Along with that hearty, open laugh of the Huang family student, Pei Shaohuai looked out toward the main gate and saw a middle-aged man in a crimson official robe — tall and lean, striding in with quick steps, his manner brisk and unrestrained yet not without the composed elegance of a scholar.
He had come wearing his official robes, which meant he had come straight from the yamen after the end of his duties for the day.
Behind him, two young attendants were carrying a wooden threshing machine.
Looking at the man’s face and features, Pei Shaohuai felt a vague sense of familiarity — as though he had seen this person somewhere before, or the face resembled someone he knew — yet he could not place where or with whom.
The man of the Huang family also noticed Pei Shaohuai, and promptly reined in the broad, uninhibited laugh from moments ago. He walked over toward the group and first paid his respects to the Scholar of the South and Old Madam Zou. “Teacher, Teacher’s wife — your student did not know that you had a guest today and has been rude and presumptuous.” He then gave a slight bow in Pei Shaohuai’s direction.
Pei Shaohuai returned the courtesy.
With bearing and manner such as his, and as a student of the Scholar of the South, one could well imagine that this man possessed some distinctive and exceptional quality in terms of learning and ability.
Zou Ningyuan made the introduction: “Old Huang — this is the person my grandfather often speaks of, come from Shuang’an Prefecture in Fujian…”
Before the introduction was complete, in the pause that followed, this “Old Huang” broke in with a delighted expression: “The Northern Traveler!” He immediately made another bow and said, “I have admired your name for so long, admired it for so long — Teacher has told me a great deal about you.”
“I would not dare claim such a great name for myself,” Pei Shaohuai said humbly. “Pei Shaohuai, courtesy name Boyuan — it is a pleasure to meet you.” He then introduced his wife and children.
“Huang Di, courtesy name Qingxing,” Huang Di introduced himself in turn. “The ‘di’ as in ‘the reed catkins of Pengze’ and the ‘qing xing’ as in ‘here and there the water-cress, gathered left and gathered right’ — Teacher felt my given name carried too assertive a bearing that might give offense to the sovereign, and so gave me the courtesy name ‘Qingxing.’ In everyday speech, people generally call me Huang Qingxing.”
This was how men of learning made introductions — given name, courtesy name, and the classical texts from which they were drawn could tell one a great deal.
The reed catkin blooms white as snow and soft as cotton, and grows in appearance very similar to common reed and silver grass. These plants often grow intermingled together in dense, spreading clusters — ordinary people find it quite difficult to tell apart the reed catkin, the common reed, and the silver grass.
Huang Di noticed that he had come in his official robes and added, “Huang serves in the Nanjing Board of Revenue.”
The Board of Revenue was the Board of Revenue. The Nanjing Board of Revenue was the Nanjing Board of Revenue. The two were not the same.
Pei Shaohuai knew the name of the Minister of the Nanjing Board of Revenue — it was not Huang Di. Judging from the crimson official robes the man wore, he could surmise that Huang Di currently held the post of Left Vice-Minister of the Nanjing Board of Revenue.
“So it is the Vice-Minister,” Pei Shaohuai said with a respectful inclination of his head.
After the usual back-and-forth courtesies of introduction, the two of them could be considered properly acquainted.
Returning to the matter at hand, Huang Di pointed at the threshing machine and said, “Teacher’s rice is nearly ripe. On the way back today, I happened to come across a farming household selling this old piece of equipment, and so I had it bought.”
Not seeing Zou Xianjing’s figure anywhere, he grumbled, “How has Brother Ru’an still not finished his duties for the day? That desolate and unrewarding office merits no such effort and dedication from him.”
“He has probably lost track of the time again, poring over some historical text,” Old Madam Zou said.
“Is Ru’an not right here?” the Scholar of the South said, pointing at his grandson. Then, his expression turning solemn, he spoke to Huang Di with earnest gravity: “And as for you, young Xu — just as each stroke of a character must be written one stroke at a time, things must be done one matter at a time. One must not be greedy for speed in either officialdom or in life. The position of Minister of the Board of Revenue — it is not that your teacher is unwilling to speak well of you before His Majesty. It is that your achievements and ability still fall somewhat short. Waiting three or six more years would be no harm.”
The “young Xu” the Scholar of the South spoke of was a student he had once held in high regard. This young Xu, after failing to obtain his teacher’s support, had secretly allied himself with Grand Secretary Lou Yuxing, and had ultimately secured the position of Minister of the Board of Revenue. He then used that position to suppress and marginalize his fellow students of the same teacher, and led the Board of Revenue that the Scholar of the South had built up with his own hands into siding with Lou Yuxing.
