Chapter 49: A Drop of Dew

When the two reached the Water Pavilion, maids from the Main Residence had already laid thin blankets and soft cushions on the stone benches, and draped a gauze of some indeterminate fabric over the round table, where a pot of tea sat — full or empty, none could tell. The lamp-bearing maid lifted her lantern and lit the four corners by its flame. Shen Wen gathered her skirts and sat, lifting a hand toward the opposite seat. Jiang Man did not refuse; she curtsied her thanks and sat down obediently.

By candlelight Jiang Man made out the tablecloth — some kind of velvet, extraordinarily fine, with a luster all its own, though whether it was woven of cotton or silk she couldn’t say. Since Shen Wen meant to drink, a cloth was only proper — but she hadn’t expected the household to move so quickly. Or perhaps the Household Master often did such things? She stole a glance outward; the night was too deep, and she couldn’t see the pond clearly, only vaguely making out the shadows of flowers and trees.

In this season, no flower could bloom in a pond no matter what it was. Were they made of stone?

Jiang Man lowered her eyes and looked no more.

Shen Wen said, “Just send the wine. No one waits on us here.”

“Yes.” The head maid left a lantern in a corner in readiness and withdrew.

Having spoken, Shen Wen simply gazed out beyond the pavilion. Jiang Man didn’t know what she saw in this midnight, but she didn’t dare follow her gaze: seated in a perfect silence, waiting in vain for insect song not yet revived, Jiang Man sighed at how thoroughly deep this night was — deep enough that she could not ignore her own heartbeat, drum-like, nor forget the faint fragrance drifting within arm’s reach.

Night talk by candlelight — how refined. Jiang Man was very nearly blinded by the darkness into believing they were no longer mistress and servant, but…

But what?

In the end she never found that answer.

“Timing, terrain, and unity of people — the rise and fall of nations, the splitting and joining of realms, all come down to this.” Shen Wen’s voice was like dew, dropping onto the lake surface of Jiang Man’s forced composure. “In the Discourse on the Fall of Wu, Lu Shiheng concluded the cause lay in ‘unity of people’ — that Wu had no one to employ, ‘and so the state toppled, its temples left in ruins.’ In your view, is this the main reason for Wu’s fall?”

Though she had read it only today, hearing her quote the original text still gave Jiang Man a moment’s pause. Shen Wen kept calling the essay “idle reading,” telling her not to study it closely — yet quoted it herself as effortlessly as brushing a fallen petal from one’s sleeve.

Jiang Man thought seriously. “In reply to the Female Scribe: this concubine has never read the histories. Of the struggles at the end of Han and the Three Kingdoms I know only fragments, and fear I cannot analyze the crux. But the Sage said, one with the Way has many helpers; one without has few. If a ruler loses virtue and thus the unity of his people, then I fear…”

“Is there only one junzi under heaven?”

She heard this abrupt, contextless question and couldn’t help raising her head to look at Shen Wen. “Female Scribe?”

“I asked,” Shen Wen lowered her eyes slightly, patient, and repeated, “under heaven, is there only one junzi?”

Jiang Man said, “In this concubine’s shallow view, so long as everyone aspires to the way of the sages, achieving centrality and harmony, honoring virtue’s nature — such a one may be called a junzi. It would hardly be limited to a single person.”

“If there is not only one junzi, then ‘many helpers for the Way, few for its lack’ is nothing but a pile of shit.” Shen Wen narrowed her eyes. “A generalization made by the victors.”

Jiang Man was startled.

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard Shen Wen slander and belittle the Sage’s words. At bottom it was a difference of standpoint: what Jiang Man saw were the true principles recorded in the words and deeds of the philosophers; what Shen Wen sought was something universally applicable. Where in this world were there such words? To Jiang Man, the philosophers’ sayings were truth, deeds matched to reality; to Shen Wen, they were merely vessels, implements — when needed, she used the reality to interpret the deed.

Argue as she might, Jiang Man couldn’t out-argue her, and as a servant she had no standing to refute her Household Master; nowadays she usually just listened in silence, venturing a bold retort only when she truly couldn’t bear it. Yet within Shen Wen’s seemingly outrageous remarks there were sometimes things that provoked Jiang Man’s deep reflection, from which she profited greatly; and sometimes Jiang Man felt Shen Wen meant something more, though she could never quite grasp the deeper intent.

