Chapter 153: The Religious Case

Gao Xuan took his patched and re-patched robe from the creaking bamboo bed—it was his best garment, which he only wore when he went to the academy to see his teacher.

Scholar Gao was not old. He had obtained the title of Xiucai before he was thirty, which was considered young and promising. But his family was truly destitute. Besides a dilapidated house and some broken furniture passed down from his ancestors, his home was practically empty.

He put on his clothes and carefully dusted them off. His wife, who was cooking in the outer room, came in. She was the daughter of a commoner family; her father was a street vendor who sold wine. He had married his daughter to this poor scholar because he thought it was respectable to be related to a scholar.

“Husband, there’s no rice left in the house—” the scholar’s wife said timidly. The price of rice in Hangzhou had risen sharply recently. Even barley and buckwheat, which were usually not in high demand, had risen to a thousand cash per shi.

Since the beginning of spring, there had been almost no rain in the entire northern Zhejiang region. When it was time to plant the rice seedlings, they had managed to get by with water wheels to irrigate the fields, but the drought continued. It looked like this year would be another disaster year. Families with some means were buying up large quantities of grain, and the rice merchants, of course, had also raised their prices in response.

“Just buy some barley for now. Do you think I can conjure rice out of thin air just by you telling me?” Scholar Gao hated hearing about these matters of daily sustenance. He felt very incompetent in these things. If his wife had been willing to discuss the brilliant essays of this year’s examinations or “the study of the mind,” he would have been happy to discuss them.

“There’s no money left in the house…” The scholar’s wife had originally not wanted to disturb her “husband’s” good mood, but there was truly neither rice nor money.

Gao Xuan sighed and fumbled around his clothes. He finally found a string of fifty or sixty small coins in his sleeve and gave them to his wife. He then quickly walked out—the house made him feel suffocated.

Gao Xuan had no means of livelihood. A few years ago, his family still had some meager property, and life was manageable. He studied hard and made friends with teachers and students, hoping to advance in his studies and pass the provincial examinations. A few years ago, his parents had passed away one after another, and he had gotten married. The red and white affairs had completely consumed what little property was left. If he continued like this, he would have to go “begging”—relying on his father-in-law for support. Although Gao Xuan pretended not to know and didn’t ask, he knew that for the past few months, the family’s firewood, rice, oil, and salt had mostly been provided by his father-in-law.

“How can I go on like this?” Gao Xuan’s heart was heavy. He was going to the Wanbi Bookstore today. A few days ago, he and a few friends had gone there after hearing of its fame, and they had been amazed by the environment and the wide variety of beautifully printed books. The shop assistants were also warm and polite. They did not interfere with the group of poor scholars and students reading there, and even provided tea. Gao Xuan had found a large set of the “Complete Collection of Ancient and Modern Books” there and had read it for half a day, forgetting to eat or sleep, until the bookstore was about to close.

The bookstore had become a good place for him to pass the time and escape from reality.

On the street, the sun was already scorching hot. The bare street had no shade, and the air was filled with dust and a foul smell.

Gao Xuan walked under the sun, and soon his head was covered in sweat. Seeing the gentry and wealthy households passing by in their cool bamboo sedan chairs, surrounded by servants, he was both envious and resentful.

“A bunch of corrupt officials full of the people’s blood and sweat!” he cursed under his breath, but he was very envious in his heart.

He walked for almost three-quarters of an hour before he reached the Wanbi Bookstore. The street in front of the bookstore was already filled with sedan chairs, and many servants were standing around—many of the visitors to the bookstore were from wealthy gentry families. Gao Xuan carefully avoided these people and walked into the main entrance from the side of the wall.

The room was cool and comfortable, and the air was filled with the rich fragrance of books, as well as a faint scent of flowers and tea. Gao Xuan’s spirits lifted, and he walked inside.

The bookstore was very large. As the saying goes, “birds of a feather flock together.” The bookstore had several halls. Gao Xuan went to the “Wenxi Hall”—the name sounded auspicious and gave some psychological comfort to the poor scholars who were struggling. The people reading and chatting here were mostly scholars from poor families, all of them poor students and sour scholars.

Thanks to the large glass windows, the hall was brightly lit. The sun was dazzling outside, but sunshades had been installed above the windows, preventing the sun from shining directly into the room. The temperature was just right. In addition, outside the window was a small courtyard, full of lush greenery, which also made it feel cool.

The decoration and furniture of the “Wenxi Hall” were mainly simple and practical, with long rattan chairs and long wooden tables. The scholars who had arrived before Gao Xuan were either sitting or pacing, all engrossed in their reading. When they came across a beautiful passage, some would even shake their heads and chant it aloud. Others had spread out paper and ink on the long tables and were busy copying the contents of the books. There were also some who, perhaps having slept too late, were now hunched over the tables, fast asleep.

A little further away from these tables and chairs were separate partitions, where some scholars were engaged in animated discussions. Gao Xuan heard them talking about “the study of the mind.”

