Chapter 13: A Small Examination

“From here to here—” Shen Wen’s finger still on the spines, she flicked one volume down at random, “take them and hold them.”

Jiang Man hurried to receive them. “Yes.”

Books in arms, she stayed facing the shelf, refusing to move a single step. Shen Wen’s breath was too near; even to yield to her, Jiang Man could find no path.

She only stood, arms full of several half-worn manuscripts, practically held prisoner in Shen Wen’s embrace.

Shen Wen seemed wholly unaware, standing behind her, right hand raised to take something from the topmost shelf, before returning to her chair. By then Jiang Man had lost all interest in what the woman meant to read next; her strength drained away, and in a daze she thought she could still smell the plum blossom of Shen Wen’s sachets.

“Take the books to that chair and read. Pour your own tea.” Shen Wen glanced at her. “You said you’d studied the Analects—read for two hours, then. Review well; when the lamps are lit, I’ll examine you.”

Jiang Man started, curtsied. “Yes.”

Books carried out and set on the small table, Jiang Man was still in fog—faced with a chair, and no notion how to sit in it naturally.

Behind the bead curtain came that cold voice again: “You mean to read standing?”

“I dare not.” Jiang Man sat at once, head buried low, feet tucked where Shen Wen could not see, quietly stretching them.

Was Shen Wen finding her an excuse to rest?

Jiang Man dared not let her thoughts run further. In her station, there was no room for such second-guessing.

Her first lessons had been her mother’s charge; after her mother died, Jiang Rao had engaged a widowed learned woman from elsewhere to teach her. That teacher, indeed, was why she had access to so much poetry.

As for the Analects, the teacher had not expounded it closely: what Jiang Man had studied was not even an annotated edition, and her grasp of the lines was bound to be off.

The learning of the day belonged to Daoxue. Master Kaoting’s chapter-and-verse and collected commentaries on the Four Books had become official learning; since the present Emperor’s accession, and after the Chunyou era, the works of Daoxue’s great masters—Zhou Dunyi, Shao Yong, and the rest—had been exalted as classics. For Jiang Man, taught only the bare text, the gaps to fill were beyond counting. Sun high, sun low, two hours passed in a blink.

The time come, Jiang Man dared not delay; she lit the lamps about the room. Shen Wen’s book still had a small half unread; she did not look up, only pushed the tea cup outward.

It was the first time Jiang Man had the chance to brew tea for her. The water was kept always at a boil; she gauged the measure Huailou used, cast the tea, skimmed the froth, ladled only the finest foam-flowers into the cup, cooled it carefully, and brought it to the desk.

Shen Wen sipped, brow creasing slightly. “Less salt.”

“Yes.” Jiang Man dared not lift her head, reaching to take it. “I’ll brew a fresh cup at once.”

“No need.” Shen Wen drank half the cup and closed the book. “‘The gentleman is not a vessel.’ What does it mean?”

Caught off guard, Shen Wen’s gaze already bearing down on her, Jiang Man’s mind went white, and she answered without thinking: “The Great Commentary says, ‘What is above form is called the Way; what is below form is called a vessel.’ So ‘the gentleman is not a vessel’ means the gentleman must not confine himself to the use of a single implement, but should pursue the broader Way.”

“Is that so?” Shen Wen’s lids lifted. “The way I hear it, ‘each art has its specialists’—this means the gentleman fails to become a vessel, that he usually cannot manage even one concrete little task, and is worth less than a tea-things or a measuring cup?”

Jiang Man had never heard such twisted reasoning. She blinked. “The book says…”

“I have read books.” Shen Wen cut her off. “If I wanted to know what the book says, why would I ask you?”

Jiang Man faltered, could not answer, and could only assent.

“Next. ‘Not in the office, not planning its governance.’ What does that mean?” Shen Wen looked over mildly. “Explain in your own words.”

Her manner was languid, but Jiang Man dared not relax. Meeting Shen Wen’s eyes, she felt seen through to the bottom of her learning.

Jiang Man steadied herself.

She was a girl of the inner chambers—she sat no examinations, nor meant to be any gentleman. What did it matter if she did not know the depths of these maxims?

Read a text a hundred times and its meaning shows of itself—and this one was simple besides. Jiang Man confirmed it once in her heart and answered carefully: “I believe it means each person should keep to their proper place, and not commit the trespass of overstepping.”

Shen Wen stared at her. “Trespass against what? And what is a ‘proper place’?”

Jiang Man said, “What is trespassed is the rites. A proper place—” she paused, “I suppose it is the order of things under rites and music.”

Shen Wen’s gaze did not move away. “And ‘the rites’—what are they?”

Jiang Man’s nerves rose inevitably. Her hands twisted together before her, nearly hidden in her sleeves. She said small, “My learning is shallow; I have not read the Thirteen Classics. But I know the Rites of Zhou, the Etiquette and Ceremonial, and the Book of Rites must be among them.”

