Chapter 96: Chapter Ninety-Six: Public and Private—How Could This Possibly Baffle the Grand Secretary!

The Emperor truly does not attend to his duties. Volume Nine-Six: Public and Private—How Could This Possibly Baffle the Grand Secretary? Xu Pan repeatedly obstructed Xu Jie’s collusion with local gentry and proposed his own solution, which appeared flawless.

But he offended certain people—merchants from Suzhou-Songjiang, Zhejiang, and the Southern Court—because if Xu Pan’s proposal passed, an unavoidable problem would arise: a vast new wave of competitors would emerge on the seas.

During the investigation into the NanYa Provincial Governor and the eunuch, only Xu Pan was charged with murder; even Wang Daoqun, who despised Xu Jie and compared him to Qin Gui, was merely smeared with mud—a mere warning.

Wang Daoqun had the support of the Zhe Party in court and protection from Zhang Juzheng; he committed a minor error any adult man might make, and in time, it would vanish, even leading to his reinstatement.

In Ming’s rigid hierarchy of rank and propriety, Wang Daoqun was among the elite, a grand figure dwelling in the Purple Forbidden Enclosure, a high official of great status; his rape case would likely be romanticized among scholars as an act of elegant licentiousness.

Even if Wang Daoqun wished it, turning the abduction of a virtuous woman into a concubine would transform the case into a tale of golden wind and jade dew meeting once.

But Xu Pan was charged with murder and assault.

This was an obvious act of retaliation; everyone knew Xu Pan was innocent.

He was falsely accused of murder, yet all physical evidence, witness testimony, and documentary proof pointed squarely at him—and soon, a storm of scholarly public opinion would transform Xu Pan, the refined young master, into a bloodthirsty, cruel monster.

Xu Jie knew all of this.

In NanYa’s affairs, one could not bypass Xu Jie’s web of connections; no one could move against Xu Pan without Xu Jie’s approval or tacit consent—this case would never have happened otherwise.

So swiftly, Xu Pan went from being universally praised as the noble young master to a convicted murderer, imprisoned.

Tomb robbers have a rule: the father always emerges first from the tunnel, then the son, because the father would never push his son down for the loot—but the son might.

But Xu Jie had three sons; when his eldest began openly defying and obstructing him, he tacitly permitted certain acts to occur.

That is why Tan Lun said: even tigers do not eat their young—Xu Jie is a ruthless man.

Zhang Juzheng looked at the memorial in his hand and said: “Xu Pan committed murder, with clear evidence—witnesses, physical proof, documents—all form an ironclad case. Murder demands blood for blood; it is natural justice.”

“Xu Pan qualifies for the Eight Privileges on grounds of merit—for his work repairing the Yongshou Palace—and by rank as a third-rank Minister of the Temple of Rituals; he should be stripped of his official status.”

“Gu Jiuxi, Director of the Guanglu Temple Office, submitted a memorial: ‘The son of Grand Tutor Xu, Xu Pan, returned to his hometown and massively seized land, oppressed the people, colluded with wicked clerks and corrupt officials, extorted and extorted the innocent, acted with impunity, and inflicted unbearable harm on common folk. His crimes are aggravated and he deserves exile to the frontier.’”

Murder demands death, yet two of the Eight Privileges—merit and rank—apply; rank being third-rank or higher, the death penalty is waived, but punishment remains unavoidable.

Xu Pan became a universally despised villain; exile to the frontier became his final sentence.

Xu Pan’s case was brought before the Wenhua Hall for imperial deliberation because he held the official rank of third-rank Minister of the Temple of Rituals—even though he did not perform duties, the rank was real.

“Does anyone have objections?” Zhang Juzheng asked the court ministers after reading the Dali Temple’s verdict.

Wan Shihé frowned and said: “Isn’t Gu Jiuxi the son-in-law of Grand Tutor Xu?”

“Yes,” Tan Lun replied, looking at Wan Shihé.

Upon receiving this confirmation, Wan Shihé turned pale; his world of rigid hierarchy, of kinship concealment and familial loyalty, was collapsing.

