Chapter 25

The young emperor personally tended to farming and sericulture, and even developed doubts; both imperial dowagers smiled broadly—virtue lies in practicing the Dao and reaping its rewards; when one has doubts about action, it means one is truly acting, truly thinking—this is virtue.

Empress Dowager Chen smiled and asked, “Tell us.”

Zhu Yijun pointed to the thick stack of books on the desk and said, “I had Zhang Hong fetch many agricultural texts from the Ancient-Modern Universal Library—such as The Silkworm Classic, Miscellaneous Five Elements Texts, Essential Techniques for the Common People, and The Farmer’s Necessities—all written in classical Chinese, with no punctuation, no sentence breaks, no annotations, and none use vernacular language.”

“Obscure and hard to understand.”

The agricultural texts Zhu Yijun read had not a single punctuation mark; even memorials at least had sentence breaks, but these texts had none—it was truly grueling to read.

Zhu Yijun continued, “Moreover, the climate and temperature differ between north and south, yet these texts offer no detailed guidance to suit local conditions.”

“If these agricultural texts are meant for farmers, farmers can’t read them; if meant for scholar-officials, they offer almost no annotations, and hardly anyone reads them—then who exactly are these texts written for? And who are they meant for?”

Empress Dowager Li and Empress Dowager Chen froze, exchanging glances—this question from the young emperor was extraordinarily sharp.

Agricultural texts were not meant for farmers, since farmers were illiterate; scholar-officials clung to the Four Books and Five Classics and viewed such manuals as tools—most merely flipped through them, some didn’t even bother, for these were heterodox paths—who would devote themselves to them?

Some even regarded agronomy as heresy.

Zhu Yijun pressed on: “Master Yuanfu taught me: Agriculture is the great foundation of the realm, the very means by which the people sustain life; to enrich the state, one must rely on this fundamental industry.”

“Yet so many agricultural texts gather dust on the shelves, untouched, unannotated—even finding an annotated edition is difficult—how then can we solidify the foundation and enrich the state?”

“Grandiose talk harms the state; are these texts, written in flowery language and incomprehensible to farmers, not a detachment from reality? How can local officials who never even glance at agricultural texts encourage farming and sericulture? How can they govern the land and shepherd the people on behalf of the Son of Heaven? Is this not empty, hollow discourse?”

After much deliberation, Empress Dowager Li said, “Since the Son of Heaven wishes to read, I shall find someone to annotate them for you.”

“It’s late—better to rest early,” Empress Dowager Chen also rose; they had no answers to the young emperor’s sharp questions, and could not respond—two adults unable to answer a ten-year-old’s question meant the discussion must end.

The child is still young, seeking guidance from adults, yet the adults could only stammer and evade.

How could they then rebuke the child with righteous authority?

Better not rebuke at all!

Zhu Yijun saw the two imperial dowagers off, sat before his desk, and continued flipping through the agricultural texts—obscure and hard to understand did not mean incomprehensible; within these texts, even an offhand phrase might save countless lives.

Since no one annotated them, and no scholar read them, he would annotate them, he would read them, he would correct them, he would test theories through practice—hard work indeed, but Zhu Yijun always remembered one thing: who toils for the myriad people, who is the king of the myriad people.

He read for a long time before finally setting down his brush and paper with quiet satisfaction.

“Early to bed, early to rise, grow tall,” Zhu Yijun stretched, signaling Zhang Hong to extinguish the lamps.

Zhang Hong was also reading; before leaving, he had requested permission from His Majesty to take one scroll of agricultural text—he could not remain utterly ignorant if the emperor asked.

The next day, the Wenhua Hall was as noisy as ever; the young emperor sat before the imperial desk on the hall’s moon terrace, writing and sketching, earnestly studying the Four Books and Five Classics; the nineteenth of each month’s examination was his license to indulge in frivolity—he could only continue his distractions after passing the test.

“Zhang Juzheng!” Ge Shouli was beyond furious!

What had the young emperor of Great Ming done after his morning martial practice yesterday?

He went to Jingshan and hoed the earth!

Zhang Juzheng looked at Ge Shouli, eyes half-lidded: “Grand Coordinator Ge, this is the Wenhua Hall. No matter how you address me privately, since you sit here in court deliberation, address me as Yuanfu.”