It was precisely this affair that had prompted the Scholar of the South to submit his memorial requesting retirement.
After the Scholar of the South had withdrawn from court, this Minister Xu came to no good end — he sat in the position of Minister of the Board of Revenue for only two or three years before being removed by the Hexi faction.
“Teacher — you have gotten things mixed up again,” Huang Di said, carefully helping the Scholar of the South back to a seat indoors. Leaning close, he explained in a gentle voice, “Please look carefully again — I am not Xu Jiansheng. I am Qingxing, your youngest student, Huang Qingxing. Can you remember now?”
The Scholar of the South opened his mouth, and spent some time slowly, haltingly sorting through the tangle of his thoughts, before at last saying with dawning recognition, “Ah — it is Qingxing.” Shame appeared on his face, and he added, “Being your teacher has held back your career.”
“Teacher — what is this you are saying? Every bit of ability and learning I have came from you,” Huang Di replied.
Huang Di then asked Zou Ningyuan how the teacher had been sleeping and eating these past few days, his attentiveness and concern entirely genuine.
Watching the Scholar of the South strain with visible effort to untangle his thoughts, his emotions rising and falling along with the jumbled fragments of memory in his mind, Pei Shaohuai felt an indescribable bitterness settle in his chest, lodging itself in his throat.
In his later years, the heart longs for calm — yet the waves come and churn the sand.
……
When Zou Xianjing returned, the group sat down together for a meal, and the conversation throughout was warm and lively.
Between Pei Shaohuai and Huang Di, there was an immediate and easy rapport. Pei Shaohuai had a thorough mastery of monetary policy and tax systems, and understood well the essentials of currency circulation. Huang Di, for his part, had spent many years immersed in the Nanjing Board of Revenue, and his knowledge of money and taxation was by no means shallow.
Between the two of them, it often took only half a thought expressed before the other understood the rest.
After several generous cups of wine, Huang Di said with the candid feeling of a man who regretted not having met sooner: “If only Prefect Pei had been born ten years earlier and taken Teacher as his master, you and I could have addressed each other as fellow students — what a fine thing that would have been.”
“Between myself and the Scholar of the South, the bond is not that of teacher and student — yet it surpasses it,” Pei Shaohuai said, and also drank.
Huang Di realized at once that what he had said was not quite right — if Pei Shaohuai had been born ten years earlier and entered the Scholar of the South’s circle, would he not have ended up in the same situation as Huang Di himself?
“That was thoughtless of me — entirely my fault.” Huang Di penalized himself with three cups and said, “It is better as things stand. Prefect Pei is free to give full scope to his abilities and work for the benefit of the people.”
A cup or two of wine always draws out something of the genuine feelings within — and beneath that easy, open manner, the unspoken unwillingness was hard to conceal entirely.
When the wine was drunk and the banquet over, Huang Di told the Scholar of the South, “Your student will be going now — I will come and see Teacher again in a day or two.”
It was already growing late. Pei Shaohuai had intended to return to the inn, but Old Madam Zou urged them to stay for a couple of days. She said, “The old fellow is clear-headed one moment and muddled the next — Prefect Pei is welcome to stay a few days, and wait until he has a clear spell before the two of you resume your talk of old times in the south.”
Then she said with a smile, “When the old fellow has a clear spell, the first thing he always thinks to ask is whether any letter has come from the Northern Traveler.” It was plain how much he missed his young friend.
Old friends who had long exchanged letters — if they could not properly sit and talk now, it would be a regret for both the Scholar of the South and for Pei Shaohuai.
Mountain paths are long and the road is distant. Once Pei Shaohuai parted from Jinling City, there was no knowing when he might come this way again.
“Then I will not decline,” Pei Shaohuai said.
Upon hearing this, Zou Ningyuan went to arrange the guest room.
As Pei Shaohuai was speaking casually with Old Madam Zou, the conversation turned to Huang Di. Old Madam Zou sighed and said, with regret on Huang Di’s behalf, “Qingxing truly deserves a better future than he has had — it is the teacher’s circle that has held him back.”
She spoke of how Huang Di and the Scholar of the South had come to know each other, saying, “Their bond goes back a very long way — thirty or forty years by my count. Qingxing came from a very difficult background — he was an adopted child taken in by a farming family. When the old fellow was serving as an official far from home, he paid for Qingxing’s school fees so the boy could study properly. The child was determined, and after many years, he made his way step by step all the way to the very examination that the old fellow presided over for the last time — and became one of his official students.”