Gu Jiuxi was Xu Pan’s brother-in-law; instead of defending Xu Pan, he struck him in the heart, turning the punishment from dismissal with permanent disqualification into exile to the frontier.

There are no classes that betray their class—only individuals who betray their class; and those individuals pay a terrible price: former friends and relatives become strangers overnight, turning into enemies wielding knives, eager to see them dead.

This is the cost.

With no further objections, Zhang Juzheng signed and passed the memorial to Zhang Hong, who placed it before the throne for the Emperor’s seal.

Zhu Yijun glanced at the destination of Xu Pan’s exile—it was peculiar: Xu Pan was to be exiled to Jizhou.

Jizhou was one of the Ming’s Nine Borders, a frontier garrison; this placed him within Qi Jiguang’s domain, offering some leniency, sparing him from dying in the remote wastes.

Typically, exiles were sent to the barren lands of Yunnan, Guizhou, or Zhennan Pass; Zhang Juzheng chose Jizhou for Xu Pan—clearly an act of protection.

Zhu Yijun sealed the document and said: “Rituals have collapsed, music is lost; the benevolent are few, the unkind are many. Benevolent governance is like a cup of water thrown on a burning cart. The ancients truly did not deceive me. Submit this to the Ministry of Justice.”

This was an ironclad murder case; whether Xu Pan actually killed or not was irrelevant—the evidence proved he did, and the proof was overwhelming.

Song Yangshan was demoted three ranks and ordered to redeem himself; Wang Daoqun’s reputation was tarnished; the court dispatched Embroidered Uniform Guards to investigate; Yu Dayou and Chen Lin were reprimanded; Zhang Jin and Zhang Cheng received ten strokes each; Xu Pan was stripped of his rank and exiled to the frontier.

On the Eighth Day of the Twelfth Month, the Laba Festival, as the capital prepared for the New Year, all officials dispatched by the Ming court to oversee land clearance in NanYa received their sentences.

Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng continued to preside over court deliberations, appearing indifferent—but those familiar with Zhang Juzheng knew: the vengeful Zhang Juzheng would never let this go.

For Ming court officials, Zhang Juzheng’s terrifying nature became even more palpable.

When humiliation occurred and Zhang Juzheng remained silent, it meant the tiger had closed its eyes, preparing to devour.

Even the atmosphere in court grew heavier; everyone spoke cautiously, fearing to offend Zhang Juzheng, unsure how much fury he had stored away, waiting to unleash.

After court deliberations ended, before the lecture session, Zhu Yijun felt a question he could not suppress; he ordered the Lecturers and Readers to remain, leaving only Zhu Yijun, Zhang Juzheng, Feng Bao, and Zhang Hong in the hall.

“Is Xu Jie truly so cruel? Xu Pan is his own son. Money moves hearts—indeed, when one sees only profit, people become monsters.” Zhu Yijun said to Zhang Juzheng, commenting on the entire affair.

What puzzled the young Emperor most was Xu Pan’s persecution: Song Yangshan, Wang Daoqun, and others were engaged in a struggle to protect their interests—but Xu Pan was Xu Jie’s eldest son. How could he do this?

“Xu Jie is a disciple of Wang Yangming’s school of thought; he himself has no taboos, no alternatives—he must act this way, or all these accusations will fall upon him.” Zhang Juzheng bowed and replied; he understood Xu Jie well: Xu Jie was profit-driven, inevitably—but he had not yet reached the point of eating his own child.

Xu Jie had no choice; he could only act this way.

Zhu Yijun thought and asked: “Like Minister Yang?”

“Minister Yang is a man of great virtue.” Zhang Juzheng paused, still believing Xu Jie differed from Yang Bo; though similar in being forced into action, Yang Bo was stronger. Yang Bo always kept conflict within bounds—unlike Xu Jie, who caused the wrongful death of Hu Zongxian, Yang Bo was a hundred times better.

When a gentleman is described as a ruler, his private morality is irrelevant; the harm caused by Xu Jie’s wrongful death of Hu Zongxian was thousands of times worse than Yang Bo’s defense of minor interests of the Jin Party.

