Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Teacher

Wang Zuogua has attacked Yaoxian.

Liu Chengzong had considered the possibility, discussed it with Cao Yao, his elder brother Liu Chengzu, and their father Liu Xiangyu. They all believed Wang Zuogua would advance southward, perhaps even besiege cities. But to hear, unmistakably, from others that Wang Zuogua had indeed assaulted Yaoxian was still startling and unexpected.

For Wang Zuogua, attacking Yaoxian might be little more than an economic calculation: as refugees and soldiers flocked to him, their numbers swelling, he was forced to raid prefectural capitals and pillage cities to sustain his army’s provisions. Yet to outsiders, it seemed more a political gesture.

Without attacking cities, Wang Zuogua was merely the leader of refugees, a mountain bandit, a robber, a cavalry marauder—anything, really, but not a rebel. The moment he besieged a city, he became a traitor army.

With these thoughts clouding his mind, Liu Chengzong and his elder brother returned home. As they entered the courtyard, their father’s hearty laughter rang out from the main hall. Far off, they saw a guest in a green robe, holding a porcelain teacup, plucking fruit from within and nibbling as he laughed.

Liu Chengzong had never seen his father take tea in such a manner.

A ninth-rank official’s income was little different from that of ordinary folk—perhaps somewhat better off, but not by much. Though official duties and the demands of social interaction set their living standards slightly higher, so too did expenses rise. They had moved often, spending years in Mizhi and Yan’an, but wherever they lived, their home was always stocked with various grades of Shaanxi tea and wine for entertaining guests.

Of course, these grades were within what their means allowed: the inferior Huanglong Mountain tea, at a good moment, could be bought for three coins a large bundle; more durable Shangluo spring tea, or the finer Lueyang Ziwu immortal tea, each had its price, but some quantity was always kept in reserve.

Yet he had never witnessed tea enjoyed in such a fashion—almost fashionable, really. The guest in a green robe held a Yaoxian porcelain cup; beside him, the tea table was set with a lacquered wooden tray, containing willow chopsticks, a porcelain spoon, and a pair of green silk napkins. There was even a small copper basin of clear water nearby.

The tea was finished, and the guest, eschewing the chopsticks and spoon, used his little finger to hook fruit from the cup and taste it in small bites—pine nuts and walnuts, from what it seemed.

In any case, Liu Chengzong had never tried such a thing, and could not imagine, with his limited experience, what tea infused with those would taste like. Only now, recognizing the guest seated in the hall, did he exclaim in surprise, “Sir?”

The guest in the green robe was in his thirties, wearing a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed, round iron spectacles perched on his nose. He had heard footsteps for some time, but thought nothing of them—merely assumed it was someone from the Liu household moving about. Only upon hearing the voice did he look up, raise his brows, and push up his glasses to focus his gaze, breaking into a smile.

“Back home, little ancestor?”

This ‘ancestor’ was a playful nickname for the two brothers; in these times, folks often called their children ‘little master,’ and even the emperor in the palace would call his eldest son ‘little master.’

Liu Xiangyu, on the other hand, deliberately restrained his laughter, scolding, “Go greet Uncle Yang at once, you two impudent boys!”

The brothers immediately straightened and knelt to make their salutations.

The guest was an old acquaintance: Yang Dingrui, courtesy name Xingzhuang, from Ansai.

When Liu Xiangyu served as instructor at Yan’an, Yang Dingrui, then still a student, had already passed the provincial exams. Aspiring to become a metropolitan graduate, he had neither taken a post in government nor sought employment, choosing instead to remain at the academy, occasionally substituting as a teacher for extra income.

Thus, Liu Xiangyu and Yang Dingrui were half colleagues, while the two brothers were Yang Dingrui’s pupils, learning not only literature from him but also laying the foundations for their love of sports.

In fact, Liu Chengzong had received plenty of beatings from Yang Dingrui.

