Pei Shaojin came over, and the three of them deliberated together on the specific plans.
After about an hour, the matter was settled. Lin Shiyun left with the worry he had carried upon arrival now gone, his whole bearing light and at ease.
The main hall doors were left open on both sides, and wind and snow came rushing in. The two brothers stood at the doorway, gazing in quiet contemplation at the snowfall of that Eighth Day of the Twelfth Month night.
The snowflakes were not large. In the light of the eaves lantern, the falling snow resembled fireflies drifting down — touching the ground after entering the house, they melted away without a trace. But that slanting wind was like a blade, setting the brothers’ cloaks billowing backward with a loud, rushing sound.
“Shall we go up to the pavilion for a cup of warm wine?” Pei Shaohuai suggested.
On the fifth floor of the pavilion, the wind and snow were even more fierce.
They leaned against the railings, listening to the wind’s song, holding their wine cups and watching the snow fly.
The pavilion was not high enough, the view not far enough — yet Pei Shaohuai still narrowed his eyes against the wind, gazing into the distance.
“What is Elder Brother looking at?”
“At the ten thousand lights of a thousand households in the midst of wind and snow.”
Beyond the pavilion, there was only a stretch of homes outside the Earl’s walls, the rooftops clustered close together — hardly ten thousand households. Pei Shaojin mimicked his elder brother’s posture, also rising on his toes to peer into the distance.
“Can you see it?”
On this Eighth Day of the Twelfth Month, many households kept their lanterns burning into the deep of night. Though the scene before them could not truly show ten thousand lights, one could see, in the far distance on the horizon, a faint strip of pale luminescence — gathered from the thousand homes and ten thousand households of Da Qing. Shaojin nodded and said: “I can see it.”
A thousand li unbroken, ten thousand lights — there was an auspicious and blessed air about it.
“What people fear is not nights of wind and snow. What people fear is having no light in the home.”
……
As the New Year drew near, there was less business at court.
Knowing that he would be leaving the capital once spring arrived, and uncertain when he might return, Pei Shaohuai spent much of this time making frequent visits to the Xu household, accompanying Master Duan.
Over these past years, Master Duan had stopped keeping that stern expression of his, and was always gentle and smiling with his younger students and followers. Pei Shaohuai sensed that the master harbored a certain loneliness within him — on several occasions, Pei Shaohuai had come to find the master with the lecture notes from his teaching days spread open on his desk.
These manuscripts, the master had long since committed to memory and could recite without a single word missed.
It was not the manuscripts the master was reading.
From Xu Wang and Xu Zhan, to Shaohuai, Shaojin, and Yancheng — over these several decades, the master had sustained himself by imparting knowledge. Now that the students had entered the court and gone their separate ways, even the youngest, Yangui, would be sitting for the autumn examinations in another year or two.
When a person reaches his twilight years, it is only natural to feel a sense of loss — a sense of no longer being needed.
That day, as Pei Shaohuai was pushing the master’s chair around the courtyard for their leisurely stroll, he brought up the matter of the Imperial Academy. His father, not being adept in the Confucian classics, had recently been searching everywhere for renowned classical scholars to lecture to the academy students.
Pei Shaohuai suggested: “Master, if you have time to spare, would you not do Father a favor?”
“An old licentiate like me — how could I dare step into the Imperial Academy to lecture to its students?” the master said, gently mocking himself. He added: “I am hardly a great classical scholar.”
“Master taught a Zhuangyuan Lang — how could he not teach Imperial Academy students? What great scholar under Heaven has ever taught four successful imperial examination graduates in a row?” Pei Shaohuai said lightly.
“You lot are different — you don’t count.” The master replied with a smile.
They passed through the circular gate and entered the covered walkway of the courtyard. Master Duan said: “I am an unknown private tutor with no renown. Even if I went, there is no guarantee anyone would come to listen.”
Pei Shaohuai seized the opportunity and proposed a bet with the master: “How about this — your student will post only Master’s examination essays at the Imperial Academy, without revealing their origin or mentioning what students you have taught. We will simply say it is a teacher who will lecture on the Confucian classics, and see how many Imperial Academy students come to attend.”
Master Duan hesitated.
Old Aduo, who was standing nearby, understood Master Duan’s expression better than anyone, and cheerfully “accepted” on the master’s behalf. He walked off toward the house, saying as he went: “I’ll go and fetch Master Duan’s recent essays right now, so we can make a proper selection.”
“Hey—” Master Duan tried to call out and stop him, but old Aduo had already run off and, right before their eyes, disappeared into the study. Master Duan murmured: “That old Aduo acts more and more on his own initiative.” Yet not a trace of reproach could be heard in his tone.
When the two essays were in hand and Pei Shaohuai was about to leave, Master Duan repeatedly reminded him: “Boyuan, remember — we agreed, only the essays are to be posted. You are not to use the names of any of you students to make a great fuss.”
“I understand, Master — your student would not dare play tricks on you.” Pei Shaohuai replied with a smile.
The date was set for the fifteenth day of the twelfth month. Not only Pei Shaohuai came to accompany the master that day — Pei Shaojin and Xu Yancheng had also taken leave and come along.
Before the lecture, Pei Shaohuai deliberately pushed the master over to the notice board to have a look, confirming that only two essays and a brief summary of the lecture’s content had been posted — nothing more.
Pei Bingyuan came striding over, beaming as he welcomed Master Duan, and after exchanging greetings led the way: “Please allow me to escort Master Duan to the Hall of Yi Lun for the lecture.”