Of course, this also relates to Yang Bo’s timely withdrawal; had he remained in court, his misdeeds would only have multiplied.

Withdrawing at the peak—could that not be wisdom?

Zhang Juzheng bowed and said: “Your Majesty previously asked what is public and what is private. I have gained some insight. I dare to overstep and clarify for Your Majesty.”

“In his old age, Yan Song stole temple offerings to survive, dying before his wife’s tomb. On the third day of the twelfth month of Jiajing 45, the late Emperor was gravely ill and inquired after Yan Song. His attendants dared not answer. Only Huang Jin, Chief Eunuch of the Palace Secretariat and Director of the Eastern Depot, told the late Emperor: ‘Yan Song died in April, his corpse unclaimed by anyone.’”

“His final words: ‘All my life I served the state with loyalty; after death, men speak of right and wrong.’”

“Until his death, Yan Song believed himself loyal, diligent, and capable; in his confusion of public and private, he served the monarch but betrayed the state, plundered the empire for two decades, trusted his wicked son, and poisoned the realm.”

Zhang Juzheng was chief editor of the Veritable Records of Emperor Shizong of Ming; while compiling this history, he reflected on the Emperor’s questions regarding public and private. The recent events gave him deeper insight into the distinction.

His words were extremely dangerous, especially in the strict Confucian climate of Wanli’s first year; if other ministers heard them, they would surely impeach Zhang Juzheng for treason.

Because Zhang Juzheng’s words questioned the fundamental political structure of the unity of monarch and state.

Yan Song’s life was unquestionably loyal to the monarch; if monarch and state were one, then Ming was Jiajing, Jiajing was Ming, the Emperor was the realm, and the realm was the Emperor.

Could Yan Song be split into two people—one loyal minister, one traitor?

Clearly, Yan Song could not be divided; thus, the monarch and the state were not one.

Zhang Juzheng had no intention of defending or rehabilitating Yan Song; Yan Shifan had even extorted money from the Prince of Yu’s household—Zhang Juzheng was there at the time and would never defend Yan Song.

Zhang Juzheng was using Yan Song to define public and private.

Regarding the unity of monarch and state, Zhang Juzheng could say no more; those who understand, understand; those who do not, he could not explain further.

As regent, if he loudly declared that monarch and state were not one—that one was one, two was two—he would meet the same fate as Gao Gong tomorrow.

Zhang Juzheng had no intention of usurping the throne; thus, his statement that Yan Song served the monarch but not the state was enough. To elaborate further would be to step onto an unsteppable slope.

“What is public?” Zhu Yijun understood Zhang Juzheng’s meaning—he grasped it: one is one, two is two. This was precisely what Zhu Yijun had meant when he asked Zhang Juzheng what filial piety was—distinguishing between monarch and father as one.

Zhang Juzheng relaxed; the Emperor had wisely not pressed further on whether monarch and state were one, but instead asked for the definition of public.

The young Emperor was profoundly irresponsible: wielding the great hammer of innocent purity, he shattered Zhang Juzheng’s solid worldview built over decades of maturity, yet refused to help rebuild it—leaving Zhang Juzheng alone to painfully explore and reconstruct.

If the Emperor had insisted on pressing the issue of unity between monarch and father or monarch and state, Zhang Juzheng would have resigned outright—let anyone who wants to come, come!

Ask! Ask! Ask! Are these things even to be asked?!

Zhang Juzheng raised his hands; he now had a clear definition of public. Though the process was arduous, the state’s decay provided ample examples to observe and confirm the concept, making it simple. He smiled: “The Book of Changes, Xi Ci Shang, says: ‘Things are grouped by kind, beings are divided by category; fortune and misfortune arise.’”

“The Strategies of the Warring States, Qi Ce Three, says: ‘Things are grouped by kind, people are divided by category.’”

“People always classify things with similar traits—horses, for instance: mountain horses, slow horses, swift steeds, thousand-li horses, Dayuan horses—all are horses.”

“People also form groups based on region, kinship, ideals, character, interests, and so on—this is ‘people divided by category.’”