“After that, Qingxing was taken under the old fellow’s wing and placed in the Board of Revenue. But it was a great pity — just as he was beginning to make a name for himself, that whole wretched business happened. He was swept up along with several of his fellow students and pushed out to Nanjing, with no chance to ever return to serving in the capital.”
Pei Shaohuai understood. Though the court had cleared out Lou Yuxing and the Hexi faction years ago, it was no simple matter for those older officials to win back the emperor’s favor and trust.
For one thing, the imperial examinations produced a new crop of talent every three years. For another, the Six Boards of Nanjing were far from the emperor’s sight — without someone to recommend them or put them forward in court, how would the emperor ever remember all the various names and faces?
For Huang Di to have risen, step by step within the Nanjing Six Boards, all the way to the position of Left Vice-Minister of the Board of Revenue — that was already a very remarkable achievement.
Far more men had simply “lain flat” in their posts, resigning themselves to whatever came.
Old Madam Zou continued: “Qingxing is a person of deep and lasting affection. When he learned that the old fellow was moving to Jinling City, he ran back and forth attending to everything — and not only arranged this residence, but before Ningyuan and Ru’an arrived, he was the one looking after the old fellow all along. Even now, he comes by every few days to check in.”
In one’s active years, one guides and promotes students. In old age, one receives in return the warmth and devotion of those students. That is the natural order of things.
Pei Shaohuai understood what Old Madam Zou was hinting at. He replied, “I understand, and I take note.” He said nothing further.
Even so, Old Madam Zou was still somewhat embarrassed, and said, “Were it anyone other than Qingxing, I would not have had the face to raise such a matter with a young friend like you.”
Pei Shaohuai’s expression was easy and light. “Old Madam Zou, there is no need to feel troubled by this at all,” he said with a smile.
……
……
The very next morning, Pei Shaohuai rose, pinned up his hair, and changed his clothes. Just as he was preparing to step outside the eaves to stretch his limbs and take some air, he heard a knock at the courtyard door.
He opened it to find Zou Ningyuan.
Zou Ningyuan’s expression was bright with happiness. “Grandfather rose this morning with a clear and lucid mind, and has invited the Prefect to join him by the field in the back courtyard for a conversation.”
Upon hearing this, Pei Shaohuai too could not suppress a feeling of happiness. He went back into the room, put on a plain outer garment, and then followed Zou Ningyuan’s steps to go and see the Scholar of the South.
At the edge of the modest little field, the heavy rice ears hung low with dew from the autumn night. The morning sun and early light fell upon the grain, as if gilding each kernel with a layer of gold.
The Scholar of the South had set out a table and chairs at the edge of the field. Upon the table lay a set of bright silver coins, and he was holding a cloth square, polishing one of the one-qian silver coins up toward the morning light.
The reverse face of the silver coin bore the imprint of several bundles of rice stalks — which answered perfectly to the sight before them of the autumn rice turning gold.
The quality of focused absorption in the Scholar of the South’s eyes — along with the shrewdness and serenity that accompanied it — carried Pei Shaohuai back as if he were ten years younger.
“Scholar of the South,” Pei Shaohuai called out from a distance. His voice was no longer the clear, bright voice of his youth; it had gained several layers of depth and steadiness.
Yet the Scholar of the South recognized that voice at once. A smile spread across his face, and he waved toward Pei Shaohuai, calling back, “Little Northern Traveler has grown into a full-grown Northern Traveler.” And he added, “Come — sit down.”
After Pei Shaohuai took a seat, he said, “Scholar of the South — it has been so long since we last met.” The depth of feeling in his voice was plain to see.
A bond that was that of teacher and student, yet also of friends, yet also of kindred souls — in a world where even horses traveled slowly, to be able to meet again face to face and speak once more was something of rare and precious value.
“It has indeed been a good number of years,” the Scholar of the South said. He then asked, “Yesterday I was having one of my confused spells and kept mistaking people for others — I must have made quite a spectacle of myself in front of you, young friend.”
His tone was entirely open-hearted, and he did not seem particularly troubled by his illness.
“How could I dare think such a thing,” Pei Shaohuai replied.
Seeing the bitterness in Pei Shaohuai’s expression, and sensing the sorrow in his heart, the Scholar of the South smiled and said, “I have already reached the age when one leans upon a staff at court — long since I should have looked at things with clear eyes and an accepting heart… The older a person grows, the less the thoughts dwell upon oneself, and the more they dwell upon those who come after.”
He held up coin after coin of silver, each one shining brilliantly — polished and re-polished, who knew how many times. “To have reached this age and been able to witness the silver coins Da Qing has issued, to hear the news that these coins have sailed abroad on merchant ships, to know that the court holds firm control over the source of the world’s monetary flow and is little by little enriching the lives of the common people — there is truly nothing this old man has left to regret.”