One must use official titles during work.

Ge Shouli snapped, “You first drove away all the Grand Secretaries, monopolized the lecture platform, seized power so utterly it nearly shakes the throne! You dare monopolize the lecture platform now—what will you dare do next? Will you hoard all authority for yourself?”

At these words, Zhang Juzheng, whose face had been darkening, suddenly smiled—a smile that spread instantly, his face beaming: “Hmm?”

“Speaking of His Majesty’s studies.”

“The Readers, Lecturers, and Text-Display Officers, along with the ministers, share knowledge freely; His Majesty’s progress in reading has been swift. Frankly, even my annotations of the Four Books and Five Classics cannot keep pace with his reading—he’s been burning the midnight oil to annotate, fearing he might betray the late emperor’s trust, the dowagers’ earnest hopes, and His Majesty’s expectations.”

Zhang Juzheng was smiling—not a cold, insincere smile, not a mocking one—but a genuine, heartfelt smile.

Ge Shouli was attacking the Grand Secretary, yet the Grand Secretary seemed unconcerned, even praising the emperor’s studies.

After finishing his remarks on the emperor’s studies, Zhang Juzheng continued: “Ah, yes—Grand Coordinator Ge mentioned my monopolizing the lecture platform. That is the real issue.”

“Grand Coordinator Ge, are you saying you hold the Grand Secretaries in such low regard?”

“Every nineteenth day, there is an examination. Do you think the Grand Secretaries are merely collecting salaries, unwilling to properly examine His Majesty’s lessons? Or are you erasing their achievements?”

Wang Xilie glanced at Ge Shouli, his expression slightly puzzled—Zhang Juzheng indeed taught, but the examinations were handled by the former lecture Grand Secretaries—what was Ge Shouli talking about?

Had the Grand Secretaries been negligent in the emperor’s education? Or had they accomplished nothing at all?

“Grand Coordinator Ge, do not harm the virtuous,” Wang Xilie said coldly, tapping the table—when the Jin Party and Zhang Juzheng fight, don’t injure the innocent.

Zhang Juzheng was not inept at handling censors and remonstrating officials; he had simply been overwhelmed by affairs, especially the young emperor’s studies, leaving him uncertain—he couldn’t very well whip the emperor’s palms with a ruler.

He was the emperor.

After the assassination attempt, His Majesty truly realized being emperor was no simple matter, and finally took his studies seriously—this was a tremendous blessing for Zhang Juzheng.

Whether the Jin Party grew powerful, whether northern barbarians pressed south, whether the Six Evils of the Dissection Institute were fully present, whether the emperor personally tended farming and sericulture or challenged Mencius’s long-standing views—none of these mattered much to Zhang Juzheng; his greatest concern was that the ten-year-old emperor of Great Ming grow into a capable ruler.

Zhang Juzheng feared no court ministers, no censors, no Jin Party; since taking charge of state affairs, his greatest fear was that the young emperor would fail to mature—and the first six months of lectures had been abysmal, leaving him deeply anxious.

Only recently had his unease fully lifted—yet two small clouds remained: one, the young emperor’s distraction—practicing martial arts, studying agronomy; the second, the young emperor’s reading progress was simply too good.

Zhang Juzheng was deeply pleased with the emperor’s studies; Great Ming’s state system needed a wise sovereign to lead its revival. Whether martial practice or farming and sericulture, as long as they did not interfere with learning the principles of governance, Zhang Juzheng would not overstep.

Thus, reading too well was merely a small cloud.

Reading alone may not cure a state, but not reading will surely doom it.

Ge Shouli drew a deep breath and declared sharply: “Yesterday, His Majesty went to Jingshan—not to climb high, admire flowers, feast, or shoot arrows—he went to hoe the earth! His Majesty, the golden body, personally tending farming and sericulture—Zhang Yuanfu! You, as Imperial Tutor and Grand Secretary, wield such overwhelming authority it shakes the throne! Such power, if maintained, will bring disgrace and death soon after!”

Ge Shouli’s words struck at the heart: Zhang Juzheng was forcing the emperor into these arduous tasks; soon after his death, humiliation and execution would follow.

Hearing Ge Shouli attack Zhang Juzheng over the Jingshan hoeing, Zhu Yijun suddenly spoke: “What I wished to do, Master Yuanfu tried to stop—but failed.”