Not only Master Duan, but even Pei Shaohuai was somewhat surprised. He asked: “Was it not settled that the lecture would be given in the Hall of Rate Achievement? Why has it suddenly been changed to the Hall of Yi Lun?”
Apart from the Hall of Bi Yong, where the Emperor personally lectured, the Hall of Yi Lun was the largest hall in the Imperial Academy, used for both housing books and holding assemblies.
Pei Bingyuan explained: “Too many students came to attend — early this morning, the Hall of Rate Achievement was packed inside and out, and we had no choice but to temporarily move the lecture to the Hall of Yi Lun.”
He also offered his apologies: “Master Duan, the preparations on my part were insufficient — please forgive me.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
Master Duan unconsciously reached up and straightened his collar. Pei Shaohuai leaned close to the master’s ear and whispered with a touch of delight: “Master, it seems your student has won the bet.” And won by a wide margin.
Approaching the entrance of the Hall of Yi Lun, the low murmur of voices drifted out from within.
Master Duan stood quietly outside and listened for a good while, then said: “Boyuan, let us go in.”
When Shaohuai and Shaojin carried the wheelchair over the threshold and pushed it to the front of the raised platform, then lifted it up onto the platform, the gazes of all the students below followed every step of the way. They also noticed that the elderly teacher held no books or papers of any kind in his hands.
The entire hall fell silent — solemn and still.
Several of the older students took the lead, calling out in unison: “Greetings, Teacher—” The others followed: “Greetings, Teacher—”
“Be seated.”
The students below came from varied backgrounds — some had entered through the autumn examinations, others were tribute students or students enrolled through hereditary privilege; their ages ranging widely, from men in their forties and fifties down to young men of seventeen or eighteen. What they shared was this: they sat upright and attentive, eager to learn, their eyes reflecting admiration and reverence.
“Why have you come?”
Why have you come, and what do you hope to learn?
The responses from below were varied: some said “in admiration of the Teacher’s profound essays,” others said “the Teacher cites the classics without letting them show,” still others said “the Teacher’s grasp of the classical canon is so thorough, his breaking of the essay topic seems as natural as heaven’s design”…
Finally, an elderly student of over fifty years stood and gave a bow before answering: “The reason I came is the line the Teacher quoted in his essay — ‘Do not say the mulberry and elm of dusk are late; the evening clouds still blaze with glorious red.’ I had long thought that studying the Confucian classics was entirely for the sake of the examination essays. After reading the Teacher’s essay and seeing the Teacher in person, I came to understand that one writes an essay for oneself.”
The entire hall fell silent again.
“Well said.” Only then did Master Duan begin his lecture — speaking from memory, his every word striking deep.
When the lecture concluded, not a single person left. Instead, they rose in turn, standing and bowing, one after another, calling out: “Please teach us more, Teacher — please continue.”
When the second lecture was given, the windows outside the Hall of Yi Lun were crowded with students as well, all of them listening with total concentration, brushes in hand, recording every word.
After half a day’s lecture, Pei Shaohuai pushed the master out of the Imperial Academy. On the carriage, the master said to Pei Shaohuai: “Boyuan, having a student such as you — this teacher has no regrets.”
Pei Shaohuai replied: “The ‘Book of Jin’ says: ‘Words soaring high and radiant, like the moonlight suspended in brightness.’ Master’s words and learning are, by their very nature, like the clear light of a bright moon — students come to bask in it of their own accord.”
He then added: “Do not say the mulberry and elm of dusk are late; the evening clouds still blaze with glorious red — Master’s freedom from regret does not arise solely because of your students. It is because Master’s learning and scholarship have reached such a height that there is nothing left to prove. Regret was never yours to carry.”
Whether it was achieving success in the examinations and coming to present the yellow announcement to the master, or asking the master to preside over his wedding and bestow a courtesy name upon him — each of Pei Shaohuai’s steps had indeed made up for many of the master’s regrets. Yet no matter how much was made up for, these were always steps that Pei Shaohuai had taken.
They could bring comfort, but could not be felt in the master’s own person.
Today, in the Hall of Yi Lun at the Imperial Academy, with its hall full of students — they had come in genuine admiration of Master Duan’s scholarship, and three times they had called out for him to continue his teaching. This, at last, was the most heartfelt and real freedom from regret.
……
……
The days passed one by one, and all the many affairs surrounding the assignment in the south were being prepared with great urgency.
On a rare clear winter day, the Director of the Imperial Observatory, Director Wu, came to the Bureau of Six Offices and found Pei Shaohuai, saying: “I trouble Advisor Pei to write down your birth date and hour. His Majesty has commanded the Imperial Observatory to cast a divination for Advisor Pei’s upcoming journey.”
Director Wu was approximately sixty years of age, dressed in his official court robes. Aside from his hat, which differed slightly from the ordinary black gauze hat, his other garments and attire were no different from those of a regular official.
He noticed that beside Director Wu stood a boy of about twelve or thirteen, dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Observatory, his eyes bright and quick, giving off an air of cleverness.
“This is my eldest grandson, whom I have brought along to gain experience,” Director Wu said by way of introduction.
Pei Shaohuai understood — all positions in the Imperial Observatory were hereditary, passed down from generation to generation. Once in the post, one could not leave it except by death; once born into the family, one must pursue this calling.
To violate this was to be sentenced to penal servitude on Hainan Island.
Pei Shaohuai wrote down his birth date and hour, then offered it with both hands to Director Wu, saying: “I thank you for the trouble, Director Wu.”
“It is within my duties.”
Do not let the lowly rank of fifth grade fool one — the Imperial Observatory was a major bureau, and Pei Shaohuai did not dare underestimate it.