Fortune had not favored him; his path in officialdom had been rough.

Jiang Ziyun knew his good friend was in the capital and yet would not go to meet him — apart from not wanting to cause Pei Shaohuai trouble, there was likely also a measure of the self-respect that belongs to those who come from humble origins.

Yet once Pei Shaohuai had sent the invitation, he had arrived early. This alone told the full story of that contradiction — wanting to meet but not allowing himself to.

Jiang Ziyun had unburdened his heart entirely, and with that weight lifted, his spirits were freer. He said: “Let us not speak of these things anymore. Life rarely goes entirely as one hopes — in nine cases out of ten it does not — and it is rare good fortune to be reunited with you, Huai. Let us talk of other things.”

Jiang Ziyun took the initiative to change the subject, and shifted the conversation to Pei Shaohuai’s affairs. The petition with ten thousand signatures had been posted at the Chang’an Gate and printed in the court gazette for three consecutive issues; naturally Jiang Ziyun knew of it. He said: “To translate what you argued in your essays in those earlier years into actual policy — that is truly admirable.”

Writing essays was one thing; serving as an official was another entirely. To write excellent essays and serve as an excellent official both — that was remarkable indeed.

“Ziyun has served in officialdom for many years as well; surely you have come to some understanding of your own?” Pei Shaohuai asked.

“I cannot compare to you, Huai — but I have managed to feel out a little of the way of things,” Jiang Ziyun replied. “As a parent official of a county, the most solid achievement there is comes down to making sure the common people can eat a full meal — grain in the granaries, care for the aged.”

“Ziyun is right.”

Jiang Ziyun continued: “When it comes to grain production, Da Qing officials have only ever had one way of thinking: open more wasteland, expand the cultivated fields — plant more land, and there will naturally be more grain. There is nothing wrong with thinking this way, yet it overlooks one thing.”

“And what is that?”

Jiang Ziyun dipped his finger in a little water and wrote two characters on the tabletop — “grain seed” — and went on: “When I was in Jiaodong, I walked through every township and village, and found that the grain planted in the people’s fields was mostly wheat — simply because white flour has better flavor and commands a higher price. In fact, the newly opened fields were not yet level and even; it would be far more suitable to plant beans and millet on them. If one were to collect grain seeds from various regions, compare them carefully, and plant according to what suits each piece of land, the yields would certainly surpass those achieved by planting rice and wheat indiscriminately and without thought.”

This understanding had not come easily, and Jiang Ziyun stated it openly — which showed that his trust in his old friend was unchanged.

“Competing with the water for farmland, competing with the mountains for soil — how much more can really be gained that way? For this reason, increasing grain yields must rely on those two characters — ‘grain seed,'” Jiang Ziyun concluded.

It was a sound view — only unfortunate that he had had no chance to put it into practice before being dismissed from his post to observe mourning.

Pei Shaohuai clapped his hands: “Ziyun was too modest just now — this view is equally admirable.” He had thought of a post well suited to Jiang Ziyun.

On the matter of increasing grain production, Pei Shaohuai, having come from a later era, had once posed this question to himself: could he, simply by drawing on the knowledge he carried, bring in new grain varieties from foreign lands overseas — maize, sweet potatoes, potatoes — and genuinely solve the famines that afflicted the common people? Could he feed everyone and bring peace under heaven? Could he alone claim this unparalleled achievement?

The answer was no.

Consider the case of cotton cultivation in Da Qing. In the Song dynasty, cotton had been introduced through both the southern and northern routes, and the people had begun growing it in scattered patches. The Yuan dynasty placed emphasis on agriculture, and cotton cultivation developed further. After two dynasties and two hundred years, when Da Qing was established, the Founding Emperor knew well the utility of cotton and had on multiple occasions issued decrees reducing rents and taxes to promote its cultivation — yet in the short term, results were not significant.

Why?

In the south, mulberry cultivation, silkworm rearing, and silk weaving were more profitable; in the north, the people were unfamiliar with cotton, did not know the techniques, and who would dare wager their handful of farmland on something unknown?

Third Elder Sister’s success in promoting cotton cultivation came because she happened to stand at precisely the right moment, and because she was sharp enough to seize the opportunity. Without the two hundred years of preparation that had come before, none of it could have been achieved.

So it was with cotton, and so it was with promoting new grain varieties.

What the historical records of a later era noted was that sweet potatoes entered the country at the beginning of the seventeenth century; yet it took a hundred years more — into the eighteenth century — before there was “no high mountain or coastal marsh in which they were not planted.” During those hundred years, the process was made possible by many men of vision who compiled agricultural manuals, taught the people cultivation techniques, and reassured them patiently — only then did sweet potato cultivation spread widely.

Someone had to bring them in. Someone had to trial-plant them. Someone had to write the manuals. Someone had to promote them. Someone had to take the lead… In a world that was relatively closed to new things, to promote a new practice required all of these — not one could be missing. After all, no matter how great an Emperor’s power under heaven, he could not hold a blade to the throats of the people of all under heaven and compel every last person to immediately plant new grain varieties.