“To remain clear-minded to eighty and then grow muddled — at eighty, after all — one has lived to eighty, and that is already good fortune. What does it matter whether one’s mind is clear or muddled?” The Scholar of the South spoke with a broad and open heart. “‘The events of the past, how many of them come only in dreams — yet in the night, wine and wakefulness arrive together at the same moment.’ Just as well to think of it as drifting between waking and dreaming — this heaven-sent drowsiness saves no small amount of grain… Young friend, am I not right?”
Infected by the Scholar of the South’s broad-heartedness, and moved as he was, Pei Shaohuai — with all his vast store of learning — found himself, in the face of this old man’s sincere and open-hearted expression, momentarily at a loss for words.
“Then let us speak again of these silver coins,” the Scholar of the South said, opening a new thread of conversation. “Young friend — a man of great talent — you opened maritime trade and commerce to allow more silver coins to flow out to the peoples of distant foreign lands. I wonder, how widely have the coins been put into use and circulation by now?”
“The court has established a permit system for maritime trade — merchant vessels going out to sea are required first to exchange for silver coins. Through this measure, wherever Da Qing’s ships pass, this system of silver coins will quickly come into circulation,” Pei Shaohuai replied.
The circulation of silver coins required time. In the presence of the Scholar of the South, Pei Shaohuai could only hope that it would spread faster, and further.
“To think that what was once only an idea has truly found the day of its realization,” the Scholar of the South said with deep feeling.
He sat in a position where, looking up, he could see the morning light, and looking down, he could see a field of golden rice. The Scholar of the South opened his hand — resting in his palm was one of the one-qian silver coins. “Of this whole set of coins, this one is the one I love most. The denomination is the smallest, yet the number of ordinary people who can make use of it is the greatest.”
“Young friend’s opening of maritime trade is also a great achievement.”
Pei Shaohuai spoke honestly, “Though maritime trade in Shuang’an Prefecture has opened smoothly, there are still many matters left unfinished. This whole enterprise has only just managed to get its stage built — nothing more.” After returning to the capital, he still needed to find a way to uncover the opposing force operating behind the scenes.
“That is indeed no simple matter,” the Scholar of the South said with a nod. “From the few passing words in young friend’s letters, I surmised that this person is well versed in monetary methods and understands how to use money to sow disorder, and to use money to seek private gain — and that it is perhaps not a single individual, but rather a group of people.”
Pei Shaohuai felt an ever-deepening respect for the Scholar of the South.
In the letters he had written to the Scholar of the South, for the sake of military confidentiality, he had passed over the key matters in a single brushstroke — mentioning only a few words such as “grain shortage,” “goods in short supply,” “the people at a standstill.” He had not imagined that the Scholar of the South would be able to infer so much from those few words alone.
“Young friend must not be too impatient,” the Scholar of the South advised gently. “To hold steady and secure the gains that have already been made — that is what matters most for now.” He extended his hand and pointed somewhere out in the field. “Young friend, do you see what that plant is?”
Following the direction of the Scholar of the South’s hand, Pei Shaohuai looked. In the golden morning light, a barnyard grass plant bearing its own seed heads swayed in the morning breeze.
When the barnyard grass has ripened to seed, its seed head rises far above the rice — conspicuous and showy, as if preening and gloating before the world over its own success.
Barnyard grass is a weed commonly found in paddy fields. It does bear seeds of its own, but its yield is nowhere near that of rice.
The Scholar of the South explained, “The ‘Lament Over Barnyard Grass’ contains the words: ‘When the body of the barnyard grass is green, it stands among the paddy — the farmer does not yet know the barnyard grass is there.’ This small weed is extremely cunning. It grows in the rice paddy, is not a grain plant yet takes on the appearance of a rice seedling, and in its early growth cannot be told apart from the real thing. The farmer has no choice but to let it grow there among the rest.”
Pei Shaohuai listened, his thoughts moving. The opposing force was indeed cunning — perhaps they, or perhaps one of them, had assumed the appearance of an honest and upright person, concealing themselves among a crowd of “green and growing” things.
And then the Scholar of the South continued, “Why does young friend not settle the heart and wait a while longer? When the barnyard grass draws up its head and bears its seeds, it will naturally no longer be able to hide its true face.”
Pei Shaohuai’s eyes lit up — he understood at once what the Scholar of the South was pointing toward.
“Does the Scholar of the South have any other thoughts or conjectures?”
The Scholar of the South shook his head. He said, “Young friend stands in the middle of all this green and growing. The only one you can truly trust is yourself.”