Chapter 14: In the Manner of a Policy Essay

A perfectly good gnat-script brush, left idle by Jiang Man, nearly dried to nothing.

It was not that she was careless with brush and ink. Born to a house of full granaries, wanting for neither clothes nor food from childhood, the time saved from needlework had mostly gone into practicing characters; copying books and writing from memory she had done, and when she grew older she would compose the occasional little lyric that never left her boudoir—sung to herself, for her own amusement.

But composing poems and lyrics was fundamentally different from writing an essay. To say nothing else, Jiang Man had no notion at all how a topic was even to be set.

Shen Wen had left her in the study without forbidding the shelves—Jiang Man knew this was an open-book examination. Yet she dared not presume to rummage through what stood there; the only usable reference, in truth, was Master Zhu’s annotated Collected Annotations on the Analects.

And she remembered Shen Wen’s parting words.

The sages’ words, chanted mouth to mouth across a thousand years. If they truly contradicted themselves, how would it ever fall to a girl of the inner chambers to point it out?

Scarcely had Shen Wen gone when Sijiu arrived at the door, Huailou joining her; the two stood guard, cutting off every retreat. Ke Ye had come once with water and food, and had begged the two—”good sister” here, “good sister” there—three or four times. Through the door Jiang Man heard Sijiu’s suppressed giggles, until Huailou, who had been holding it in, broke at last, and the two of them laughed together.

Laugh as they might, the door they guarded never loosened a hair.

Only Ke Ye’s voice outside: “And if she makes herself ill, what then? Young Miss—Lady Jiang was cherished from head to toe in her own home, a frail one at that; we were always urging more food down her, how could we keep her shut in a room all day without even a change of clothes? Good sisters—”

At “good sister” Sijiu could not help laughing again. “Sister Ke Ye, this is not ours to decide. The Scribe said hold the door fast—or you’ll be lectured alongside her.”

At the Scribe’s name Ke Ye went quiet, then said only, “A lecture I can bear—but if she’s ruined, does that not diminish the Scribe’s property?”

“If she’s ruined, the Scribe will keep her. What empty heartache is that of yours?” Sijiu still smiled through it. “Go, go—back to your own courtyard, before people laugh.”

Huailou added, “Ke Ye, take a word of advice: go back early. Don’t bring trouble on your mistress here.”

Ke Ye said suddenly, “Then I’ll go back and return at once—I’ve something to bring Lady Jiang. I beg you two to indulge me.”

“Bring what?” Sijiu’s teasing overflowed. “Don’t say you truly mean to bring her a change of clothes?”

The words had scarcely fallen—before anyone could react—Sijiu was laughing first, her thin shadow vanishing from the lattice, doubtless doubled over.

Jiang Man, in the study, had long since lost all heart for the manuscript; her head throbbed with mortification.

Then Ke Ye’s voice: “That is precisely my intent. I’ll go fetch the—”

“Ke Ye.” Jiang Man could bear no more and called out to stop her. “Go back.”

“But—”

“This is the study, ground the Scribe herself treads. Have you lost your senses, to say such things?” Jiang Man’s voice went cold. “Back at once.”

“Yes.” Ke Ye’s voice shrank. “Good sisters both, this humble one withdraws. If Lady Jiang lacks for anything, I beg…”

“We know all that. Go on.” Sijiu answered.

No more sound outside; they must be far off. Jiang Man had served here several days now and knew the study saw few comers; after dark, absent Shen Wen’s order, it was so still a falling pin could be heard.

“That Ke Ye wants discipline—thick-skinned, with her wits grown in the wrong place. I must beg pardon of you two ladies on her behalf.” Facing the door, though she knew they could not see her, Jiang Man curtsied low. “Such wild talk, offending your ears—I ask you not to take it to heart.”

“You jest, my lady. How could we take such words seriously?” Huailou said. “We’ll take it as a joke and let it pass.”

Sijiu added, “We were only playing. What happens in this room stays in this room. Lady Jiang, write your essay in peace. Want for tea or water—just call out.”

At this, some of the weight lifted from Jiang Man’s heart, yet she dared not let her suspended heart quite land. She was about to thank them, still turning over how to smooth the matter over, when she heard a muffled thump.

Sijiu gave a small grunt. “What was that for?”

“Talking of tea and water still! You’ll be her ruin. Shut your mouth!” Huailou’s voice dropped lower still, each word squeezed through her teeth.

Jiang Man blinked. “Thank you for the kindness, Miss Sijiu, Miss Huailou.”

“Only our duty. No need for thanks, Lady Jiang.” The two answered, and in the same breath were themselves again, their everyday tones restored.

Meanwhile Jiang Man paced the study, a volume of the Collected Annotations on the Analects in hand, consulting it now and then, Ke Ye’s affair pressed down for the moment.

Whether the sages’ books spoke true, whether they had flaws—no one had ever asked her such things.

No one had asked; she had no way to answer.

Jiang Man had a natural appetite for digging to the root. Fortunately her father and brother were open-minded men, never scorning her occasional tongue; if some crux arose that even they could not resolve, her father would send Jiang Ling to ask it clear. When the great scholars of Jiankang had taught Jiang Ling, he would come home and unfold the reasoning for her, point by point.

