Chapter 26: Because Within Me There Is Enough Joy

The next day, dawn was just breaking.

A faint glow appeared on his eyelids; Lu Beigu struggled, then opened his eyes.

The chill of morning seeped through the door crack into the dormitory; the coarse linen quilt held rare warmth, and his foggy mind clung to it unwillingly.

But the next instant, Lu Beigu yanked up the new linen quilt he’d made this year—so hard that willow fluff and worn cotton spilled out through the seams.

Watching the white fluff drift free, Lu Beigu briefly entertained the thought: Should I get a warmer cotton quilt?

The thought had barely formed when he violently cast it aside.

Though cotton had already appeared and been used for quilts, only the wealthy could afford such luxuries; besides, the story of King Zhou’s ivory chopsticks making Jizi tremble was not without reason—if I switch to a cotton quilt, will I then need a bigger bed? And after that?

Best not to entertain such thoughts at all.

After these days, Lu Beigu clearly understood the path he must walk.

Perhaps he could not yet achieve Fan Zhongyan’s ideal of “grieving before the world grieves, rejoicing after the world rejoices,” but at the very least, he would strive to make himself and those around him live better—without betraying his inner self, wielding his pen as a blade to make his voice heard in this age!

Whether he wished to live with dignity and integrity, or to achieve merit and leave behind words, all required his own relentless effort, step by step.

Lu Beigu folded his quilt, rose, and went outside to the well to brush his teeth.

Unlike many time-traveling predecessors who had to painfully tear willow twigs and dip them in coarse salt, the Northern Song already had mature toothbrushes—wooden handles with horsehair bristles, available at general stores for five or six copper coins, not expensive.

One could save money by making one’s own, but drilling holes and plucking hairs strained the eyes terribly.

Toothpaste did not exist, for it was hard to preserve in liquid form, but tooth powder did.

Its main preparation involved boiling willow, locust, and mulberry branches into a paste, cooling and crushing it, then mixing in ginger juice and asarum—sold by portion, each portion containing four packets, priced at one copper coin total.

Lu Beigu drew cool water from the well using a wooden toothbrush holder shaped like a brush tube, swirled the brush in it, opened a packet of tooth powder, dipped it in, and put it in his mouth to brush.

In an age where tooth extraction could kill, brushing teeth was unquestionably a vital daily ritual.

“Lu brother, up so early?”

A scholar carrying a book satchel entered the academy courtyard.

Lu Beigu looked closely—it was Zhang Cheng, one of the two who had called for help by the river that day, a native of Hejiang.

“Zhang brother,” Lu Beigu quickly rinsed his mouth. “I wanted to rise early and read by morning light; the ten-day test is coming soon, so I need to review more of the text-copying exams.”

“Morning reading?”

Though he didn’t immediately grasp the meaning, Zhang Cheng deduced it from the literal words.

“Lu brother is diligent—may I join you?”

“Delighted to have you.”

Lu Beigu returned his toothware to the dormitory and took out the county academy’s copy of the Analects.

Focusing solely on meaning-based questions wouldn’t suffice, since exams also tested text-copying and poetry composition—especially the upcoming ten-day test, which covered both text-copying and meaning-based questions.

Compared to the Spring and Autumn Annals and the Book of Rites, which required deep understanding and spanned complex, evolving schools of thought, the Analects tested in text-copying was simply a matter of memorization.

Yet he did not intend to memorize blindly.

On one hand, Lu Beigu had his own memory methods to absorb content quickly; on the other, the Analects were essentially recorded sayings, so one couldn’t remain silent—he had to read aloud, not merely recite silently in his mind.

And this was precisely why he chose morning reading.

Lu Beigu and Zhang Cheng stood outside the dormitory, each holding the Analects and reciting aloud; morning dew dampened their sleeves, but neither noticed.

“The Master said: Who says Wei Shenggao was upright? Someone asked him for vinegar; he asked his neighbor for some and gave it to them.”

Lu Beigu recited softly, his finger gliding lightly over pages made of Sichuan’s most common bamboo paper.

