Chapter 921 – The Lesson Plan

Gao Xuan picked up his repeatedly patched zhishu robe from the creaking bamboo-strip bed. This was his finest garment—worn only when visiting his teacher at the academy.

Scholar Gao was not yet thirty, having earned his xiucai degree at a young age. That counted as promising. But his family was desperately poor. Apart from a rundown house passed down from his ancestors and some broken furniture, the place was virtually bare.

He put on the robe and carefully brushed off the dust. His wife—the scholar's lady—walked in from the outer room where she'd been cooking. She was the daughter of a common family; her father sold wine on the street. She'd only married this poor scholar because her father thought it would be respectable to have a son-in-law who was a degree-holder.

"Husband, we've run out of rice—" the scholar's lady said timidly. Rice prices in Hangzhou had been rising sharply lately. Even barley and buckwheat, which few people usually wanted, had risen to a thousand cash per shi.

Since spring, almost no rain had fallen across northern Zhejiang. At planting time, they'd barely managed by pumping water to irrigate the fields. But if this drought continued, another disaster year was clearly coming. Those with any savings were buying up grain in large quantities, and the grain merchants were naturally seizing the opportunity to raise prices.

"Then just buy some barley. What do you expect me to do—conjure rice out of thin air?" Scholar Gao hated hearing about such mundane matters as rice and firewood. He felt utterly helpless about them. If his wife wanted to discuss some admirable recent eight-legged essays or the School of Mind, he'd be happy to oblige.

"There's no money left either..." The scholar's lady hadn't wanted to disturb her husband's good mood, but they genuinely had neither rice nor money.

Gao Xuan sighed and rummaged all over himself, finally finding a string of fifty or sixty small coins in his sleeve. He gave them to his wife and hurried outside—home made him feel stifled.

Gao Xuan had no livelihood. A few years ago, when the family still had a modest property, life had been passable. He'd devoted himself to study, making friends and connections with teachers and fellow scholars, hoping to pass the examinations and rise. A few years ago his parents died one after the other; then he married. The weddings and funerals had consumed whatever little remained. Now if he continued like this, he'd have to go "begging"—relying on his father-in-law for support. Gao Xuan pretended not to know, didn't ask questions, but was aware that over the past few months, the household's daily necessities had mostly come from his father-in-law.

This can't go on, he thought heavily. Today he was heading to Wanbi Bookshop. A few days ago, he and some friends had visited the famous establishment and been amazed by its environment and the abundance of finely printed books. The shop assistants were warm and courteous. A group of impoverished scholars had spent half a day reading without being bothered—tea was even provided. Gao Xuan had found a large set of Complete Collection of Illustrations and Writings from the Earliest to Current Times and had devoured it until the shop closed.

The bookshop had become his refuge—a good place to kill time and escape reality.

On the street, the sunlight was already scorching. The bare streets offered no shade at all—dust billowed, and the stench was everywhere.

Gao Xuan walked under the sun and was soon drenched in sweat. Watching the gentry pass by in bamboo-lattice sedan chairs attended by swarms of servants, he felt both envy and resentment.

Those scoundrels stuffed with the fat of the people! he cursed under his breath, even as he envied them.

It took him about three-quarters of an hour to reach Wanbi Bookshop. The street in front of the shop was already packed with sedan chairs and filled with attendant servants—many wealthy gentry families came here too. Gao Xuan carefully avoided them, skirting along the base of the wall to enter through the main gate.

Inside, it was cool and comfortable. The air was filled with the rich scent of books, mingled with faint fragrances of flowers and tea. Gao Xuan felt invigorated and walked briskly in.

The bookshop was spacious. Birds of a feather flock together; the shop had several halls, and Gao Xuan went to "Wenxi Hall"—a cheerful name that offered some psychological comfort to struggling scholars. Readers and chatterers here were mostly scholars from poor families—impoverished candidates and sour xiucai types.

Thanks to the large glass windows, the hall was well-lit. Outside, the sun blazed, but awnings over the windows blocked direct sunlight, keeping the room pleasantly cool. Just outside the windows was a small courtyard full of lush greenery—cool to look at.

Wenxi Hall's décor and furniture were simple and practical: rattan long chairs and wooden long tables. Scholars who'd arrived before Gao Xuan sat or strolled about, all reading with great absorption. When they found something good, some would shake their heads and recite aloud. Others had spread paper and ink on the long tables and were copying passages. Some—perhaps having slept too late—were simply slumped at their desks, snoring away.

At some distance from the tables and chairs, behind bamboo partitions, was a brighter section where scholars were engaged in animated debate. Gao Xuan heard them discussing the "School of Mind."