If any part of her fell short of the Daoxue model of the boudoir lady, it was this fault of loving to ask.

The gentleman is not a vessel.

Jiang Man recalled Shen Wen’s earlier sophistry—willful, almost—and on deep thought found that even it could anchor itself in the text’s words, leaving no gap to pick—though Shen Wen’s reading stood in exact opposition to Confucius’s meaning.

This thing called a “boudoir lady”—was there truly only the one kind the Daoxue masters described?

Frightened by her own abrupt thought, Jiang Man opened the book and read Master Kaoting’s commentary with care.

Master Zhu’s gloss differed little from her teacher’s: the gentleman has no fixed specialty, is not confined to one place, and so “his use is all-embracing”—able to exercise his ability on every side.

The remaining two sayings were plain enough, yet however Jiang Man turned them, nothing came; she could only return to the classics.

Though a collected commentary, the book gave only sparse lines on each. Jiang Man had never read widely, still less possessed a retentive memory; from two or three sentences she could find no answer.

Could answers absent from the book truly be found in her own head?

For “not in the office, not planning its governance,” Master Zhu’s note quoted a passage of Master Cheng—plain words: hold no office, transact no business; should the officeholder ask, one may discourse at some length. These are principles of conduct, practiced unawares in daily life. Reading it for the first time that day, what Jiang Man wondered was: which “Master Cheng” was this—Cheng Hao, Cheng Yi, or that Master Cheng who sat on thorns discoursing on the Way?

Jiang Man judged it one of the Cheng Brothers, almost without thought. But whether that counted as a settled conclusion, she did not know.

The Cheng Brothers were great scholars of this dynasty, and Master Kaoting’s own intellectual forebears; that Master Cheng who lived in the pre-Qin age—his teachings long scattered. Yet through the whole book she could find no definitive line, and dared not be the one to pronounce.

Shen Wen had said that away from books she became a mute—it was not untrue.

Thinking of her, Jiang Man found herself holding her breath without cause. She returned to the desk, saw the half of the ink vanished into air, saw the tip of the combined-hair brush gone stiff, and slowed.

Jiang Man knew: Shen Wen was only amusing herself with her. When the novelty palled and pique came, she might be posted elsewhere; sold off to some old master—also possible.

The Jiang family owed Shen Wen a vast sum. If Jiang Ling could not be found, and one Jiang Man alone stood against the debt, then by any reckoning Shen Wen had taken the loss. Trading in persons was a grave crime—but with a standing that kept even ordinary capital officials from naming it aloud, with her sky-covering means, what fear would she have of one laxly enforced statute?

To say nothing of the rest: how Jiang Man had come to Lin’an Prefecture, how she had entered Shen Wen’s deep compound—she herself knew best of all.

She had wavered for only the space of a single thought. Within that wavering lived Shen Wen’s cold eyes, Shen Wen’s teasing, Shen Wen’s barely perceptible tenderness.

The kerchief, set aside after the grinding, still lay on the desk just as it had fallen. Jiang Man gathered it into a corner; seeing the brush dried hard as sealed wax, she warmed it again and washed it clean.

The ink cake’s quality was indeed extraordinary: set out so long, not a fleck of residue; the brush had scarcely touched water when the ink bloomed.

Jiang Man watched a thread of ink rise like a swimming dragon into small waves, only to be swallowed the next moment; in the brush-washer the water darkened, and between ink and water none could any longer tell which was which.

Her spirit stirred. She took up the ink and set down her topic.

Whether Shen Wen’s three sayings truly contradicted—with Jiang Man’s learning, she could not say.

But principle dwells in nature; rites and music issue from the heart. What Jiang Man meant to refute was not the former sages.

The gentleman’s Way has ever been to cultivate oneself, examine within, and not overstep the bounds.

Her brush moved as if aided by a god; sheet after sheet, flowing on without a single emendation. Though not one sentence came from the classics, it passed naturally into Jiang Man’s daily conduct—what she truly practiced, truly believed, her own plumb line.

A breastful of true feeling poured out, Jiang Man set down the brush, a fine sweat at her brow.

The door creaked; the bead curtain lifted and fell, beads knocking beads.

Shen Wen had changed her clothes and, at some unknown moment, stood before her.

Jiang Man rose in haste—before she could bow, the Female Scribe had the stack of papers in hand, scanning them, her gaze smiling.

She sat, eyes still on the manuscript. “Not one bite of the food?”

Jiang Man blinked. At the desk’s far corner sat the food Ke Ye had brought earlier, unremarkable—and somehow, the straight-gazed Shen Wen had seen it at once.

She answered, “No.”

Shen Wen nodded slightly. “Go. Come back quickly—I have questions for you.”

For a moment Jiang Man could not take in the words.

Then Shen Wen raised her head. “‘Charcoal in the snow’—what is the principle of it?”

Jiang Man curtsied. “I do not know.”

“Charcoal in the snow—succoring a man at his moment of need.” She only glanced at her mildly, with a thread of helplessness. “Are you not in need?”

At last Jiang Man understood; scarlet, without a word of reply, she fled behind her sleeve.