The reason lay in the spectacles perched on Yang Dingrui’s nose.

In the Ming era, spectacles had become common among the wealthy—officials, merchants, and the like—but mostly for presbyopia, as nearsightedness was rare. Ordinary families had little need for strenuous use of the eyes; scholars, aspiring to government office, were expected to be learned but also physically fit. Educational resources were not as centralized as they would later become; instead of a single teacher instructing dozens, typically one master taught four or five students, and posture—sitting and standing correctly—was a strict rule of scholarly training. There was virtually never a chance to write or read slouched over a desk.

Yang Dingrui, born into modest circumstances, lacked proper guidance as a child and developed nearsightedness.

In those days, nearsightedness was called ‘can see near but fears far’ syndrome—a recognized ailment.

When Liu Chengzong studied under him, Yang Dingrui could not afford crystal spectacles, so he squinted to read, bringing the text close to his face. Whenever he saw Liu Chengzong imitating him, he would whip out his ruler and give a thorough beating.

Since nearsightedness was considered an illness, Yang Dingrui sought medical remedies, taking plenty of decoctions and undergoing acupuncture, but ultimately solved the problem by acquiring spectacles.

As Yang Dingrui himself said, after poring over ancient medical treatises, he concluded prevention was best: frequent massage of the meridians during study and regular exercise outdoors were most reliable.

He passed on to the Liu brothers a set of massage techniques—not unlike eye exercises from another memory—and would often, after an hour or so of study, take them running, climbing, or even hunting.

Of course, hunting was Yang Dingrui’s own affair with the bow; the brothers were only responsible for running, climbing, reciting classical texts, and carrying game.

Until they followed their father to Mizhi for his official post, contact with Yang Dingrui ceased. Later they heard he had passed the metropolitan exam and gone to Beijing, making him all the more distant.

“Enough, no need for formality between teacher and students. Sit down, both of you. It’s been nearly eight or nine years since we last met—must the two boys sell ten thousand taels of gold before we can talk?” Yang Dingrui raised his arm and stopped the brothers, then turned to Liu Xiangyu with a smile. “The little lion cub has grown into a man!”

The brothers sat. The elder, Chengzu, laughed, “We heard from Sixteen that a distinguished guest from the prefecture was here, so we hurried home. Never expected it was you, sir.”

Yang Dingrui, dressed in loose robes, smiled with gentle elegance and waved his hand. “What sort of person am I? I’ve only served as a deputy official for a few years.”

Deputy officials—second-in-command, essentially. Magistrate, assistant magistrate, prefectural assistant, county deputy, registrar—all are deputy officials. For example, in a county, the magistrate is chief, while the deputy and registrar are assistants. The fourth-ranked office, the inspector, is an exception—termed leader, not assistant.

The reason is that while most officials handle administrative matters, the inspector deals directly with the people, serving as their leader rather than the head of the county office.

Having returned to serve in Yan’an, under the avoidance regulations, as a local man, Yang Dingrui’s career could only advance as deputy unless transferred out of province; he could never be chief.

He spoke, his smile fading as he shook his head. “I resigned. I’m done with it.”

Though Yang Dingrui’s smile was gentle, the moment it disappeared, Liu Chengzong felt a jolt within.

It wasn’t just the many times his father had left him in Yang Dingrui’s care, his bottom whipped thoroughly.

He also knew that this seemingly refined scholar possessed an unusually steely character.

“Why did you resign, sir?”

“I couldn’t keep going—much like your father. Now, in the prefectures of Yan and Qing, nearly half the chief and deputy posts are vacant. It’s not a matter of wanting to work, but that even if you wish to, you cannot.”

He then pointed to the spectacles on his nose: “I could never be chief, anyway.”

The atmosphere grew heavy. Yang Dingrui said, “I fear the court’s rule in Shaanxi… is finished.”

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Note: ‘Can see near but fears far syndrome’—from Volume Twenty-seven of the Complete Works of Jing Yue.