“The Analects, Wei Linggong, says: ‘The gentleman is dignified but not contentious, gathers but does not form cliques.’”

“Thus, public is group—but group is not public.”

Zhu Yijun asked, puzzled: “If public is group, why is group not public?”

Zhang Juzheng thought and said: “To clarify this, I must use the case of Xu Jie.”

“Xu Pan and Xu Jie are father and son; the Xu family of Huating is one group. When faced with imperial edicts, Xu Jie—or the Xu family—must return the land, or face execution.”

“The Xu family of Huating, the Shen family of Dashitou, the Gu family of Kunshan—these form another group: the gentry of Songjiang Prefecture. They have intermarried for two centuries. For imperial orders to investigate land seizures and demand restitution, they are willing to pay a price—such as obtaining ship permits to open the seas—because the Xus, Shens, and Gus already own textile mills and grain estates, giving them advantageous positions in maritime trade.”

“The gentry of the fourteen prefectures of NanYa form yet another group: they echo each other, forming a forest of mutual understanding. They fiercely resist imperial land-clearing policies, because any change means loss—likely the loss of their former status in maritime trade. They resist utterly and refuse compromise—hence Xu Pan’s murder and assault.”

“Thus, Ming has countless, varied groups; all these groups together constitute the whole—that is public. Public is group, but group is not public.”

Zhang Juzheng worried his explanation was too complex—would the young Emperor truly grasp his definition of public?

Zhu Yijun thought and said: “Is it a relationship of inclusion? Public includes group, and group is contained within public?”

“Master, you define a single household as a group, then expand it into public.”

“I am young and shallow, unsure of what I say—but let me offer an example.”

“I and a woman from the Yunnan frontier are both subjects of Ming; our relationship is shared ancestry, shared kinship, shared state. When someone harms Ming’s interests—say, the NanYa gentry group, seizing land and causing tax shortfalls, leaving the state unable to stabilize the realm, plunging Ming into chaos—both my interests and the woman’s are harmed.”

“In this process, the gentry group—a simpler group—harms the more complex public of the realm.”

“When groups expand further in relationship, public lies above, and group lies below.”

“Compared to a single household as group, a neighborhood within the city or a village outside is public; compared to a neighborhood or village as group, a county or prefecture is public; compared to county or prefecture as group, a province or circuit is public; compared to province or circuit as group, the realm is public.”

“The realm is public.”

Zhang Juzheng, hearing the Emperor’s definition based on the complexity of relationships, layer upon layer, clearly defining group and public, bowed deeply and said: “Your Majesty is wise, enlightened, and brilliant. People are divided into groups; public is group, but group is not public; public is great, group is small; public is above, group is below; the realm is public.”

People are the basic units of groups; based on relationships, people can be divided into distinct groups.

Larger, more complex groups encompassing more people contain smaller, simpler groups involving fewer people.

The largest group is the realm, encompassing all people—that is the greatest public: the realm is public.

Once public is clearly defined, its opposite—private—follows.

Zhu Yijun thought and said: “Viceroy Yin Zhengmao expelled the small Portuguese for the public good; the gentry of Guangdong and Guangxi, seeking profit, allied with the Portuguese, bribed Wang Bai, the Deputy Commissioner of the Guangdong Maritime Route, and Huang Qing, the Regional Military Commissioner, to occupy Macau—that is private.”

“Yin Zhengmao proposed taxing the Portuguese—that is public; Wan Shihé obstructed every discussion that might harm gentry interests—that is private.”

“The Ministry of Works refused the request of the Marquis of Wuxing for silver to repair his house—that is public; Your Majesty’s mother requested four thousand taels from the state treasury to build a house for the Marquis of Wuxing—that is private.”

“The court’s clearance of seventy thousand hectares of land in the fourteen prefectures of NanYa for state tax revenue—that is public; the Xus, Shens, and Gus, trying to block it with their feeble arms—that is private.”

“If that’s the case, the additional taxes imposed on the Franks are a matter of state affairs and should not fund the imperial private treasury; they ought to go into the state treasury. Nor should the palace use funds from the Ministry of Revenue to bestow rewards upon the Marquis of Wuxing, forcing the Ministry to bear the deficit and the hole. These are all evils of bribery in governance, and may breed dangerous leniency.”

