Just as Old Qin, convinced Ning Yi had genuine talent, was feeling a pang of regret over what he saw as the short-sightedness of a man who’d marry into a merchant family, Ning Yi himself was walking into Yushan Academy under the morning light, getting ready to spend the whole morning teaching a group of children the Analects.
Yushan Academy wasn’t actually located anywhere called Yushan—it was a private school run by the Su family, which would also take in outside students with some connection to the family, though the school itself wasn’t large, mainly because few people came to study there. Yushan was in fact the name of a mountain back in the Su family’s ancestral hometown.
The academy sat on a street not far from the main Su estate, a street free of dense rows of shops and therefore reasonably quiet. Enclosed by gray tiles and white walls, with a small stand of bamboo, and a signboard reading “Yushan Academy” written by some famous scholar hung up front, the place did carry a faint air of scholarly refinement.
The academy currently had forty-nine students and seven teachers, including its headmaster, Su Chonghua—by that ratio the teaching staff was fairly strong. Su Chonghua himself was a member of the Su family; he had passed the provincial examination in his younger years and served as an official for some time, though apparently without much to show for it—there were even rumors he’d gotten into some kind of trouble. Two of the other teachers were elderly men with prior official experience, hired at high salaries. Besides the teachers and students, there were also a handful of cooks and odd-job servants.
The Su family had put considerable effort into this academy, but whether because the teachers weren’t up to much or the students happened to be uniformly slow, the school had never produced any notable results. Students it had trained in the past, once they realized the imperial examinations were beyond their reach, mostly ended up working in the Su family’s shops, which made the academy feel more like a vocational school than anything else. Any family truly set on having their child pursue the examination path and an official career would generally transfer the child to a better school before age twelve.
Ning Yi had now been teaching here for three days. Su Chonghua treated him decently, making no trouble for him over his status as a live-in son-in-law—a man who’d spent years navigating the world and had grown shrewd enough had no need to bother with something so petty. Given that Ning Yi had no real scholarly credentials—as everyone agreed—he’d been assigned to teach the group of children who had only recently begun their basic education. There were sixteen of them in total, aged six to twelve, including two little girls with braided hair, both relatives of the Su family sent to learn some characters. The previous teacher had finished the Classic of Filial Piety and moved on to the Analects; Ning Yi now taught them for a fixed morning session each day, while the afternoons were more relaxed, covering ritual, music, archery, chariot-driving, and arithmetic—mostly arithmetic—with everything else left to whichever teacher happened to be available and in the mood.
At a better, more properly run school, this curriculum would have been more standardized and more detailed, but Yushan Academy obviously lacked the resources for that. For Ning Yi, teaching the Analects was actually quite simple. He couldn’t recite the whole text from memory or say exactly where any given line appeared, but if all that was required was reading it aloud and giving a basic explanation, that was about as easy as it got—any modern person with a high-school education could, given a little time, cobble together a passable explanation of the Analects, in plain vernacular, of course.
In ancient times, the great scholars who truly studied the Four Books and Five Classics went remarkably deep—deep enough that a courtesan’s classical prose composition might put a modern professor to shame. But most students of the time never got the chance at such advanced education; some might finish the Analects and not even be able to find a copy of Mencius. The minimum standard for a teacher was simple: put plainly, being able to teach people their characters was enough. Ning Yi’s predecessor had done exactly that—having the children read aloud in a sing-song rhythm, offering the most basic explanation of the text’s meaning whenever the mood struck him, and periodically requiring the students to recite or write out passages from memory as a kind of test; those who failed got their palms struck.
It was all quite simple, really. Ning Yi didn’t plan to change much. For the first two hours he had the students recite the Analects aloud in that same sing-song rhythm—reading nonstop for two hours straight was genuinely painful for Ning Yi, though the children were used to it by now—and for the next two hours, he’d spend the first half explaining the content of a passage, then wander freely into anecdotes, digressions, and stories, giving the kids a bit of a break.
These children were easy to teach. Even after just three days, Ning Yi could already clearly feel that reverent, deferential atmosphere in the classroom. The kids showed no trace of individuality at all—and children without much individuality were the most adorable kind. They treasured the chance to study, weren’t mischievous or difficult, and if something minor happened and you swatted their backsides for it, they took it as only natural. It was a teacher’s paradise. Ning Yi found the teaching thoroughly pleasant; after a mere three days, a bit of classical text and a story here and there was more than enough to satisfy these kids completely, and delivering it required no lesson planning at all—he could just go with the flow.
That day he began explaining the passage on “wealth and rank are things all men desire…” working from the proper means of acquiring wealth into the way of commerce, weaving in phrases like “a gentleman gains wealth only by the proper way” along with his own explanations. In his previous life Ning Yi had made a living doing exactly this kind of thing; setting the classical text aside, if he simply wanted to hold forth on the subject, he could easily have lectured doctoral students at a modern university. But the audience in front of him was a group of children under twelve, so after a few remarks he moved on, tossing in a couple of small illustrative anecdotes for fun, then segued into the six connected boats of the Pu Garden poetry gathering, and from there into the Battle of Red Cliffs, launching into the story for the kids.