“Wang Sunjia asked: ‘Better to flatter the inner hearth than the stove’—what does this mean? The Master said: Not so. If one offends Heaven, there is no prayer that can help.”

Time slipped away unnoticed; a purple streak on the horizon turned crimson as the rising sun emerged from the sea of clouds.

When his legs grew numb and sweat beaded on his forehead, Lu Beigu finally broke from his focused morning reading.

At that moment, he saw Zhang Cheng sitting on a nearby stone bench, watching him.

“Zhang brother, why are you staring at me like that?” Lu Beigu asked, puzzled.

“Lu brother, doesn’t reading this bore you?” Zhang Cheng was equally puzzled. “I read ten or so pages and my head feels stuffed—I can’t remember anything new.”

“Not at all,” Lu Beigu answered honestly. “I just feel there’s never enough time.”

“By the way, Zhang brother, have you eaten breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“Then let’s eat together—I’ll treat you.”

Zhang Cheng nodded. He was four years older than Lu Beigu, a native of Hejiang County, whose family ran a small apothecary; though not wealthy, his circumstances were far better than Lu Beigu’s as a poor scholar.

But since Lu Beigu offered to pay, he had no reason to refuse.

The academy had a communal dining hall with many breakfast options, but staples were mostly buns—like baked buns or steamed buns.

Yes, steamed buns were what Wu Dalang sold.

Lu Beigu spent four copper coins on two baked buns as his staple, then one copper coin on a bowl of fermented grain water for himself, and two copper coins on a bowl of plum juice drink for Zhang Cheng.

The baked buns differed slightly from modern ones, but not much—the sesame-crusted crust crunched satisfyingly with every bite; the fermented grain water resembled rice gruel but had a touch of honey and flower juice for sweetness.

As for Zhang Cheng’s plum juice drink, it resembled today’s instant honey pomelo tea concentrate—a pre-mixed fruit jam syrup, expensive to make, hence pricier than rice gruel.

Without a phone, and used to watching videos as digital side dishes, Lu Beigu simply placed the Analects on the table, reading while he ate; truthfully, some of the dialogues and little stories were quite appetizing.

At that moment, He Cong arrived with several others.

His tray held a bowl of golden bamboo shoot and meat soup, and he deliberately sat beside Lu Beigu.

One of the most expensive breakfasts, made from fresh chestnuts, yams, spring bamboo shoots, and seasonings, slow-simmered to a rich flavor—widely favored; in the Song, fresh ingredients cost noticeably more than ordinary vegetables.

Seeing Lu Beigu ignore him, He Cong bristled, deliberately straightening his fresh lake-silk robe and patting the sheep-fat jade pendant at his waist, then loudly to his companions: “It’s cold today—I’ll treat you all to mutton stew at ‘Zuixian Pavilion’ in Chengnan, and warm it with a pot of Yuzhuo wine.”

He glanced at Lu Beigu: “Some people probably haven’t even tasted mutton.”

His companions laughed in agreement, their eyes sweeping over Lu Beigu’s faded, patched linen robe, loaded with implication.

Lu Beigu merely turned a page of the Analects, not even lifting his eyes.

He Cong, rebuffed, snorted and left with his group after finishing his meal.

Zhang Cheng watched their retreating backs, then leaned close and whispered: “Lu brother, you truly aren’t envious?”

Lu Beigu closed his book, raised his head toward the rising sun beyond the dining hall’s entrance; morning light glowed on his brow, making him look strikingly noble.

He smiled faintly: “Not envious.”

Zhang Cheng blinked: “Why?”

Lu Beigu gently tapped the Analects in his hand: “Because within me there is enough joy, I do not know that my food and clothing fall short of others’.”

Zhang Cheng froze, savoring the words; after a long while, he sighed: “Lu brother’s state of mind—I cannot match it.”

Lu Beigu smiled, saying no more.

His time at the county academy was running short, so he cherished every moment.

If his guess was right, the County Magistrate would soon take him to Chengdu Prefecture.

(End of chapter)