Tonight was closer to the latter.

Shen Wen didn’t seem to be talking about Eastern Wu, but using the past to satirize the present.

“Comparing Cao Wei to Sun Wu — how does that strike you?” Shen Wen said. “In Cao Cao’s lifetime, defeated at Red Cliffs, Wei’s territory amounted to no more than the Central Plains and Longxi. Shu Han borrowed Jingzhou and barely held the western Shu regions and seized Hanzhong; Eastern Wu had the Jiangbiao, moved its capital to Moling, fought three wars with Shu thereafter and returned victorious each time, retaking Jingzhou. Wu and Shu were allied, trading blows with Cao Wei, neither gaining advantage. Why, after decades of truce — time that should have gone to recovery and preparation — did Sun Wu outlast Cao Wei, only to surrender in the end to the Jin State?”

Shen Wen looked at her and said slowly, “Where in this world is there a general who commands like a god the first time he takes the field?”

Jiang Man said, “If the generals succeed one another in an unbroken line — if a state has no one to employ — is that not itself a failure of harmony?”

“‘Unity of people’ rests on ‘virtue,’ on ‘the Way’ — you can’t drill an army by hoisting a banner of morality.” Shen Wen was flippant, saying carelessly, “What is drilling troops — drilling them with morality? Then it shouldn’t be soldiers marching to the battlefield, but that great crowd of pedants in Lin’an.”

Jiang Man said nothing.

Before long warm wine arrived with several small dishes. Jiang Man counted ten plates, though the portions were small. Two pairs of chopsticks had been set, and a pair of cups. Jiang Man rose slightly to pour for Shen Wen, setting the pot down with its handle facing herself, then gathered her skirts and sat again.

Shen Wen gazed at the cup filled to just under the brim, her lips parting slightly. “You’re not convinced.”

Though it sounded like a question, her tone had already passed its verdict.

Jiang Man said, “One side besieges a city with tenfold reinforcements racing to its aid; the other holds a lone city alone. How can that be called an even match? The lands of Jiangnan were no wealthier in the past than now. Wei and Jin held the northern strongholds and annexed Shu Han, gaining the granary of heaven’s storehouse. Eastern Wu was in decline — how could it contend with Wei and Jin for heaven? To be reduced to such straits may indeed be, as the Female Scribe says, a lack of tempering, a lack of men to employ — but that they fell so low in the first place: at root, was that not because they lost the unity of their people?”

Far from showing any offense, Shen Wen smiled. “Three days apart, and one looks at a man with new eyes. You’ve been with me barely a month — at first, managing two sentences about the way of the junzi was already impressive. What’s this? After your cramming, now you can hold forth on ‘terrain’ too? A waste that you don’t sit for the examinations.”

This was not praise for her diligence. Jiang Man lowered her head. “I’ve grown ever bolder of late, my words reckless. I beg the Female Scribe’s pardon.”

“You and I are merely chatting about old matters. Where’s the offense?” Shen Wen raised her cup to her lips, gazing into the night, and for a long time did not drink.

At last, as if to herself, half in sigh, she said, “You’re right. Eastern Wu was in decline — how could it contend with Wei and Jin for heaven?”

With that, she drained the cup.

An indescribable sorrow rose in Jiang Man. “This concubine would ask the Female Scribe: does the Discourse on the Fall of Wu truly hold nothing of worth?”

“Emperor Gaozong,” Shen Wen began, and the name alone pinned her in place, “took office amid national catastrophe, held the crisis at bay, preserved half our Great Song Dynasty’s rivers and mountains, then moved the capital to Lin’an. Call him a founding emperor, and none could object.”

She seemed about to continue, then glanced at Jiang Man and suddenly burst out laughing. “See? I knew it — you’ve turned yourself back into a stone.”

Jiang Man weighed her words and in the end still counseled her softly, “The Female Scribe is ordinarily careful even speaking in the study…”

“This is my courtyard. It doesn’t matter.” Shen Wen’s brow arched. “Are you so afraid I’ll fall from power and fail to keep you?”

Jiang Man’s face sobered. “Nothing of the sort.”

Shen Wen leaned close. “Then you’re worried about me?”

