He led the way into his small library, went to a cabinet, took out a big book of flat sheets bound together with silk, and put it on the table.
“You need not fear,” he said, “if that is still in your mind, that there are boxes of illicit silver, bags of bribes. If there had been, I might be a rich man. But these are the estate accounts. Everything is recorded, as it should be. You should really thank your grandfather, though I have continued his work. Two generations of good management and frugality have brought this estate into an excellent condition. I told you this a dozen years ago. Follow through the accounts and you will see exactly how, since then, I have through wise and honest work increased the size and value of our holdings much further.” He paused. “Here is a spare key to this cabinet. Please keep it and do not lose it.”
Was his little speech true? Judging by the accounts, it certainly was. Nor was there anything, anywhere, that would ever give the lie to what he said.
If there had been cash that could not be explained, it had been spent long ago in places that had absorbed it without trace: Bright Moon’s wedding, for instance; or the refurbishment of the little Buddhist temple on the hill. True, there were valuable objects in the house that he had bought. But he had documented every one of them as belonging to some ancestor or other, and nobody in the world could deny these attributions. The land purchases had been financed with debt that had been paid off swiftly with more of the bribes he’d taken. Some of these lands had then been sold at a handsome profit, and other lands had been purchased with the proceeds. By now it would be almost impossible to disentangle these transactions. The bribes had vanished.
“You will also find a lot of family documents in this cabinet, going back centuries,” Shi-Rong continued. “And others more recent, including calligraphy and poems of my own.”
He paused. Was Ru-Hai going to challenge him about the bribes again? It seemed not. His son only bowed his head.
“That is enough for now,” Shi-Rong continued. “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow we can spend some time in the village. But then we must have a further conversation, of great importance, about you yourself.”
* * *
—
When his son had retired, Shi-Rong continued to sit in the library. He didn’t feel sleepy. After a while, he took the big book of estate accounts and put it back in the cabinet. Reaching into one of the small drawers, he pulled out two little scrolls, read them over, checking that they were identical, grunted with satisfaction, and returned them to the drawer.
So far, everything was going according to his plan.
But he still felt restless. He went into the courtyard. The stars were bright and a waning quarter-moon lit the sky. Letting himself out of the entrance gate, he crossed the level grassy area in front of it to the top of the slope where there was a fine view of the valley—not as good as the view from the tombs farther up the hill, but handsome enough. He could see the huge waters of the Yellow River gleaming in the partial moonlight for mile after mile downstream until they dissolved into a silvery vagueness. He turned to look upstream.
And then he saw it—far away in the west—a flicker and flash above the horizon. Flashes that must come from lightning.
It must be a big storm, he thought. Very big. But how far away? Too far for any sound of thunder to reach him, certainly.
A band of blackness stretched all the way along the western horizon, blotting out the stars. But he quickly realized that what he was seeing were not lightning bolts, but their reflections on the massive cloud columns that soared high above the storm, which itself was hidden out of sight, below the horizon. It must be far away then, perhaps a hundred miles upriver.
* * *
—
He was up at dawn the next morning. Grey clouds covered the whole sky now. But it wasn’t raining yet. The storm remained on the horizon, and the wind, so far as he could judge, was coming more from the south than the west.
They spent the morning pleasantly, touring the village and the estate, a chance for Ru-Hai to pick up old acquaintances again. As for young Bao-Yu, the villagers were curious about him. The boys of his age were told to show him around. They soon discovered he was strong and friendly, so that was satisfactory. Inevitably, before Bao-Yu returned to the house, they had taken turns standing on his stomach. So had some of the little girls. This was not quite what Shi-Rong would have wished, but it was clear they thought well of his grandson, and that was the main thing.
They were finishing their midday meal when they heard the patter of raindrops outside. “If the storm comes here, it’ll be almost impossible to get up to the Zen monastery,” Shi-Rong remarked. “You’ll have to delay a few days.”
“We can always give it a miss,” said Ru-Hai. “We can go another time.”
“No,” said his father. He needed them to go up there. It was part of his plan. “The boy’s looking forward to it,” he said.
* * *
—
As the rain drummed steadily on the roof that afternoon, he was glad Ru-Hai had suggested he play a game of Chinese chess with the boy. It took his attention off the rain and allowed him to probe his grandson’s mind gently, without seeming to interrogate the boy.
“Some people,” he remarked easily, “like the other kind of chess, the Persian one the barbarians play. But I prefer our own. It allows for more variation. Besides,” he continued, smiling, “as a good Confucian, I can hardly wish to abandon a game my ancestors have been playing for four thousand years.”
“I’m a Confucian, too,” said Bao-Yu, making a move.
“Watch your game, Father,” said Ru-Hai.
“Tell me about being a Confucian,” said Shi-Rong to his grandson.