In this era, the stories concerning the Three Kingdoms period mainly came from Chen Shou’s Records of the Three Kingdoms. Ning Yi had never read that; what he told followed the pattern of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, further polished by all manner of modern adaptations, brimming with drama and wish-fulfillment—from Cao Cao’s eight hundred thousand troops marching south, to Zhou Yu’s scheme with Huang Gai, the chained ships, the borrowing of arrows with straw boats. The children, who normally didn’t hear many stories at all, sat there flush-faced with excitement, constantly piping up: “Teacher, teacher, what happens next…?” Partway through, though, the children fell suddenly quiet, because Headmaster Su Chonghua had walked up beside the classroom, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back and an expressionless face—though even that couldn’t erase the excitement written all over the children’s faces.
Having already gotten into the story, Ning Yi wasn’t about to let such a small thing distract him, and kept going all the way to the fire that destroyed the chained fleet, finishing just before noon. Su Chonghua had been standing outside listening the entire time; it was hard to say exactly what expression he wore. Once he’d finished the story, Ning Yi brushed onto rice paper one of his favorite classical poems on the subject of Red Cliffs. With no blackboard to write on, putting anything down was inconvenient. Having grown rather fond of the teaching profession, Ning Yi thought to himself as he wrote that he ought to “invent” something like a whiteboard—even writing with charcoal would beat a sand tray. Once he finished, the students hurried to copy it down on paper. Stepping outside, Su Chonghua came forward to greet him, a smile finally breaking through his otherwise blank expression.
“Nephew, your talent is impressive—such deep study of the history of the Three Kingdoms and Wei-Jin period. That story just now, I take it, was drawn from Chen Shou’s Records of the Three Kingdoms?”
Had Old Qin been present, he might well have scolded Ning Yi for spinning nonsense and leading students astray. In truth, the real Records of the Three Kingdoms was nowhere near so dramatic—the “borrowing arrows with straw boats” episode, for instance, actually involved Sun Quan taking a boat out for a look around, getting shot at, and having one side of the boat so riddled with arrows it nearly capsized, so he ordered the boat turned around to let the other side take the arrows and balance it out before sailing away. Ning Yi had only ever watched television adaptations of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and Su Chonghua had never read the actual Records either—he’d simply been listening to Ning Yi’s story like a piece of professional storytelling, thoroughly entertained, and had come over now to praise his broad learning and the story’s captivating quality.
After a few words of praise, though, Su Chonghua also delivered a pointed hint: there was no need to be quite so easygoing with these students. Had Ning Yi already been some fifty- or sixty-year-old scholar, the man probably wouldn’t have said any of this—but since Ning Yi looked barely into his twenties, practically fuzz-faced, he needed to be stricter with the children in order to project a teacher’s proper authority. It was plain Su Chonghua wasn’t pleased that a lesson on the Analects had turned into a story about the Three Kingdoms, especially one told so vividly, practically like something out of a teahouse storyteller’s routine. Ning Yi nodded along, humble and respectful, then turned and paid it no more mind.
Afterward, Su Chonghua invited him to eat lunch at the academy. Ordinary small households generally ate only two meals a day, and some couldn’t even manage that, but the Su family, with its considerable wealth, had added a third, midday meal—though it wasn’t a formal affair, sometimes just pastries in place of a proper meal. Ning Yi politely declined the invitation and headed home to change clothes, handing the wet ones to Xiao Chan to be washed and returned to Old Qin—though he said nothing about having fallen in the river, to avoid her making a fuss and stuffing him with a pile of medicine. In these past few days of teaching at the academy, Xiao Chan hadn’t been following him around every moment; her mornings were now free for other tasks.
In the afternoon, he went back to the bank of the Qin Huai River to play chess. Old Qin really was an odd character—Ning Yi had already suspected he must have once held some official post, and after visiting his home that morning, he was even more convinced of it. The furnishings and style of that household weren’t something an ordinary person could have, and combined with the man’s speech and breadth of knowledge, it really was strange that such a person spent his days setting up a chess stall by the river.
When Ning Yi arrived that day, another old man was already there playing chess with Old Qin. This one’s surname was Kang, roughly the same age as Old Qin, from a wealthy family, carrying himself with the airs of an old patriarch—dressed in resplendent finery whenever he went out, with two young manservants and two maids clearing his path. He had a stern face and a rather sharp tongue, but his chess skill was considerable. Every time he saw Ning Yi, he’d criticize his style of play as “utterly base,” “with no trace of gentlemanly bearing,” “how could anyone play such a stubborn, clinging game,” “this young upstart is insufferable”—and then, the moment Ning Yi’s back was turned, he’d absorb the very same style, adapt it slightly, and use it in his own fierce battles against Old Qin. In truth, Old Qin’s skill surpassed his by a good margin, and once he absorbed a new idea, he refined it until it lost all trace of its rough origins.
