The court had previously issued an edict stating: “The achievement of good governance lies in cultivating good customs; the cultivation of good customs depends on education and moral instruction.” It commanded the government offices of prefectures, subprefectures, and counties throughout the land to build schools, in order to promote moral education. From this, the degree to which the court valued official schooling was plain to see.
Ritual, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and mathematics — all of these fell within the scope of education and instruction, and the Shuntian Prefectural School had also established corresponding subject rooms to teach the six classical arts.
“In order to become an exemplary man, one must first study the six arts” — though such words were spoken, apart from calligraphy and mathematics, the other four arts had essentially been removed from the examination curriculum. The prevailing custom still held the study of eight-legged essays as the foremost priority. The so-called study of the six arts was nothing more than a continuation of tradition — learning them for the novelty of it.
Lessons in the six arts were held only once every three to five days, always scheduled in the afternoon. Students from prominent families had been exposed to them since childhood and knew them even without formal instruction. Students from humble backgrounds had already spent a great deal on brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone — where would they find the funds to buy a zither or a bow? Most chose to learn the flute, borrowed the school’s old bow for a brief experience, and left it at that.
Mounted archery was even less something one could insist upon learning.
As for the subject of arithmetic, although Da Qing had not explicitly stipulated in writing that it would not be tested, in the examination questions of the past ten years arithmetic problems had rarely appeared. Even when they did appear, they were combined with policy questions and legal judgments, and the knowledge involved amounted to nothing more than the simple operations of multiplication, division, addition, subtraction, and the like.
At court, arithmetic fell under the purview of the officials overseeing astronomy and the calendar — a position that was largely hereditary. Naturally, very few people aspired to it.
In the arithmetic classroom at the prefectural school, the instructor went over the same basic operations again and again, added a few examples calculating tax revenues, and muddled through his days.
Pei Shaohuai felt helpless about all of this. The neglect of arithmetic and miscellaneous learning had already become an entrenched custom, and the literati had formed ingrained habits of mind around it. Though he understood the importance of mathematics, with his own strength alone he was currently unable to change anything.
Pei Shaohuai let out a quiet sigh, took out a blank sheet of paper, and did his best to recall some of the mathematical knowledge he had learned in his previous life, recording it in the form of written text, to preserve it for future use. He dared not use the notation systems of that later age — if someone were to discover them and report him on the charge of “privately creating treasonous writings and spreading false doctrines,” his future prospects would be finished. Depending on the severity, he might also receive a hundred lashes, and with a heavy enough hand, the result could be paralysis or death.
The Da Qing Code stated: “Those who privately keep astronomical instruments or forbidden books, and who secretly study astronomy and spread false doctrines to deceive the masses, shall be flogged one hundred times.”
And so Pei Shaohuai wrote very slowly. The content he set down had also been carefully and thoroughly thought through in advance — it served as a way to pass the time during arithmetic class.
…
In the first two months after entering the prefectural school, all fifty newly admitted licentiates were very well-behaved. After the lesson hall opened at the si hour the instructor would ascend to the seat, the students would perform two prostrations and stand with hands clasped, waiting until the instructor said “be seated” before daring to take their places, with brushes, inkstone, and books arranged neatly on their writing desks.
The instructors teaching classical interpretation and eight-legged essays were, after all, seconded from the National Academy, and all of them had a certain level of competence. Every time Pei Shaohuai listened through a session, he would invariably discover something worth taking away. Drawing on the strengths of many schools to shore up one’s own weaknesses — it was not time wasted.
But gradually, as the licentiates grew accustomed to the routines of the prefectural school, they began to show signs of slacking off in class. They also developed their own ideas about their studies, frequently marking their attendance and then slipping away midway through. There was no shortage of those who whispered across the classroom to one another either.
After school let out, students who — under the banner of “discussing scholarship” — went in groups to visit pleasure houses and drink themselves into a stupor were far from few in number. Licentiates from humble backgrounds, whose circumstances had greatly improved since passing the examination and who now had money in their pockets, had not a small number join these ranks as well.
One day, Pei Shaohuai returned to his dormitory courtyard and happened to come upon someone tugging at Jiang Ziyun, insisting on inviting him to He Xiang Tower to “discuss scholarship.” Jiang Ziyun would not go, and only demurred that his digestion had not been well lately, and that he wished to stay at the prefectural school to recuperate quietly.
“If you won’t come, you’ll be denying your classmates face. Just come and sit for a while — it won’t take much time.”
Jiang Ziyun still declined, and the other person had no choice but to leave in embarrassment.
Seeing this, Pei Shaohuai’s favorable impression of Jiang Ziyun grew a few degrees more. A person who could resist the temptation of others and hold fast to his own principles was a rare find indeed.
The day before a rest day, just as Pei Shaohuai was about to return to the Earl’s mansion, he happened to notice that Jiang Ziyun’s door was wide open. He knocked and went in to chat with Jiang Ziyun.
Jiang Ziyun put down his brush and rose to give a brief bow with clasped hands, saying: “Huai younger brother, you’ve packed up and are ready to go home, I take it?”
