Chapter 115: A Visit to Fangcao Academy—A Sense of Loss

Huang Ping played with vigor, but the red team was simply outmatched, and the game ended in a victory for the blue. When the final whistle blew, Dong Yizhi descended from the field to greet his guests.

Liu Dalin studied the Australian gentleman with a curious eye: a sun-darkened face, a powerful build, and a fine sheen of sweat on his broad forehead from his duties as referee, running up and down the field with the students.

“Master Dong, your people truly have a miraculous touch,” Liu Dalin said with practiced diplomacy. “I am told most of these children are destitute orphans, gathered from the mainland. I never imagined that under your tutelage, they would become so vibrant, bearing no trace of their humble origins.”

“You flatter us,” Dong Yizhi replied modestly. “Did not Confucius himself teach that in education, there should be no distinction of class? And did not Chen Sheng and Wu Guang ask, ‘Are kings and nobles destined to be so by birth?’ Though we cannot erase the lines between wealth and poverty in this world, we can ensure that every child has the chance to learn, so that even the children of the poor may rise.”

The imperial examination system was, in theory, a ladder of opportunity, a path for the sons of the poor to change their fate through scholarship. But in reality, few ever reached the top. To pursue learning in their society required a substantial economic foundation. The truly destitute, unless touched by some extraordinary fortune, could never afford to educate their children.

Liu Dalin knew this all too well. He hailed from a family of officials. Among his peers from the provincial and metropolitan examinations, true sons of the peasantry were a rarity. At the very least, their families owned a few acres of land or enjoyed the patronage of their clan.

The Australians’ method, though it eschewed the wisdom of the sages, was a true embodiment of ‘education for all.’ Though Liu Dalin was no merchant, leaving such matters to his kin, he understood that the daily expense of feeding and clothing several thousand students was astronomical. That was to say nothing of the cost of the school buildings themselves. Liu Dalin reckoned that the entire tax revenue of Lingao County could not sustain such an enterprise.

“Heh, this dedication to nurturing generations to come is something I could never hope to match,” Liu Dalin said, his words coming from the heart. “But I confess, I do not understand. Your people have already conquered the four seas. You could, if you so wished, gather all the world’s riches. Why engage in such painstaking labor? Do you not know that life is fleeting? The talents you so carefully cultivate will only bear fruit in ten or twenty years’ time.” As he spoke, his small, sharp eyes were fixed on Dong Yizhi.

Dong Yizhi was momentarily at a loss. How can I explain our darker ambitions, he thought, the plans for harems and eugenics museums? He wouldn’t understand even if I tried. Liu Dalin watched as Elder Dong’s face reddened, as if he were wrestling with his thoughts. At last, a phrase came to him. He drew himself up and declared:

“We do this not for wealth, nor for power, nor for fame. We do it for the day when, under all of heaven, there is no land that is not the land of Huaxia, and within the shores of the world, no people who are not its subjects!”

For a moment, the assembled scholars were struck dumb. Such words were audacious beyond measure, far exceeding the ambitions of a mere rebel aspiring to the throne.

The height of arrogance! Huang Binkun thought.

He glanced at Liu Dalin, whose expression was a complex mask. You are not worthy to speak the name of Huaxia! he cursed inwardly. This band of fanatics was transforming the civilized world with their barbarian ways, yet they paraded the name of Huaxia like a banner. The shamelessness of it was breathtaking.

Huang Binkun had intended to take this opportunity to speak with Huang Ping, to sternly point out that embracing a female student was an offense against public morals, and that any girl who would do so must surely be of fickle character. He wanted the boy to reflect on his actions and stray no further. But to his astonishment, the former servant boy showed no deference at all. Before Huang Binkun could even begin his lecture, the lad brazenly announced he had to shower before his evening self-study session, and promptly took his leave.

“I have a physics test tomorrow, I need to go review,” Huang Ping said. “The teacher says if you master math, physics, and chemistry, the world is your oyster. I have to work hard.”

The exchange left Huang Binkun deeply disappointed. Huang Ping had served him since childhood; their bond was far deeper than that of a mere master and servant. Now, studying at this academy, the boy seemed to have grown distant. What was it about this Australian learning that so captivated the heart?

He wondered if sending Huang Ping here had been a mistake. Should he call him back, put an end to his studies? But to do so would be to sever the very channel he had so carefully cultivated to understand the Australians. Yet if he let him stay, with each passing day, Huang Ping would inevitably become one of them, a “false Australian.”

He remained in this state of conflict until dinner. In the cafeteria, Dong Yizhi noticed his dazed expression and asked if he had lost his appetite.

Huang Binkun shook his head. He asked abruptly, “I heard a student here say that if one learns ‘Shulihua,’ one can command the world. Is this true?”