Gao Xuan greeted a few acquaintances and went straight to the wooden counter in the corner, taking out a card. It was a library card from the Wanbi Bookstore. Because Gao Xuan could not afford the one-tael silver deposit, he had a Class B card, which only allowed him to read in the bookstore and not take books home.

The assistant behind the wooden counter took his card and opened a large “account book”—a registration book that recorded the cardholder’s name, address, borrowing time, the types of books previously borrowed, and a column for “introducer.” The purpose of registering the introducer was to get a general idea of the relationships between these people.

The assistant checked the account book and quickly found the book he had borrowed last time. Without him having to say anything, he brought him the second volume of the “Complete Collection of Ancient and Modern Books.”

Gao Xuan found a seat and took out a bamboo cup from his sleeve—it had the words “A Gift from Wanbi Bookstore” carved on it by a machine. Everyone who got a card received one, and according to the bookstore’s rules, those who brought their own cups could drink tea here for free. The tea was not particularly good, but it was a good new tea of the year, not the tea dust sold in cheap teahouses outside.

The assistant came over with a large tin-spouted teapot, filled Gao Xuan’s teacup with tea, said a few polite words, and then went to refill the cups of others.

While Gao Xuan was engrossed in his reading, the Taoist priest Zhang had already paid a visit to Zhao Yingong’s private residence.

“Right now, the entrance to the church at Tianshui Bridge is very lively,” the Taoist priest said with a smile, popping a cherry into his mouth.

The cherries had been sent by Zhang Dai’s family early in the morning. About three to five catties of cherries were wrapped in lotus leaves and placed in an exquisite bamboo basket, covered with leaves. Two servants had delivered them to Zhao Yingong’s residence with great ceremony, and Zhao Yingong had had to give them a few hundred cash as a reward.

The cherries were placed in a large-mouthed glass jar, bright and tempting, looking very appetizing.

Zhao Yingong said nothing. He was carefully blowing on the tender leaves of the pre-Qingming Longjing floating on his teacup—a gift from another scholar in Hangzhou a few days ago. He had a tea garden near Longjing. In terms of this kind of enjoyment, it was a rare place that surpassed the old world.

The Hangzhou religious case, pushed forward relentlessly by the Taoist priest, had finally broken out. A few days ago, Zhang Tian and Huang Zhen had already submitted the “Initial Discourse on Debating Heaven” to the Catholic church, and at the same time hired many idle people to post the full text of the proclamation in various temples and monasteries in Hangzhou, demanding a positive response from the Hangzhou church.

“You’ll see, in a few more days, this fire will burn even brighter,” Zhang Yingchen said with a grin. “The big shots at the church might even come to you for advice.”

Zhao Yingong shook his head. “How is that possible? I’m just a scholar staying here temporarily.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Zhang Yingchen said with a smile. “The Wanbi Bookstore is now a famous cultural salon in Hangzhou. I heard that even the county magistrates of Qiantang and Renhe are very fond of you…”

“Don’t, you’re giving me goosebumps…”

Zhang Yingchen said, “It’s absolutely true. Your strategy of lending books for free at the Wanbi Bookstore has earned you a great deal of prestige.”

Zhao Yingong thought that this move was originally intended to “cultivate his reputation.” Otherwise, as an outsider, how could he make a name for himself in Hangzhou? In these times, without some fame and the protection of the government and gentry, it was difficult to do anything, let alone his next step of taking in refugees.

“Let’s not talk about this. The Hangzhou religious case has already been brought forward by you. What are you going to do next?”

“Of course, we’ll heat things up!” Zhang Yingchen said decisively. “I have already given the Fujian woodblock edition of the ‘Legacy of Debating Learning’ to Zhang Tian. With his ability, he can certainly find the problems in it, and writing the ‘Discourse on Refuting Falsehoods’ would be a piece of cake.”

“I have another move up my sleeve,” Zhang Yingchen said, taking out a piece of paper from his bosom. Zhao Yingong took it. The article on the paper was written in classical Chinese, and from the content, it was clearly an attack on the church based on the text of the Bible. Zhao Yingong felt that the examples and wording were very familiar. Halfway through, he suddenly remembered—wasn’t this the famous anti-religious essay written by Bo Yang?

Zhao Yingong was a little worried. “Daozhang! The other things are fine—the ‘Discourse on Refuting Falsehoods’ and the like are ultimately discussions of theology and philosophy. But this essay by Bo Yang is much more destructive. If it gets out, it will be a huge blow to the church. Don’t let this move destroy the church; we’re still counting on them for help.”

“It’s fine. If we don’t push the church to the brink, how can they appreciate your help?”

“The problem is, I can’t help either.” Zhao Yingong was well aware that Bo Yang’s tactic was to use their own spear to pierce their own shield. To refute this article, he first lacked the profound theological knowledge, and second, he lacked Bo Yang’s essay-writing skills. Zhao Yingong suddenly remembered: there was no Chinese version of the Old and New Testaments in this time. The Jesuits knew that the only Chinese version was the Australians’, and the publication of this article would definitely arouse the suspicion of the Jesuits.