To his surprise and pleasure, Bao-Yu proceeded to give him an excellent account of the main precepts of the sage. Not only that, he had memorized a number of apt quotations and even a couple of anecdotes about the great master. Not bad for a boy of his age. Not bad at all. With this sort of foundation, Shi-Rong could see young Bao-Yu sailing through the first provincial examination when the time came.
“If our conduct is not correct,” he observed, “then sooner or later society will collapse into primitive chaos. This has happened many times, in the ages of chaos between the dynasties.”
“It’s like engineering,” the boy said. “If a building isn’t soundly constructed, it’ll fall down. The state has to have order to be strong.”
Shi-Rong frowned. “What you say is true, but not quite correct,” he cautioned. “Correct conduct derives from good morals.”
“Yes, Grandfather. I will remember.”
“Tell me,” Shi-Rong continued, “do you know the story of Wu the Censor?”
“No, Grandfather.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to tell the boy this,” Ru-Hai intervened. But his father ignored him.
“It happened just eight years ago,” Shi-Rong told Bao-Yu, “not long after you were born. Do you know what a censor does?”
“Not really, Grandfather.”
“For many centuries there were certain men, carefully chosen for their scholarship and moral rectitude, who were given the post of censor. They were like guardians of the government. If they saw an official doing something that was against law, custom, or morals, they could impeach the official to the emperor. Even if the emperor himself acted improperly, they would tell him so to his face, and they could not be punished for doing it.”
“That’s amazing,” said the boy.
“It is Confucian,” his grandfather responded. “The true Confucian order rests not upon power but upon morals. During the last century or so, however…”—Shi-Rong saw Ru-Hai shaking his head, but went on regardless—“the role of censor has somewhat changed. Nowadays it is officials who are censured for misconduct. Emperors have become less tolerant of criticism.”
�
�Would the emperor punish a censor?” Bao-Yu asked.
“He would hesitate. But he would be unlikely to ask that censor’s advice again. To all intents and purposes, the old function of the office has gone.” He paused. “But that does not mean it is forgotten.”
“Did Wu censor the emperor?”
“The present emperor was chosen as a boy according to the wishes of the Dowager Empress Cixi. The way he was chosen was improper. Wu told the dowager empress that this was so. But Cixi brushed the objection aside. So what do you think Wu did? He committed suicide.”
“What good would that do?”
“It is called body-shaming. He shamed her by showing that he was prepared to take his life rather than agree to her improper action. He was a true Confucian, you see.”
“Did she change her mind?”
“No. But mandarins and scholars all over the empire knew what he had done and why. His name is spoken with reverence, as an example to us all.”
“Do you think he was right, Grandfather?”
“When I was a young man,” Shi-Rong told him, “my father made me promise always to serve the emperor loyally. But in this case he would certainly have agreed that Wu was correct. Confucius himself always, as the expression is, spoke truth to power.”
“He’s a little young to hear these things,” Ru-Hai warned quietly.
“He will learn it soon enough,” his father replied. “There may come a time,” he said to the boy, “when we need another Wu the Censor.”
“I don’t want him to repeat this,” Ru-Hai intervened again. “Not back in Beijing.”
“You’re right.” Shi-Rong turned to his grandson. “You are not to repeat what I have said to you. It will be a secret between you and me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“Good. Let’s continue our game of chess.”
They did until, ten minutes later, Shi-Rong discovered that his grandson had beaten him.
The rain was ending. Bao-Yu asked if he could go outside, and they told him yes.
* * *
—
It was time for Shi-Rong to have that last, all-important conversation with his son. He proceeded carefully.
“My dear son,” he began, “I have told you that I believe this year will be my last. If I am right, then certain decisions will have to be taken, and I want to make them with you. For the big question is this: After the period of mourning, would you want to remain here permanently to run the estate, or would your career keep you in the capital—perhaps for many years? If the latter, then I need to take steps straightaway to appoint a steward and make local arrangements so that everything will go smoothly.” He gave Ru-Hai a searching look. “Your career is of paramount importance. On no account give up any prospects for advancement; there’s no need for you to do so.”
Ru-Hai shook his head sadly. “I wish I could say my career was going anywhere, Father,” he said. “It’s not just me, either. Do you remember those two young fellows who worked with me when you came to my office?”
“Of course.”
“They’ve both gone. So have four of the most senior officials. The Tsungli Yamen is just a shell these days. The colonial powers are all eating away at us.”
“We held off Japan.”
“For the moment, yes. But in the long term, Japan is a huge threat. And for the same reason I said a dozen years ago. Because she is modernizing.” He sighed. “It’s no good ordering Western ships, for instance, if none of our sailors are trained to operate them. Only one city in China is connected to Beijing by telegraph, and that’s Shanghai. And I know you don’t approve, but it’s absurd that we’ve almost no railway system. The old mandarins think the colonial powers would use the railway to oppress us.” He shook his head. “They’re all afraid of change, including Cixi.”
“Cixi knows only one thing,” said his father, “which is how to survive.”
