Chapter 1858 - Lingao's Literary Affairs

Among the four diagnostic methods—"observation, listening, inquiry, and pulse-taking"—"observation" carries something of the art of physiognomy. The middle-aged man before him appeared to be in his late thirties or just past forty. His temples and cheekbones were not prominent, indicating a childhood free from want. Between his brows lay a knot, and lines marked his forehead—signs of excessive worry and melancholy. When he alighted from the sedan, his hands and feet were steady; his gait was relaxed, yet his waist was stiff—suggesting he did not lack exercise but was habitually sedentary. Most importantly, this man was clearly no reckless adventurer. Certain concerns could be set aside.

"Would you be Master Zhang of Shaoxing?" Yang Shixiang cupped his hands in greeting.

"Indeed I am." Zhang Dai was somewhat puzzled as he appraised the ruddy-lipped, white-toothed prosperous gentleman before him. He returned the greeting. "Three days ago, this humble scholar borrowed a visiting card from Mr. Zhao of Sanshui to request an audience with the Master of Runshitang. I wonder—"

"Ha ha ha ha!" An inexplicable sense of satisfaction surged in Yang Shixiang's heart. "This humble one is indeed the proprietor of Runshitang..."

Eh... Zhang Dai was momentarily dazed. This was acceptable? Come to think of it, he had indeed "requested to see the Master of Runshitang," but... shouldn't you at least have shaved your head?

"The noon sun is harsh. Please come inside where we may converse, Master Zhang." Without waiting for a reply, Yang Shixiang stepped aside and ushered the bewildered Zhang Dai into Runshitang.

This flagship store designed by the Australians was fine in every respect save one—the Great World shop design philosophy was modern: small floor space and compact structure. Gone were the traditional front-shop-rear-workshop layouts, to say nothing of spacious courtyards. For a retail operation, this was actually scientific and rational; but for entertaining distinguished guests, it felt cramped: there was no suitable private room. Behind the shopfront lay only storerooms, an accounting office, a packaging workshop, and a few dormitory rooms. The grand "manager's office," though it included a reception area, measured only about ten square meters—acceptable by modern standards, but for those from "the old society," accustomed to lofty halls with proper left-right arrangements, it felt uncomfortably small. So after Yang Shixiang invited him to sit on the sofa, Zhang Dai couldn't help glancing around at this novel style of shop.

Only when the clerk brought cooling tea and pastries to the coffee table and withdrew did Zhang Dai come back to himself.

The tea was served in a glass tumbler, red tea with yellow citrus slices—he had drunk this at Zhao Yingong's place and knew it was called "lemon red tea," most refreshing for summer heat. As a connoisseur of fine food, he did not share others' wariness of cold foods. Besides, Australian cuisine was famously clean.

Though he had already drunk kvass, the iced red tea with its beads of condensation still awakened his appetite. He picked up the glass and took a small sip. Refreshing and pleasant, even better than kvass—which, though cooling and thirst-quenching, inevitably made one belch afterward, somewhat undignified.

On the plate beside him were more than a dozen neatly arranged pale yellow pastries, charmingly colored and studded with dried fruit. They resembled shortbread, with swirling patterns, yet emitted an indescribable sweet and rich fragrance.

This must be the famous "cookies." He had heard of these at the Liang mansion. The family's formal refreshments did not include them, but the more prominent maidservants and concubines all sent servants to buy this novel Australian confection.

Setting down his glass, he studied this "Master of Runshitang" carefully, privately puzzled.

"This..."

"I am the proprietor of Runshitang. This establishment is a branch of the Foshan Yang Runkaitang line. In my late father's generation, the family divided, and we settled in Qiongya, founding Runshitang." Yang Shixiang began his introduction, but seeing Zhang Dai's blank expression, he realized this Jiangnan scholar had never heard of Yang Runkaitang, a century-old shop in the Guangnan region—saying more would be pointless. "After the Australians entered Qiongya, because of two humanitarian medicines—'Plague-Dispelling Powder' and 'Zhuge Marching Pills'—our shop established a partnership with the Australians and later became a joint venture. However, the proprietor of Runshitang has always been myself." Yang Shixiang knew what the other party truly wanted and steered the conversation accordingly.

"How embarrassing. I only—" Zhang Dai had been about to say directly that he had come seeking the Australians, but that seemed too abrupt and impolite. He reorganized his words: "In Jiangnan, I had heard much about the exotic Australian goods flooding Guangli—fine foods and curious novelties. And there is Mr. Zhao Yingong of Sanshui, who trades in Australian books in Hangzhou and is quite expert in Australian studies. Several friends in our society became acquainted with him and admired him greatly. Thus I conceived the idea of traveling south. When I departed, Mr. Zhao presented me with a letter of introduction, saying that if I had need, I could inquire at Runshitang here in Guangli. Since you are willing to grant me an audience, I presume you know Mr. Zhao? Only I wonder—"

As he asked, Zhang Dai roughly guessed that if Zhao Yingong was indeed an "Australian"—whether genuine or false—the "Australian proprietor" of Runshitang would not be appropriate to meet with him. In that case, Proprietor Yang before him was probably the best person to see.