Pei Shaohuai could be the one to “bring them in” — he could not possibly fill “every role” at once, nor could he erase the contributions of others.

History could take fewer detours, but it could not skip a single step.

As for friendship: it was natural and right to extend a hand, to lend one’s strength — all the more so after hearing Jiang Ziyun share this true and hard-won understanding. Pei Shaohuai’s “private motives” grew somewhat stronger. He said: “Once the mourning period is over, what plans does Ziyun have? I have a posting in mind to recommend to Ziyun — a place where Ziyun’s theories could be put into practice.”

Jiang Ziyun’s eyes lit up: “Please tell me, Huai.”

“It is the place where I was previously posted — Pei Shaohuai, to the best of his limited ability, can recommend Ziyun for the position of Assistant Prefect of Shuang’an Prefecture.” Pei Shaohuai said. “Shuang’an Prefecture has successfully opened to maritime trade, and every time a sea vessel returns from the Southern Seas, the sailors bring back provisions from foreign kingdoms — among which there are many things not found in our Da Qing. Ziyun might well find opportunity there to conduct research.”

Among those provisions there were bound to be new grain varieties.

The Assistant Prefect of Shuang’an Prefecture was a sixth-rank post — a deputy official — but one of considerable consequence. Pei Shaohuai said: “Only this rank…”

“I understand what Huai means, but the rank is no concern of mine,” Jiang Ziyun cut him off. “To be appointed to Shuang’an Prefecture would be my honor — and besides, I am a minor official awaiting reassignment, without so much as a name to speak of. What do I have to say about whether a post is senior or junior?”

The opportunity had come; Jiang Ziyun showed no hesitation or awkwardness. He rose and bowed to Pei Shaohuai: “Then I must trouble you, Huai.”

“Ziyun speaks too formally.” Pei Shaohuai returned the bow.

As for the matter of merit accounting for officials posted outside the capital — this was a long-standing problem, and for now, the only course was to first put right the affairs in the capital, and then reform the evaluation system for officials serving outside. To try to reform everything at once would only result in nothing being done properly anywhere.

It was easy enough to help Jiang Ziyun alone; to help those officials posted outside the capital advance with order and system was far from easy.

All these years, how many had managed to claw their way back from a post outside the capital to the capital, as Pei Jue and Xu Zhiyi had done, relying on their own abilities alone? It was no wonder people said, “the place one finishes in the imperial examinations determines the rest of one’s life” — what rank one came from, what one’s origins were, all but determined how far one could go in the world of officialdom.

…

Splendid carriages and fine clothes at every turn, crowds of people coming and going in the streets. At year’s end, every household was rushing to purchase provisions and goods for the new year celebrations.

Pei Shaohuai had a day of rest at home and took the opportunity to accompany his wife for a stroll through the city.

Word had come that a new attraction had appeared in the southern part of the city — something called “Capital Cotton Street.” Both Pei Shaohuai and Yang Shiyue were curious, and went there first.

Capital Cotton Street, as the name implied, was a commercial street primarily selling cotton goods. The street was reasonably wide; there were shop fronts, and also vendors selling directly from stalls. In the clear winter sunlight, bolts of cotton in every color shone with a vivid brightness.

The riot of color made Pei Shaohuai’s eyes swim.

Those who came to look at cloth included small cloth merchants from outside the capital and local residents of the capital who had come to buy a few feet of fabric at year’s end to make new clothes. The scene was bustling and vibrant.

Pei Shaohuai walked into one of the larger shop fronts. The ones running the counter and attending to customers were two women — one older, one younger — plainly but neatly dressed, looking for all the world like a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law pair. Through the back door, looking into the storeroom, a pair of brothers could be seen checking goods with a trade buyer.

The young woman saw Pei Shaohuai and his wife enter, greeted them with a smile, and stepped forward. She took a brief look at what Pei Shaohuai and Yang Shiyue were wearing, noted that both were dressed in silk and satin, and, from their appearance, judged them not to be merchants. She led them to a rack fully laden with patterned cloth and explained: “These are the new patterns woven this year. The designs were learned from the palace — please feel free to select a few bolts to wear as something fresh and novel.”

Yang Shiyue stepped forward to look more closely. Although cotton cloth was not as fine as silk and satin, the patterns woven into this fabric did carry something of a palace-style elegance about them.

But then Pei Shaohuai said: “We are cloth merchants — we have come to make a purchase.”

This left the young woman momentarily startled.

“May I ask where the gentleman has come from? If it is not too far, our shop can arrange to have the cloth sent to your store, which would save the gentleman the cost of transport.” Though she was not convinced, the young woman still put on the manner of someone doing business.

“From Yuchong County in Dongyang Prefecture.”

“Then the gentleman has come to the right place,” the young woman said. “Dongyang Prefecture, He’jian Prefecture, Baoding Prefecture all have their own cotton streets — but when it comes to the freshness of the patterns, nothing compares to ours here in the capital. Other places don’t carry these designs this early. Pick out a few patterns to bring back with you, and you won’t have any trouble selling them.”