“That’s right.”
Pei Shaohuai noticed that many hand-copied pages were scattered across the desk, drying their ink, and there was also a stack already folded neatly together. He asked: “Elder Brother Ziyun, are you copying books?”
“The coursework lately isn’t too demanding. I’m copying a few books for others, earning a little money to buy brush, ink, paper, and inkstone,” Jiang Ziyun replied without any sign of distress. “I consider it a way to review the texts and practice calligraphy.”
Jiang Ziyun’s characters were upright and slightly broad, the brushstrokes rounded and smooth, appearing neat and pleasing to the eye.
Although the Da Qing dynasty had developed printing on a large scale, many wealthy people still preferred hand-copied editions, finding them to have a richer flavor when read. It was common for bookshops to hire scholars to copy out volumes of text.
Pei Shaohuai had never lacked for the money to pursue his studies and had not suffered this kind of hardship — and so he made no comment. He borrowed Jiang Ziyun’s reading notes on the Book of Changes, lent Jiang Ziyun two volumes of A Brief Analysis of Military Strategy Across the Dynasties, and then took his leave without further interruption.
When Pei Shaohuai returned after the rest day, he observed for several days and found that something seemed not quite right. It was not only Jiang Ziyun who was copying books — in the neighboring dormitory courtyards as well, quite a number of students from humble backgrounds were copying books for others. They only needed to do the copying; the volumes and paper would be delivered by someone, and when the copying was done, someone would come to collect them.
There were also those skilled at painting who were producing copies of artworks for others.
Pei Shaohuai asked out of curiosity and learned that all these jobs had been introduced by a certain Licentiate Su. This Licentiate Su was in his mid-thirties, had been at the prefectural school for seven or eight years already, was a married man, lived in the northwest corner of the city, and rarely came to the prefectural school, appearing only for important ceremonies to mark his attendance.
Jiang Ziyun said: “Licentiate Su is acquainted with the proprietor of a bookshop in the south of the city. Knowing that several of us have limited funds, he introduced the work to us and even negotiated an extra ten wen per volume on our behalf. When I heard this, I felt it was not a particularly arduous task and that it could consolidate my learning while allowing me to earn a bit of pocket money — so I agreed.”
Seeing that Pei Shaohuai’s expression was not quite right, he asked: “Huai younger brother, is there something improper about this arrangement?”
Before Pei Shaohuai could open his mouth, there came the sound of knocking at the door, and in walked Licentiate Su with a broad smile, saying: “Oh, Young Master Pei is here too.”
Licentiate Su asked: “I wonder how far along Licentiate Jiang has gotten with that book — is there still much remaining?”
Jiang Ziyun replied: “About fifty pages more. It won’t be long.”
“No rush, no rush,” Licentiate Su said, his smile never wavering. He then produced a small pouch of coins, shaking it so that it jingled, and said: “I happened to pass by the bookshop today, and Proprietor Li settled the account with me early, so I’ve come to deliver your payment early as well. If this volume can be ready by tomorrow, that would be ideal — but if you can’t quite make it, a bit later won’t cause any problems.”
He leaned over to look at the characters Jiang Ziyun had copied and praised him: “Neat and graceful, with a quality of resilience — with such fine characters as Licentiate Jiang’s, there would be no difficulty raising the next volume by another twenty wen. Just wait until I deliver the next book to negotiate with Proprietor Li — I’ll get it raised for you.”
“Licentiate Su flatters me,” Jiang Ziyun said modestly.
After Licentiate Su had taken his leave, Pei Shaohuai said: “Elder Brother Ziyun still hasn’t noticed anything improper?”
Jiang Ziyun thought it over very carefully for a while, still wearing a puzzled expression: “Apart from urging me to deliver the book tomorrow, I don’t seem to have heard anything particularly amiss.” Delivering the book one day early meant that Jiang Ziyun would need to burn the midnight oil tonight.
Pei Shaohuai inwardly marveled — Jiang Ziyun had truly experienced too little of the world. He was no match for the seasoned old licentiate who had been navigating the waters for years, smooth and slippery all over. He had been calculated against without even being able to figure it out. At the same time, Pei Shaohuai found Jiang Ziyun’s upright and principled character genuinely rare, and could not bring himself not to reach out a hand to help him.
Only then did Pei Shaohuai lay out the crux of the matter: “The Superintendent of Education Zhao is making rounds to the various prefectures and counties of the Northern Metropolitan Region to organize the annual examination. This year he is beginning with Shuntian Prefecture. The exam is at the end of October — and it is already the beginning of September. Does Elder Brother Ziyun still have the heart to be copying books?”
The Superintendent’s organization of the annual examination would re-evaluate all the licentiates within Shuntian Prefecture, ranking them from superior to inferior, and determining rewards and punishments accordingly. Only those who received a superior rating could keep their stipendiary student status; otherwise, they would be replaced by others.