Dong Yizhi was taken aback for a moment before he understood. He laughed. “Ah, you mean the saying, ‘Master math, physics, and chemistry, and you can go anywhere in the world.’”

“Is this ‘Shulihua’ truly so powerful?” Huang Binkun pressed.

“Of course,” Dong Yizhi said. “Building ships and houses, forging roads and bridges, even waging war—none of it is possible without mathematics, physics, and chemistry.”

So this ‘Shulihua’ must be their secret art, Huang Binkun thought. He then heard Elder Dong continue, “But even if you master math, physics, and chemistry, your ‘three perspectives’ must also be correct.” Seeing Huang Binkun’s blank look, Dong Yizhi explained, “The ‘three perspectives’ are one’s perspective on the world, on life, and on values.” Only then did a flicker of comprehension cross Huang Binkun’s face.

In truth, Huang Binkun was thinking that the bandits’ secret arts must follow the Daoist path. This must refer to three sacred temples: the Temple of the World, the Temple of Life, and the Temple of Values. He resolved to visit them someday and uncover their secrets.

Huang Binkun pressed on. “I have also heard that the students must practice the incantations of ‘Shulihua’ daily, reciting and copying them endlessly.”

Elder Dong smiled. “Not incantations, but formulas. Formulas are universal; they can solve all manner of problems in this world. They are of the utmost importance.”

Huang Binkun’s heart leaped. This ‘formula-incantation’ must be the key to their secret arts, the very heart of their spellcasting! Humbly, he asked, “I wonder if the Elder might deign to draw… that is, to bestow upon me a few of these formulas?”

What does he want with these? Dong Yizhi wondered. Has a single visit truly enlightened him? He took out his notebook and casually jotted down a few mathematical and physical formulas. Huang Binkun received the paper and studied it again and again. “And which of these,” he asked, “is the most powerful?”

Dong Yizhi pointed to one at random. “This one. This one is the most important.”

Huang Binkun felt as if he had discovered a priceless treasure. He carefully folded the paper and tucked it away, planning to study it in secret when he returned home.

That night, back in his dormitory, Huang Binkun sat at his desk and painstakingly practiced the Australian “incantations.” After filling more than ten pages, he felt something was amiss. He slapped his forehead. “Of course! I had completely forgotten! To draw their talismans and cast their spells, the bandits must use an Australian pen, and they must write from left to right.”

He immediately went to the school’s small shop and purchased a charcoal pencil. Then he began to copy the formulas in the “Australian style.” But his years of writing from right to left, top to bottom, made the new orientation deeply uncomfortable. He cursed under his breath as he wrote, “The Analects speak of ‘disheveled hair and robes folding to the left.’ These kūnzéi bandits write from the left. They have truly become barbarians in their time overseas.”

He copied the “incantations” with diligence, but he still could not fathom how to speak this “Shulihua.” He would have to wait for Huang Ping’s return and ask him then.

The tour group’s visit drew to a close. Though they had stayed only two nights, most were already eager to return home.

The overwhelming impression the Australian school left upon them was one of their own “uncultured” state. Even the lessons of the youngest primary students were often utterly incomprehensible, a fact that stung the scholars’ pride. Worries about their own futures crowded out any capacity for critical thought.

For a scholar of the Ming, the ultimate goal had always been to “excel in learning and enter officialdom.” To discover that their “bellies full of classics” were not what the Australians sought in their officials sent a wave of panic through them.

Though their learning met the standards of the Great Ming, they knew all too well that, given the state of letters in their own county, it might be another hundred years before a jinshi emerged. Producing a few juren was an achievement worthy of the county gazetteer.

But now, these Australian upstarts—whether they aimed for the Dragon Throne or merely to rule Hainan as their own kingdom—represented a new opportunity for these disillusioned men. If they could attach themselves to this rising power early on, securing a position in the new dynasty would be a simple matter. Many in the tour group harbored such ambitions, and their visit to Fangcao was, in part, a mission to probe the Australians’ standards for selecting talent.

But the Australians’ learning was entirely alien to their own. Their only advantage over these young students was a larger vocabulary and the ability to compose poetry.

Consequently, several of them did their utmost to cultivate a relationship with Elder Dong, their frequent host, hoping to find an opportunity to learn these “Australian studies.”

Elder Dong smiled and expressed his gratitude for their interest, but explained that Fangcao Academy was currently only for children. There were no classes for adults. The only adult program at present was a training course for literacy teachers. If they were interested, he said, they could sign up to teach in the purification camps, which would then give them the opportunity to participate in more specialized training.

At these words, the scholars’ enthusiasm evaporated. It was not that no men of letters taught in the purification camps, but they were invariably students who had failed to gain entrance to the official schools, unemployed clerks, or, at best, destitute and down-on-their-luck scholars. For these men, who considered themselves respectable gentlemen, to be classed with such a group was an intolerable loss of face.