Since arriving here, Ning Yi had met plenty of people—ordinary folk, children with little education, or people with some education whose thinking was still rigid. Whether you called it pedantic or simply honest, their outlook and way of thinking were indeed nowhere near as flexible as a modern person’s. But at the higher levels, they were no worse than moderns. Old Qin, for instance, said nothing aloud, but his mind naturally worked to digest anything he found novel, turning over the ideas and principles behind it. This Old Kang, meanwhile, spouted endless talk of propriety, righteousness, integrity, and virtue, but when it actually came to playing chess, he remained utterly ruthless and unrestrained by any rule. Of course, if not for people like Ning Yi and Old Qin, one might never notice this ruthlessness in him—he simply fell a bit short of Old Qin, but was still leagues above an ordinary person.
Old Qin and several of his chess companions had lately taken to studying Ning Yi’s style of play—after all, having suddenly encountered such novel approaches, there was real value in studying them. Ning Yi, for his part, showed the old man little deference. Sometimes he ignored Old Kang’s blustering indignation entirely; other times he’d needle him: “You talk one way and act another, old man—no decent person does that.” “Go on, play that move if you dare! Try it, I dare you!” Ordinarily, hardly any young person dared talk back to this Old Kang, and the two of them would bicker away beside the chess stall while Old Qin sat by laughing. If Old Kang was playing against Old Qin himself, Old Qin would say, “Liheng has a point there.” If the opponent was Ning Yi, Old Qin would join Old Kang in denouncing whatever underhanded move Ning Yi had just made.
Yet even amid all the bickering, there was no real ill will between them. Old Kang had at first genuinely treated Ning Yi as an ignorant upstart to be lectured, but eventually came to recognize he really was worth treating as an opponent, and Ning Yi, for his part, had never once positioned himself as some junior in the first place. Regardless, whenever Old Kang came by, he always brought along a pot of fine tea—having his servants carry the tea set, the leaves, and the water themselves, with a maid brewing it at the side table by the chess stall. Ning Yi never stood on ceremony either, simply grabbing a cup for himself, pulling up a stool beside the board, and after a sip of tea, remarking: “Ah, looks like Old Kang’s about to lose.”
The old man, deep in calculation over the board, raised an eyebrow. “What would a fuzz-faced brat like you know about winning and losing? Drinking my tea and talking like that… Hmph, I’ve already got a brilliant move planned…”
He raised his hand to place a stone, but Ning Yi gave a light cough, and the old man’s hand froze instantly, glancing over suspiciously before withdrawing. Ning Yi took another sip of tea. “This cup of tea alone was worth it… hm, what kind is this?”
“You uncultured brat, what a waste on you—have you even heard of this tea before?”
Old Qin, also sipping his own cup, laughed. “Fine tea indeed—though it’s rather a shame to brew it out here on the street like this. Had I known he’d bring this today, we should have played this game back at the house instead.”
Old Kang paid that no mind, having finally settled on his move; he reached out and placed his stone. “Tea exists to be drunk. When everyone’s chess spirits are high and like minds have gathered, drinking the tea together—that’s what truly matters. Tea is a lifeless thing, created only to please you and me; if we find it worth drinking, then it has value. What is there to be sparing about?”
“That’s quite the noble sentiment, Old Kang—sounds like something a great man would say.”
“What great man, I’m just an old…”
“This ‘old’ fellow here has just lost.”
“Er…”
Ning Yi patted his shoulder and stood up laughing. The scenery along the Qin Huai River was pleasant at that hour, and he wandered off with his teacup in hand, while behind him Old Qin had already placed a stone with a laugh. Old Kang protested, “How could you possibly…”
“Ha ha, seeing you’d brought such fine tea today, I’d meant to play a sloppy game or two on the sly, but that speech of yours was so full of noble spirit—when gentlemen keep company, that’s exactly how it ought to be. I won’t pretend otherwise, ha ha ha ha…”
Old Kang was clearly displeased at having brought fine tea only to lose the game, but a loss was a loss, and he admitted as much. He called Ning Yi back over and the three of them reviewed the game together, after which Old Kang went back to playing against Old Qin. In the course of it, Old Qin brought up the amusing story of how Ning Yi had fallen into the river that morning trying to save someone, only to get slapped for his trouble, and Ning Yi couldn’t escape a round of gleeful mockery from Old Kang over it. Afterward, the two old men fell to discussing the recent news of Liao incursions in the north again.
The late-autumn sun was still fairly bright, but by afternoon a wind had picked up over the Qin Huai River. By the time the game ended, it was already getting late, and everyone headed home.
Having spent half the afternoon in that wind, Ning Yi woke the next morning feeling somewhat foggy-headed, uncertain whether he’d caught a cold.