The Shuntian Prefectural School had a total of fifty stipendiary student positions. At present, six spots over this quota had already been filled, with others eyeing them greedily from behind — the ferocity of the competition was plain to see.
Pei Shaohuai added: “Helping someone when they are in a tight spot is in itself a good deed, but choosing this particular moment for it cannot help but make one suspect the motive. Think again — which people has Licentiate Su chosen to copy books for him?”
Only then did Jiang Ziyun realize that the classmates doing the copying were all, like him, either already stipendiary students or students who could compete for stipendiary positions — students from humble backgrounds who had seen some improvement in their circumstances but still had limited funds.
After years of hard study, being able to earn money with the very skills acquired through reading — it was very easy to be tempted.
There were plenty of poor licentiates who could do copying work; why seek out precisely their small group?
Pei Shaohuai concluded: “If Elder Brother Ziyun spends his time copying books and neglects review, and if your performance in the annual examination falls below the mark and you are replaced by someone else — with no stipend to be collected next year — would that not be picking up a copper coin only to lose a silver one?”
Jiang Ziyun was left speechless. A look of shame and embarrassment crossed his face. He could only take a step back, bow deeply toward Pei Shaohuai, and say with heartfelt gratitude: “Thank you, Huai younger brother, for waking me up. Without you, I do not know how many more stumbles I would have taken.”
Jiang Ziyun also said: “I’ll go right now and warn the other classmates, so they aren’t tripped up and harmed in their studies.”
“Elder Brother Ziyun, please wait,” Pei Shaohuai stopped him, offering this counsel: “If Elder Brother Ziyun were to do this, though you would be helping them, you would also be making an enemy of Licentiate Su. The prefectural school is a place you will be spending a long time. Licentiate Su is an old, smooth operator — he has many means at his disposal for making things difficult for newcomers.”
Taking on a mere licentiate would be easy enough given Pei Shaohuai’s own background and connections, but ultimately he was himself and Jiang Ziyun was Jiang Ziyun. If Pei Shaohuai wanted to help Jiang Ziyun, he should think about it from Jiang Ziyun’s point of view.
Once again awakened, Jiang Ziyun’s expression grew even more embarrassed.
“Huai younger brother is absolutely right,” Jiang Ziyun replied. “I only need to study diligently and prepare for the annual examination in plain view of the others — I expect they’ll be able to figure it out for themselves.”
“Indeed so,” Pei Shaohuai said.
Returning to his own room, Pei Shaohuai could not help but reflect with a sigh: Wherever there is competition, there are deep and shallow waters. The further one walks along the examination path, the cleverer the people encountered — and the fiercer the competition accordingly.
The path of government service afterward would be even more so.
Jiang Ziyun was upright and kind by nature, solid in his scholarship, but lacked experience in the world. Pei Shaohuai felt he was someone worth befriending.
…
Returning to the Earl’s mansion, Pei Shaohuai received a letter from his father.
Over the past year or more, Pei Bingyuan’s attitude toward Pei Shaohuai had been gradually changing. Previously, he had largely treated him as a child — every letter urged him to apply himself earnestly to his studies and keep his mind undivided. Since Pei Shaohuai had passed the prefectural examination and entered the Shuntian Prefectural School, Pei Bingyuan had begun writing to Pei Shaohuai in a consultative tone. The content of the letters had grown richer; he even occasionally vented his grievances.
He was treating Pei Shaohuai as half an adult.
For instance, in this letter, Pei Bingyuan complained that the social obligations with local officials were too many — “superiors come like clouds, visitors pass like rain” — and that he was fortunate Lin Shi had established a few shops for him at the Dongyang Wharf, otherwise it would have been truly difficult to manage the expenses. He was also troubled by the problem of fertile farmland in Yuchong County, saying that many fields buried under river sand had already begun growing reeds. If left untended for another year, they would truly turn into reed marshes.
Pei Shaohuai was quite fond of his father writing to him this way, for the tone was real enough that one could practically hear his father sulking.
He thought it over, took out some writing paper, and put brush to paper: “Father has always taught me and younger brother Jin that smooth socializing is insubstantial, while scholarship is what is real. I expect the same principle holds in officialdom — social obligations may be unavoidable, but only the record of governing accomplishments is something truly concrete and substantial.”
For the matter of the farmland buried under river sand, Pei Shaohuai wrote: “I have heard from Uncle Xu that last autumn, Baoding Prefecture submitted five hundred and thirty-seven shi of white sesame oil as the autumn grain tribute — a truly abundant harvest. Yuchong County is not far from Baoding Prefecture, and both are flat terrain. Although the sand-covered fields cannot grow grain, perhaps they could be shaped into furrows and ridges to try planting sesame. Yuchong County is exempt from taxation for three years — even if the harvest does not match that of the Baoding region, it would still be better than letting the land go to reeds.”
“Your son’s humble and shallow view — it may require Father to lead men in conducting an investigation before it can be known whether this is feasible.”
White sesame — that is, white sesame seeds. The Baoding region had always been known for its abundant production of sesame oil; Yuchong County following suit in planting sesame should not go wrong.