The meeting with the wrong person meant their conversation became rather bland. Yet Zhang Dai was after all a scion of privilege; in a few words, he took command of the situation—aided by Yang Shixiang's willingness to cooperate following Liu San's instructions. Zhang Dai first picked up Yang Shixiang's earlier mention of his father's migration and asked about daily life in Lingao in those early days. Then he praised Yang Shixiang's current prosperous business and inquired at length about the Australians' doings after their arrival in Lingao. Of course, to avoid seeming too deliberate, he interspersed questions about local diseases and common ailments in Guangli, subtly conveying his desire to visit Lingao while expressing various anxieties.

Yang Shixiang found it rather strange. Liu San had spent a long time briefing him the previous evening; the gist was to tell Master Zhang about Lingao's "transformation over the first five years and the next five years," to speak of the Executive Council's governing abilities, to discuss the Council's "pragmatic attitude" toward scholars, and especially to emphasize the Council's "achievements in civil governance." In Yang Shixiang's summary, the idea was to use the Council's civil and military accomplishments to awe this literary leader, clearly with designs on winning him over. If that was the case, this shouldn't be a trap. Still, he had to keep up appearances—just in case it was a trap, he mustn't let Zhang Dai slip away.

This time, he took the initiative in the conversation.

"Master Zhang asks about literary affairs in Lingao. This old man can perhaps say a word or two more." Yang Shixiang organized his thoughts and deliberately introduced the topic. "As they say, 'If one cannot become a virtuous minister, then become a skilled physician.' In truth, medical families have never lacked scholars in every generation."

Hearing the term "bell-ringing family," Zhang Dai complimented Yang Shixiang on his family's learned heritage, saying "bell-ringing" was too modest.

"In his youth, my late father was actually an aspiring scholar—well versed in the Four Books and Five Classics, practiced in the eight-legged essay. But he offended his teacher in the academy, and thereafter his path to an official career was forever closed." Yang Shixiang grew wistful as he spoke.

This was an old grievance of his father's. Though he never mentioned it normally, in old age he spoke of it often. Even after several decades, the resentment was palpable. This had also planted in Yang Shixiang a profound aversion to the examination system.

Zhang Dai thought of his own status as an old xiucai in his forties and felt a certain kinship—at his age, he had finally seen clearly that his examination failure stemmed fundamentally from his heartfelt dislike of the eight-legged essay. "May I ask what happened?" Zhang Dai found himself asking.

"Because my father asked his teacher a question." Yang Shixiang spoke slowly. "The phrase 'a cunning mind in drawing water with an earthen jar' does not appear in the sages' words, but is found in Zhuangzi's wild fancies. Zhuangzi's accounts are all fabricated parables, not actual events, meant to convey principles. Why, over a thousand years, have people attributed 'cunning mind' to the sages' words? Why do they use Zhuangzi's allegory to condemn the hundred crafts?"

Zhang Dai recognized this at once as the passage from the Zhuangzi, the "Heaven and Earth" chapter, spoken through the mouths of Zigong and an old farmer. The doctrine of "those who use machines will have machinations; those with machinations in their hearts have cunning minds"—Zhang Dai found this logic specious, but the focus of study was not this sentence but the next: "If a cunning mind is lodged in the breast, then pure simplicity is impaired; if pure simplicity is impaired, the spirit becomes unsettled; those whose spirits are unsettled cannot bear the Dao." This passage was acknowledged by both Laozi-Zhuangzi and Confucius-Mencius alike: with an unsettled spirit, how could one bear the Dao? As he recalled this and listened, Yang Shixiang's father's teacher had indeed said the same thing. Yet Yang Shixiang's father had persisted relentlessly, insisting on resolving the "cunning mind" issue.

"The old man carried a jar to water his garden, yet sneered at the well-sweep. Did he not realize that the jar itself is a machine? Shaping clay to make the body, felling trees for charcoal, sealing earth for a kiln, committing it to fire, a hundred crafts laboring together—only then is the jar made. If one wishes to water the ground without machinery, why not scoop the water with one's hands?"

At this point, Zhang Dai and Yang Shixiang laughed together.

"Master Yuan struck my father's palm with a ruler, saying 'You know the affairs of craftsmen in great detail,' and 'Medical diviners and menial workers, deaf to the great Dao, silver-tongued sophists, capable only of clever prattle.' Thereafter, he repeatedly said my father was 'not one of our Way,' that 'he neither plows nor reads; in ancient times Emperor Hui asked why the starving did not eat meat congee; now young Yang would scoop water with his hands. What a petty man!'" At this, Yang Shixiang's face was stern, a flicker of anger in his eyes.

Zhang Dai, hearing this, understood that such a condemnation was far too severe. For a tongsheng who did not come from a scholarly family, it was effectively a death sentence. The matter was surely not so simple; that Master Yuan would not have sentenced a student to death over one or two questions. But what Yang Shixiang wanted to convey was certainly not some actual "dark secret."

"Yet even to the day he died, my father never understood why carrying a jar meant no cunning mind." Yang Shixiang sighed. In truth, Zhang Dai knew, what remained ununderstood was actually "why using machinery means having a cunning mind"—and going further, "why medical diviners and the hundred crafts are inferior people."

The conversation seemed incomplete, for Yang Shixiang had said he would discuss "literary affairs in Lingao."

(End of Chapter)