No sooner had she spoken than she laughed again, shaking her head. “The Four Generals of the Restoration — how were they not rare talents? Demoted at a word, killed at a word. The one who preserved half our rivers and mountains is also the one who signed the Treaty of Shaoxing and surrendered sovereignty and humiliated the state. Did Emperor Gaozong’s court lack men to employ? Lack defensible ground? Later generations look back and think a fight was still worth making — how do you know it was worth fighting? How do you know the state wouldn’t have fallen? The Two Sovereigns were both in the north. If they had fought, their successors would have had to ‘welcome back the Three Sovereigns’ — and then what?”

Jiang Man’s heart pounded, though she couldn’t say whether from her words or her earlier gesture. Plum fragrance wreathed the air; Jiang Man could no longer even smell the warm Yellow Wine. She knew she couldn’t stop her, and after a long silence said, “This concubine doesn’t know. But all four generals were posthumously enfeoffed as kings. How history judges them may yet be glimpsed.”

Shen Wen looked back at her, and something warm entered her eyes — perhaps the wine’s doing. Jiang Man dared not think further on it. Shen Wen said, “The Emperor dotes on Noble Consort Song, favors Dong Chao’an, and the court is held in the grip of Liu Fufeng and Ren Guangshan. Only the aging Right Chancellor Lu Tingzhi still thinks of restoring law and discipline. Do you think the Emperor has grown muddle-headed? That he’s a different man from the one who once dreamed of entering Luoyang and retaking our rivers and mountains?”

Jiang Man cut her off. “I beg the Female Scribe to speak with care. Only one person may hear such words — yourself. There are two people in this pavilion now. Unless this concubine pierces her own ears, I cannot serve both loyalty and duty.”

“You take good care of those ears of yours.” Shen Wen’s face went cold at once. “If I hear you speak again of harming your body or swearing oaths, I’ll harm it for you personally.”

Jiang Man’s heart thudded wildly. Such vicious words — why did they only make her chest tighten, without a trace of fear? But she could not let Shen Wen say such things again. She rose at once, about to kneel in remonstrance.

Shen Wen, quick-eyed and quick-handed, caught her and held her up, looked down at her, then gave her a light push, as if nothing had happened. Jiang Man steadied herself, her heart beating faster. Why had she caught her?

“The damp is heavy. You can kneel your pair of knees right through the floor inside for all I care — have you forgotten everything Old Xie told you?” Shen Wen’s brow lifted with a thin anger. “Sit down. That’s an order.”

“Yes. Thank you, Female Scribe.” The words Jiang Man hadn’t managed to say had to be swallowed back. Anxious, she hesitated. “Female Scribe…”

Shen Wen let out a long sigh, eyes closed. “I know. I won’t speak of it again.”

Jiang Man pressed her lips together. “This concubine has spoiled the Female Scribe’s mood.”

Shen Wen shook her head. “He is my own uncle by marriage. To you it’s affairs of state; to me, only family matters. The Emperor has reached the age of knowing heaven’s mandate — even the Lord of Shu sighed over flesh regrown on his thigh, grieving ambitions unfulfilled. Why may the Emperor not? And yet… no one to employ…”

She pressed a hand to her forehead, still murmuring, “No one to employ…”

Jiang Man poured for her, filling only half a cup. She had thought Shen Wen a person of laughter and scorn who ignored great affairs, never imagining she harbored such breadth of feeling. Her inner confusion would not dissipate.

Sending courtesans into the palace — flattery and fawning. Recruiting officials — ironclad proof of faction-building and private gain. Not to mention the moneylending enterprises across the region, the skimming within the State Wine Monopoly. Shen Wen was so contradictory — could it be she was coerced by others?

Jiang Man didn’t believe it.

This road was one Shen Wen had walked out herself. With her temperament, had there been the slightest reluctance, no one on earth could have forced her.

And yet Shen Wen’s words just now must have come from genuine feeling. Was she truly still speaking of the Emperor, of Emperor Gaozong, of Eastern Wu? Jiang Man could find no thread. In the flickering candlelight, the shadows on Shen Wen’s brow deepened, and she seemed to have no intention of hiding this sorrow.

Jiang Man was her Beauty Gu Vase, her flower that understands speech. This business of Wind-Listening and speech-decoding was meant above all to serve a Household Master like Shen Wen.

Was it her duty? Was it her charge?

Jiang Man grew flustered, unable to tell whether it sprang from her own inadequacy — or from an inch of feeling too deep to speak of.

Where exactly had Shen Wen gone tonight?