Shen Wen gave a soft laugh. “Just as I thought—away from the book, you can say nothing.”

The verdict was somewhat tyrannical. That first answer had plainly displeased; Jiang Man would not forfeit a second chance, and feeling herself in the right, said, “What the Scribe examines is precisely the content of the sages’ books. My learning is shallow, my roots unsound. If I do not take the former sages’ teaching as my measure, how else can I test whether I stand upon the true Way?”

Shen Wen, hearing this, touched her lips in silence a moment—then smiled. “Good. Then tell me: ‘Do not reject a man’s words because of the man.’ From where does it come, and what is the principle in it?”

Jiang Man considered. “It is recorded in the ‘Duke Ling of Wei’ chapter: ‘The Master said: the gentleman does not promote a man for his words, nor reject words for the man’s sake.’ It means one must not recommend a man on the strength of a few phrases, nor, because of the speaker’s standing or conduct, conclude that everything he says is worthless. It teaches men to cast off prejudice and act justly.”

Shen Wen rose and stepped aside. Jiang Man, wavering, not knowing what she meant to do, saw Shen Wen take several four-foot lengths of white paper, pre-scored for cutting, from the cabinet and toss them on the desk; one sheet she spread at the desk’s center, flattening it with paperweights.

“Sit.” Shen Wen glanced at the chair.

Only then did Jiang Man understand, and hurried to decline. “I dare not.”

“Sit.” Shen Wen said. “You consider this your so-called ‘trespass’?”

Before Jiang Man could answer, Shen Wen spoke again: “In your own words, Jiang Xiaojiu: I, Shen Wen, am not only your Jiang family’s benefactor and creditor—now I am your Household Master besides. My order is given, and you cling to your rites and hierarchies and refuse to obey. Does that count as trespass?”

Jiang Man could not out-argue her, and curtsied. “I have been unmannerly.”

Even seated, she felt thorns at her back, head lowered, eyes on the desk’s edge only.

Jiang Man’s breath caught.

Xuan paper so fine and smooth, like plates of jade—she had seen it once, not long ago, and the impression was carved deep, unforgettable still.

It was Clear Heart Hall Paper.

That letter in the hand so like her brother’s, its truth impossible to tell, had been written on just such luxurious paper.

Was such Clear Heart Hall Paper now the fashion among Lin’an’s exalted? Jiang Man lost herself a moment—then saw Shen Wen drip water onto the inkstone and begin grinding.

Jiang Man sprang up. “How could I let the Scribe labor so? Such a task is mine to do—”

“Sit down.” Shen Wen’s brow arched. “I wish to grind ink. It is my affair. What business is it of yours?”

Jiang Man could not help saying, “Does the Scribe mean for me to compose an essay?”

Shen Wen glanced askance. “Suppose I do. What of it?”

Jiang Man said, “I could never let the mistress of the house prepare brush and ink.”

Shen Wen did not answer. From the rack she took a fine-script brush, let only the tip drink its fill of ink, and said, “I insist on it.”

The words had scarcely fallen when Jiang Man felt her heart tremble, she knew not why.

“Will you not take it quickly?” Shen Wen’s voice cooled two degrees.

Jiang Man, careful to avoid her thumb and forefinger, silently received the brush. “Thank you, Scribe. What manner of essay do you wish of me, that you waste such fine Clear Heart Hall Paper on it?”

“So you know your goods.” Shen Wen said little more, setting down the ink cake and wiping her hands carefully with a silk kerchief. Everything about Shen Wen was of the topmost quality; after a little grinding, the cake had not so much as stained her fingers.

Was she, then, so fastidious about cleanliness?

Jiang Man was rising to fetch a basin of water for her when Shen Wen said, “You will stay here and write. Cite the classics if you like, crown yourself alone if you like—so long as you can make your case to yourself, it will likely pass before my eyes. You may not leave until it is done—not even to relieve yourself.”

Shen Wen looked at her, a smile curling her lips, and said, word by word, “Hold it.”

Jiang Man’s cheeks blazed, as if a basket of burning coals had been heaped before her; scarlet, she could not get out a word.

Shen Wen had already left her behind; the kerchief, used, lay tossed on the desk, and the woman was at the door.

Jiang Man stood up too quickly; the ink Shen Wen had ground with her own hands rippled in the stone.

She had no attention to spare for that, and hurried to ask, “I—I do not know what subject the Scribe wishes my essay upon?”

Shen Wen looked back, warmth and cold indistinguishable. “Those three sayings cannot be reconciled; they contradict one another—yet all were spoken by Confucius. Since you dote on books and revere the sages: before the hour of Xu, I want you to make something of it.

“Think on this,” Shen Wen pushed open the door, leaving only a trail of fragrance in the room, “is the contradiction in you—or in those few scattered words of his, parsed by a thousand generations?”