“I daresay she’s lonely and afraid,” Ru-Hai went on. “But the empire is drifting, and I don’t feel as if there’s anything to keep me at the ministry anymore.”
Shi-Rong nodded. He was sorry for Ru-Hai, of course. But this news at least made everything simpler. One other thought occurred to him. “Your boy, my grandson. He seems intelligent. What do you think he’ll do in life?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He could do well at the exams.”
“I agree. Did you hear that the exams are changing, by the way?”
“Changing? How?”
“They’re going to add a modern component. Commercial. More practical. I expect you’ll disapprove.”
“No,” Shi-Rong considered. “This may be a good idea. But the Confucian foundation must remain. Commercial knowledge, any knowledge, without a moral foundation is useless. Worse than useless. Dangerous. Even engineers need a philosophy.”
“But an engineer may not need so much archaic Chinese.”
“Classical studies are good for the brain.” Shi-Rong paused. “I suppose he’ll serve the emperor in some way or other. He’ll have to if he wants to build bridges or canals or anything like that.”
“If there is even an emperor to serve.”
“People have been saying the Mandate of Heaven is being withdrawn all my life,” his father remarked, “but despite the wretched conduct of the court, it hasn’t happened.”
“And if the court has its way, nothing will ever happen,” said his son. “But when things finally fall apart, some people think there’ll have to be a complete change of regime, though nobody seems to know what that would be.”
“Well,” his father said, “I’m glad I shan’t be there to see it.”
* * *
—
It was after the evening meal that they heard the thunder. Darkness had fallen some time before. The boy wanted to go outside to see, so he and Shi-Rong went into the courtyard. As they did so, they saw a flash of lightning in the west.
“Look, Grandfather.” Bao-Yu pointed up. “Stars.”
He was right. The thunderstorm was closer than the one before, but it hadn’t reached this part of the Yellow River valley yet. The sky above was clear and full of stars.
Shi-Rong went to the gate and stepped through it. From out there, looking across the valley, he could see the whole weather system.
It was a strange sight. A line of blackness stretched right across the sky from south to north like a great curtain. And from within it came great rumblings and flashes and roars. The storm was ten, maybe a dozen miles away, he thought.
“Grandfather.” Bao-Yu was at his side. “Can we go up the hill to watch?”
Shi-Rong looked down at him. “You think we should?”
“Oh yes.”
“What a good idea.” He turned to Ru-Hai, who had appeared just behind him. “You and I can each take a lamp. Not that I need one, really, I know the path so well.”
“What if the rain reaches us?” Ru-Hai objected. “We’ll get soaked. And it’ll be slippery.”
Shi-Rong and his grandson looked at each other. “We don’t care,” they said.
So they took lanterns and made their way through the village, whose occupants, thinking this must be a ritual of some kind, watched from their doorways with interest. And as they moved up the path, the only person who tripped was Ru-Hai, who wasn’t very pleased about it.
When they finally reached the ledge where the ancestral graves were, Shi-Rong put the lamps behind one of the graves, so that their light wouldn’t distract from the view, and for a quarter of an hour they gazed out at the huge storm as it advanced towards them. Now and then came a huge flash, a bang, and a roar that seemed as if it meant to rip the firmament apart.
Then Ru-Hai looked up at the sky and noticed that there wer
e not so many stars to be seen. He said they’d better go back. But Shi-Rong caught a glimpse of his grandson’s face in a big lightning flash and said: “We could have a last look from up at the temple if we’re quick.” And before anyone could say anything, the boy was running to retrieve the lamps. Shi-Rong turned to Ru-Hai. “Only for a minute or two,” he promised.
And indeed, they had been up by the temple only a few moments when their view was obscured by a film of rain not far away, and they felt the damp breeze on their faces.
“Time to go down,” said Shi-Rong to his grandson. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Oh yes, Grandfather.”
“It was quite a sight,” said Ru-Hai, with slightly less enthusiasm.
So they went down, and the rain did not start to fall until they had reached the village street. The rain was quite light as it pattered on the path and splashed the tops of the lamps, so they were only a little wet when they got home.
Then they all retired, to sleep until the morning.
* * *
—
The storm was kind to them that night, veering northward so that only its outskirts passed over the village in a series of light rains and showers, dying to nothing before the dawn.
By the time they had breakfasted and the horse and pony had been brought to the gate, the sky was a clear pale blue.
“There’s no need to take the valley road into the town and then go all the way back up again into the hills,” Shi-Rong pointed out to his son. “Just go through the village here and take the path across the high ground. You know the way. You’ll be at the Shaolin Monastery by late afternoon.”
Ru-Hai agreed and bade his father farewell. “We shall all meet for Qingming in the spring,” he told his father firmly.
Shi-Rong nodded without replying. Then he turned to the boy. “I have something for you,” he said, and gave Bao-Yu a tiny box. “Do you remember the little bone where you spotted the character for horse was scratched?”
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