Zhang Juzheng was stunned—he had just been hit by a boomerang!

Xu Jie’s accusations of systemic corruption in officialdom and the great peril of leniency were copied from Zhang Juzheng’s own 1553 Memorial on Current Affairs; these two points were originally Zhang Juzheng’s, and now the emperor had thrown the boomerang straight back at him.

Yin Zhengmao’s punitive tariffs, used to fund the emperor, were a bribe to the emperor, meant solely to secure his leniency toward Zhang Juzheng.

This little emperor is downright ungrateful! He’s so poor he’s begging at the outer court, yet still puts on a righteous, solemn face!

Zhang Juzheng pondered and said: “Your Majesty, I am a practical official, focused solely on achieving results. Contradictions exist in all things; harmony is preferable. Abstract cognition often conflicts with concrete practice. I take concrete practice as my standard. Yin Zhengmao is my subordinate, stationed far in the southernmost reaches. If he does not channel the increased taxes to the palace, his tenure there will be short, and he cannot stabilize the south. Had it not been for Zhang Cheng’s imperial decree, the state treasury would not have gained these 121,000 taels this year. There is propriety in advance and retreat.”

The little emperor thinks he’s always right; Zhang Juzheng believes he’s always right too. Just because the little emperor knows how to throw a boomerang, does that mean Zhang Juzheng doesn’t?

The theory of contradictions was originally derived from the debate over whether Yang Bo was a gentleman or a villain—specific matters require specific analysis—but now it has become the emperor’s sacred pronouncement!

“The ruler and the state are one; the ruler and father are one; the realm belongs to all. Yin Zhengmao has a spirit of deference; Wang Guoguang has a spirit of deference too. If Yin Zhengmao withholds the increased taxes from the palace, his time in the southern frontier is limited, and he cannot secure stability there. Had it not been for Zhang Cheng’s imperial judgment, the state treasury would not have gained these 121,000 taels this year. There is balance in action and restraint.” Zhang Juzheng bowed again.

The sovereign is the realm; the realm is the sovereign—that is concrete practice. Zhang Juzheng cannot accomplish anything without relying on imperial authority; he knows this all too well. Take the case of Zhang Siwei’s return: had the little emperor not refused to let him return on the pretext of his unseemly appearance, Zhang Juzheng could only have watched as Zhang Siwei returned to serve as deputy director of the Shizong Veritable Records, waiting until its completion to enter the Grand Secretariat.

If Zhang Siwei enters the Grand Secretariat, can Zhang Juzheng still relentlessly pursue the Jin Party?

This is the fundamental structure of the realm today. Zhang Juzheng has drawn a line: ruler and state are one; ruler and father are one; the emperor’s authority over reward and punishment must not be challenged. In future audiences, no one may cross this line—if they do, Zhang Juzheng will fall silent.

“Your distinction between public and private, Master, is penetrating and profound—you are a truly extraordinary talent,” Zhu Yijun said thoughtfully. “My earlier remarks resembled those of the pure stream: lofty talk without grounding, detached from facts. Thank you, Master, for your instruction.”

“I am unworthy of such praise,” Zhang Juzheng hastily bowed in return.

Zhang Juzheng bowed again and said: “Your Majesty, salt smugglers resisting arrest and ships capsized by sea winds were once common. But today, the land surveys exposing land seizures have stirred public outcry. Evil men conceal their holdings, driven by selfish motives, and conspire to harm others. Yet Your Majesty is wise and discerning, weighing matters with fairness and clarity—your judgments of reward and punishment will surely remain within the bounds of reason and law.”

The little emperor understood Zhang Juzheng’s meaning: the southern officials had been smeared; someone was deliberately slandering them. Zhang Juzheng was afraid the emperor might grow suspicious of these ministers, so he explained.

Zhu Yijun smiled gently and said: “Then let us continue the lecture.”

