulate how merchants obtain and sell salt, using commercial transport to sustain military supplies. Why, then, could there not be vessel permits? Only merchant ships that have obtained a vessel permit would be allowed to put out to sea. What cargo they carry, where they are headed, when they are to return, and what goods they have purchased — all of it would be entered into the official record. This measure serves not merely to facilitate the collection of ship taxes, but more importantly to exercise oversight over merchant vessels, so that none slip through undetected…”

With vessel permits in place, the merchant ships heading out to sea could be checked and verified one by one against those permits, making it far easier for the authorities to track the whereabouts of vessels and keep maritime merchants in check.

“…Yet this measure also carries its drawbacks. If local yamen offices hold the authority to issue vessel permits, this could easily invite corrupt officials to profit from the position, which would in turn encourage collusion between officials and merchants…”

“These are my thoughts as they came to me in the moment, set down on paper for Elder Brother’s reference. Gazing out from the coast toward the vast sea three thousand li away, it does not compare to the fifteen lines of a letter from home. What Elder Brother wrote in his letter gives me much to think about and fills me with admiration.”

……

The following day, in the Zou residence — still the stone pavilion by the lotus pond — another spring had come around.

Elder Statesman Zou was carefully reading through the essays written by Pei Shaojin and Xu Yancheng, while the two of them waited quietly to the side.

“These could compete for the top of the rankings,” Elder Statesman Zou said by way of evaluation after finishing his reading.

At this level of writing, they could vie for the top position on the Spring Examination’s rankings board.

Shaojin asked: “This junior feels that my writing has changed, yet I cannot identify where the change lies. I humbly ask Master Nanju to enlighten me.” He could clearly feel it — the state of mind as he set brush to paper, and what he arrived at by the time he lifted it, were both unlike before — yet he simply could not pinpoint exactly what it was.

The words and phrases were much the same as two years ago, with no great change. What had changed was the content of the essays.

It was precisely this small change that had brought their writing to the level of “capable of competing for the top of the Spring Examination rankings.”

Elder Statesman Zou smiled and posed a question in return: “Zhongya, your essay contains two examples that complement your argument beautifully. Let me ask you this: with the inkstone on the desk and your brush poised to write — in that moment, did the examples come to your mind first, or did the thesis come first?”

The common method for writing essays was to begin by establishing the thesis, then develop it section by section, completing the eight-legged essay form.

Pei Shaojin was momentarily taken aback, but quickly grasped the hidden meaning in Master Nanju’s words, sensing that he was now one step closer to the answer. In the past, when composing essays, he would always begin by devising an ingenious thesis, then search for classical allusions and real-life examples to argue and substantiate his points. The approach was one of extensive citation in support of a predetermined conclusion.

But with today’s essay, the examples had come first — and the thesis had emerged from them. The argument arose naturally from the examples, without any labored effort to establish a thesis beforehand. From topic to argument, and from argument to conclusion — everything revolved around the examples as one coherent whole.

He replied: “When this junior saw the topic, the examples came to mind first.”

Only then did Elder Statesman Zou explain earnestly to Shaojin and Yancheng: “If you begin writing with the examples already in mind, then the essay stands on firm ground, and every word arises from genuine feeling. Though you have not consciously formulated a thesis beforehand, the thesis has in fact already taken shape within you.”

All that remained was the polishing of language and clear expression. Both Shaojin and Yancheng had solid foundational skills — clarity of expression posed no difficulty for them.

The essays they produced were naturally unaffected and plainspoken — like mountain bamboo rooted firmly in stone, rising joint by joint without ever toppling.

Elder Statesman Zou continued: “If instead you strive to devise a thesis by any means necessary, it reveals that you had no genuine thesis to begin with. No matter how ingeniously that thesis is crafted, no matter how well-chosen the examples gathered to support it, the whole exercise amounts to nothing more than self-justification. There will always be places where the argument feels strained. And once a reader senses that the essay’s conclusions have been forced, the writing naturally falls to a lower tier… because this approach loses its foundation from the very start.”

“Your essays have not become more unaffected — they have become more convincing.”

Pei Shaojin and Xu Yancheng both had a moment of sudden understanding. True thesis-breaking was contained within one’s accumulated knowledge and experience — it was one’s own genuine thoughts, arising as naturally as if heaven-made. As for the thesis-breaking techniques they had learned before, those were nothing more than tricks of craft.

Xu Yancheng asked: “So, is that why Master Nanju advised us, at our very first meeting, to go and gain practical experience at the docks, the shipyards, and the yamen?”

Elder Statesman Zou nodded in confirmation: “The Grand Historian once said, ‘The scholar prizes the practice of learning, not merely the knowing of it.’ The Spring Examination tests what one knows from books. But after the Spring Examination, what is tested is the practice of that knowledge.”

“We thank Master Nanju for resolving our doubts,” Shaojin and Yancheng said in unison.

With Master Nanju’s guidance, they felt considerably more confident going into the Spring Examination. Composed by nature, the two of them could not entirely conceal their joy at having received this affirmation.

“You two are about to head back, are you not?” Elder Statesman Zou asked.

Shaojin replied: “We plan to travel north by boat on the summer southerly winds.”

“Excellent.” Elder Statesman Zou said cheerfully, the wrinkles on his face smoothing out with his smile. He added: “Through writing, one finds friends of common spirit; through virtue, one draws neighbors of the same heart. Those who share the same path and the same principles can go forward together, lending each other strength.”

These words referred to Shaohuai, Shaojin, and Yancheng. In Elder Statesman Zou’s view, the three of them could advance side by side — not because of bonds of blood or friendship, but because they shared the same path and the same principles.

“We respectfully heed your teaching, Master.”

After Shaojin and Yancheng departed, Elder Statesman Zou gazed at the wine cup on the stone table, his heart full of both delight and wistfulness: “‘To buy osmanthus flowers and go boating with wine — yet it is never quite the same as roaming in one’s youth.’ Though I can no longer roam alongside young men, watching them from afar still brings me joy.”

Elder Madam Zou noticed that her husband had a spring flower tucked in his hair and gave him a sidelong glance, laughing at him: “From where I stand, your mood looks rather like: ‘Year after year, flowers bloom again — why will fate not grant me youth once more’?”