At the young emperor’s first words on court affairs, all eyes turned to Zhu Yijun on the dais—the emperor of Great Ming had spoken on state matters for the first time.

Almost all court ministers believed Zhang Juzheng’s goal was to humiliate imperial authority and inflate his own power to push through edicts—but the young emperor’s words suggested otherwise.

Zhu Yijun met the puzzled gazes of all present with a radiant smile: “I am still young, relying on your counsel to govern the realm. Idle hands are idle hands; seeing a new opportunity, I took delight. Luo Gongchen presented an auspicious sign—if true, it may provide crops to save the people from famine—this is a meritorious deed.”

Ge Shouli grew even more heartbroken, gritting his teeth, closing his eyes for a long while before speaking: “This Jing man is utterly audacious, deceiving the sovereign—this is the calamity of state collapse and the people reduced to slave-race status! Loyal ministers in court, terrified of his power, have silenced themselves! We must uphold the state and restore proper order!”

“Today, I shall spare no effort in remonstrating—restoration lies in me, I shall bear this immense burden!”

“Jing man” was Gao Gong’s contemptuous term for Zhang Juzheng—no one dared utter it to Zhang Juzheng’s face, not even Gao Gong himself had ever done so; only in utter fury would Ge Shouli use it.

To Ge Shouli, the young emperor’s words were entirely due to fear of Zhang Juzheng!

What else could this be but authority shaking the throne?!

A minister usurping the sovereign’s authority—is this not the calamity of state collapse and the people reduced to slave-race status?

The Southern Song monarchs failed to hold the realm; the state fell, Han people became slaves and servants, branded on the face to beg for survival—that was the calamity of the people reduced to slave-race status.

Zhu Yijun understood Ge Shouli’s words and asked, puzzled: “Grand Coordinator Ge, did I not speak clearly enough?”

“I wished to act, Master Yuanfu tried to stop me—but failed. During the lecture, we discussed Emperor Renzong of Song valuing grain over pearls and jade—the content was heard by the Reader, Lecturer, and Text-Display Officers; Grand Coordinator Ge surely heard it too.”

“Isn’t this turning black into white, reversing cause and effect?”

Ge Shouli opened his eyes, utterly grief-stricken: “Your Majesty, this is precisely how the Jing man harms you—he had Luo Gongchen present an auspicious sign, then singled out these two cases in lecture—this is how he deceives and blinds your youth!”

Zhu Yijun studied Ge Shouli, his gaze unreadable—he was trying to determine whether Ge Shouli was sophistry or truly believed Zhang Juzheng was usurping power.

When facts favored him, he cited facts;

When rules favored him, he cited rules.

This was a classic, common form of sophistry.

For court ministers, whether facts or rules mattered was an extremely flexible standard.

Just as curfews only restrained commoners—those with even slight power ignored them entirely; even the palace prohibitions of Great Ming, in the eyes of its nobles, were but a sheet of paper—even eunuchs dared violate them to profit from palace rules.

Zhu Yijun studied Ge Shouli for a long while, finally discerning one thing: this man was not sophistry—he genuinely worried.

Feng Bao, Feng Da, was the quintessential master actor; Ge Shouli was not.

After watching for a long while, Zhu Yijun concluded: Ge Shouli was not acting—he truly believed this.

Yang Bo had told Zhang Juzheng: Ge Shouli was blunt and straightforward, a classic remonstrating official; when the emperor opened the Baoqi Palace for “ruler and people tilling together,” Ge Shouli’s first thought was not that the emperor defied Mencius, but that Zhang Juzheng was tyrannical, cunningly deceiving the emperor—even humiliating the young sovereign.

In Ge Shouli’s eyes—or in the eyes of many court ministers—this was the truth.

The Jin Party and Zhang Juzheng had finally begun open conflict over the emperor’s education.

Jin Party leader Yang Bo remained silent; if Ge Shouli won, fine; if he lost, no matter—his sole purpose was to remind Zhang Juzheng: reforming without forming factions would lead to only one end.

Zhu Yijun pondered—all suspicion, all questioning, must have a starting point; the young emperor grasped it in two breaths.

“Grand Coordinator Ge…”