Gao Xuan greeted a few acquaintances and walked straight to a wooden counter in the corner, producing a card. This was a Wanbi Bookshop borrowing card. Because Gao Xuan couldn't afford the one-tael silver deposit, he'd registered for a Class B card—reading only in the shop, not borrowing to take home.

The clerk behind the counter took his card and opened a large "ledger"—actually a register noting the cardholder's name, address, borrowing times, types of books borrowed, and a column for "referrer." Recording the referrer was to roughly track relationships among these people.

The clerk checked the ledger, quickly found the book from his last visit, and without being told, sent over the second volume of Complete Collection of Illustrations and Writings from the Earliest to Current Times.

Gao Xuan found a seat and took out a bamboo cup from his robe—engraved by machine with "Compliments of Wanbi Bookshop." Each cardholder received one. Per shop rules, those who brought this cup could drink tea for free. The tea wasn't fancy, but it was good new tea of the year—not the bottom-of-the-barrel dust sold in cheap tea shops outside.

A clerk came by with a large tin-spouted teapot and filled Gao Xuan's cup, then politely moved on to serve others.

While Gao Xuan was absorbed in his reading, at Zhao Yingong's private residence, Daoist Zhang had come to visit.

"Right now, outside the church at Tianshui Bridge, it's quite lively," Daoist Zhang said with a smile, putting a cherry in his mouth.

The cherries had been sent by Zhang Dai's household that morning—four or five jin wrapped in lotus leaves, placed in an exquisite bamboo basket, covered with tree leaves. Two household servants had ceremoniously delivered them to Zhao Yingong's residence; Zhao Yingong had been obliged to tip them several hundred cash.

The cherries sat in a large-mouthed glass jar, glistening enticingly.

Zhao Yingong said nothing. He was carefully blowing at the tender leaves of pre-Qingming Longjing floating in his tea bowl—a gift from another Hangzhou gentleman a few days ago; the man owned a tea garden near Longjing. In this respect, at least, the Great Ming surpassed the old timeline.

Under the Daoist's tireless promotion, the Hangzhou Religious Case had finally erupted. A few days earlier, Zhang Tian and Huang Zhen had delivered A Preliminary Critique of Heaven to the Catholic church, and at the same time hired many idlers to post copies of the full text at temples and Daoist shrines throughout Hangzhou, demanding a formal response from the Hangzhou Church.

"Give it a few more days and the flames will burn even higher," Zhang Yingchen said with a smile. "The church's senior figures may come to you for advice."

Zhao Yingong shook his head. "That's impossible. I'm just a visiting xiucai staying here."

"You underestimate yourself." Zhang Yingchen smiled. "Wanbi Bookshop is now one of Hangzhou's most famous cultural salons. I hear even the county magistrates of Qiantang and Renhe admire you..."

"Stop—you're giving me goosebumps..."

Zhang Yingchen continued: "It's the absolute truth. Your free book-lending strategy at Wanbi Bookshop has earned you quite a bit of reputation. This is all accurate."

Zhao Yingong had intended this move precisely to "cultivate prestige." Otherwise, as an outsider, how could he build a name for himself in Hangzhou? Without some reputation in this era, without the patronage of officials and gentry, it was very hard to get anything done—let alone his next step of taking in refugees.

"Let's set that aside. You've accelerated the Hangzhou Religious Case. What's your next move?"

"Strike while the iron is hot!" Zhang Yingchen said decisively. "I've already passed Refutation of Heterodox Learning in the Fujian edition to Zhang Tian. With his ability, he can easily spot the problems and write Exposing Falsehoods without much effort."

"I have more ammunition here." Zhang Yingchen produced a sheet of paper from his robe. Zhao Yingong took it. The article was written in classical Chinese, clearly attacking the Church based on the contents of the Bible. Zhao Yingong found the examples and phrasing familiar. Halfway through, he suddenly realized—this was Bo Yang's famous anti-religious essay!

Zhao Yingong was somewhat worried. "Daoist! The other material is fine—Exposing Falsehoods and such are theological and philosophical debates. But Bo Yang's essay has far greater killing power. If this gets out, the damage to the Church would be too great. We're counting on them to help us, remember—don't destroy them entirely."

"No worries. Unless we push the Church into a blizzard they can't bear, how will they appreciate your help?"

"The problem is I can't actually help." Zhao Yingong knew very well that Bo Yang's approach had been to use the enemy's spear against their own shield. To refute this essay, first he lacked the theological depth, second he lacked Bo Yang's essay-writing skill. And then it occurred to him: there was no Chinese-language Bible in this timeline. The Jesuits knew the only Chinese Bible was Australian. Once this essay appeared, it would surely arouse Jesuit suspicion.