Pei Shaohuai genuinely began putting on an act of selecting goods — yet a man of letters that he was, no matter how he looked at it, he did not look like someone who did business, and this set Yang Shiyue to laughing beside him.

Once Pei Shaohuai had “played” his fill, Yang Shiyue chose several bolts of cotton cloth that were to her liking, and half-pulled her husband out the door.

On the way back, the two of them were full of admiration — not for the scale of Capital Cotton Street itself, but for the fact that throughout this street, the great majority of those running the cotton trade businesses were women.

Perhaps they were among the very first women to have entered the cotton weaving workshops to work, and later — having spotted a business opportunity, or having been encouraged by others — had stepped out on their own and begun trading cotton cloth.

When one woman ran a business it inspired curiosity; when an entire street of women did the same, it was no longer remarkable at all.

Third Elder Sister had moved one step further forward.

…

At year’s end, for the great noble households, there was one further important affair — entering the palace to attend the imperial banquet. As a rule, the Empress first invited the ladies of official families into the palace to enjoy the winter scenery and take tea; a few days later, the Emperor would hold a night banquet for the assembled officials.

This year, the ladies of the Pei household who were to enter the palace for tea were the Old Madam, Lin Shi, and Yang Shiyue — all three of whom held noble titles — along with Lady Pei Ruozhu, wife of the Nanping Earl.

On the day they were to enter the palace, they had barely slept at all the night before. At the third watch of the night they began washing and dressing, changing into their attire and pinning on their formal caps, a process that took over an hour before they were properly ready. While it was still dark, they all set out together to the palace gates, where they met with Lady Xu, Lady Yang, and the others, and then waited for the Empress to open the palace doors and summon them.

Fortunately, however laborious it might be, such occasions came only a few times a year.

There were naturally some ladies of official households who regarded an audience with the Empress as an opportunity, and who spoke and conducted themselves with hidden calculations in mind.

When Lin Shi was young, she had once been troubled by her merchant background, feeling that she stood a head shorter than the other ladies of official families, and that she was frequently on the receiving end of cold sarcasm and mockery. Now, with her husband respected and admired by his students at the Imperial Academy, and both her sons distinguished at court, and her daughters and daughters-in-law all of good standing — she no longer cared at all about her origins. She had even come to enjoy using her background to “play the fool,” and whenever she entered the palace, she made herself invisible, deflecting the probes of noble ladies with protestations of her own “ignorance and simple-mindedness” whenever they came her way.

To go out and show off under the banner of one’s husband or sons — that was no virtue.

With this attitude, after entering the palace, Lin Shi sat together with Yang Shiyue and Pei Ruozhu, doing nothing more than drinking tea and nibbling on fruit, watching the other ladies take their turns performing for the hall, treating it all as entertainment.

Midway through, the Emperor sent the Xiao Eunuch over to deliver a message to the Empress, saying that there was pressing business in recent days and that he would not be joining for the evening meal.

The Xiao Eunuch, though a servant, waited on the Emperor at his side, and his dress was accordingly distinguished. As he passed before the assembled ladies, he was composed and self-possessed, neither servile nor overbearing, his gaze moving over them as though they were not there.

But as he turned to go out after delivering his message, the Xiao Eunuch swept a glance across and caught sight of Lin Shi and the other two. His gaze paused for a fraction of a moment; holding his ceremonial whisk, he let a mild and pleasant smile cross his face — then quickly withdrew it again, so as not to be noticed by anyone else.

A very measured response.

Lin Shi did not know who the Xiao Eunuch was; she only felt there was something familiar about him. She had noticed his expression, and not quite knowing what to make of it, gave a slight upward curve of her lips in return.

“Who is that eunuch who just passed — the one from which noble household?” Lin Shi asked Pei Ruozhu in a low voice. “He looks somewhat familiar.”

“He is the Emperor’s Xiao Eunuch,” Pei Ruozhu replied. “He may have been to the Pei residence a few times to convey imperial summons for Elder Brother — Mother has probably seen him from a distance.”

Lin Shi understood. She took it that the Xiao Eunuch, being acquainted with Shaohuai and Shaojin, had let that trace of a pleasant smile show on their account — or perhaps she had read it wrong, and his smile had been meant for someone else.

She had thought today’s “tea” would pass quietly and without incident — yet unexpectedly, near the very end, the Empress suddenly singled out Lin Shi and praised her warmly: what fine sons and daughters she had raised, how virtuous and worthy they were, how admirable her way of nurturing her children.

Praising Shaohuai and Shaojin was nothing out of the ordinary — the whole court knew of them. Praising Ruolian and Ruozhu and the others was unremarkable enough — their reputations spoke for themselves.

But then the Empress said: “The cotton cloth of the Northern Metropolitan Region circulates throughout the realm and keeps the people from the cold of winter. On this account, this palace has received a measure of good renown — yet this palace knows that the cotton weaving workshops owe much to Ruozhu’s hard labor and diligent stewardship.”