Whether from the standpoint of concrete practice, the order of the realm, or the limitations of his Confucian ritualism, Zhang Juzheng remains steadfast in upholding the emperor and respecting the sovereign’s authority over reward and punishment—it is a pragmatic stance.

Imperial rule is the original sin of the realm’s ills, yet it is also the best solution available now.

The Ming’s current productive forces are utterly insufficient to overthrow imperial rule and establish a new order. Neither Zhu Yijun nor Zhang Juzheng can do it.

Since a new order cannot be built, we must uphold the old one, advance boldly, let quantitative change trigger qualitative change, and persistently drive the development of productive forces.

Today Zhang Juzheng defined the public. Zhu Yijun did not raise his hammer to smash Zhang Juzheng’s ideological imprint. Everyone has a breaking point. Let Master Zhang rest for two days; then we’ll strike again. For now, we have only defined public and private—the path ahead is long.

At the Censorate, Hai Rui and Ge Shouli were organizing the memorials of the empire’s censors, preparing them for submission to the Wenyuan Pavilion after departmental deliberations.

Hai Rui and Ge Shouli were busy. Hai Rui primarily handled departmental affairs—specifically, assessing whether prominent censorial officials truly possessed upright integrity.

Ge Shouli primarily handled impeachment memorials. He had to verify the authenticity of all censorial memorials, especially impeachments, and state his position during court deliberations.

“Chief Censor Hai, I have a question,” Ge Shouli asked during a moment of leisure, watching Hai Rui’s meticulous work.

The little emperor pretends to understand what he doesn’t; Ge Shouli asks when he doesn’t understand.

Hai Rui looked at Ge Shouli and smiled: “Chief Censor Ge, what is your question? I will answer fully.”

Ge Shouli said, puzzled: “The empire’s censors long for Hai Gangfeng’s return, hoping he will become the sharp sword to slay the corrupt ministers even heaven warns against. But your actions since returning seem to align with the Chief Minister.”

Hai Rui pondered and said: “It is never I who can save the Ming—it is the Chief Minister, skilled in governing the state but inept in safeguarding himself.”

“I only wish the Ming could sweep away its old corruptions and restore a clear, bright world. I cannot do it; the Chief Minister can. So I will not attack him.”

“Politics does not speak of virtue, because the enemies on the path to reviving the Ming are demons and monsters—pure righteousness cannot kill them.”

“Besides, if the Chief Minister is so skillful in tactics yet morally flawless as jade, how could he possibly hold the position of Chief Minister?”

“We need a Chief Minister, not a leader of the pure stream.”

The pure stream cannot save the Ming. When Yan Song ruled, Hai Rui once believed the pure stream could save the Ming. Since Yan Song’s fall in 1562, Hai Rui has only seen Xu Jie’s relentless persecution of the Yan faction, the pure stream’s vicious retaliation, and how they raised the banner of purity while practicing corruption.

Xu Jie left; Gao Gong arrived. Hai Rui still thought he could force Xu Jie to return land and investigate land seizures in the fourteen prefectures of Nanzhili. In the end, he was forced into retirement.

Upon his reinstatement, Hai Rui’s judgment of Zhang Juzheng changed again and again.

“He accepts bribes,” Ge Shouli said after a pause, referring to Zhang Juzheng’s acceptance of silver. Zhang Juzheng’s silver mainly came from winter and summer gifts, concentrated in spring and autumn.

Hai Rui looked at Ge Shouli, and the more he looked, the more Ge Shouli grew uneasy—his eyes darted away.

Hai Rui smiled: “Chief Censor Ge, are you speaking of yourself? Or perhaps you mean that the leaders of the Zhang Party, the Jin Party, and the Zhe Party all accept bribes—why do I turn a deaf ear, as if I see nothing, and never impeach them?”

“The evil of bribery is easy to treat; the peril of leniency is hard to eradicate. Only when the Kaocheng Law eradicates leniency can we address bribery.”

“Without small steps, one cannot reach a thousand miles; without tiny streams, one cannot form rivers.”

“Feathers accumulate and sink ships; persimmons and jujubes pile up and snap axles; unanimous condemnation can even melt metal—this is ‘accumulated feathers sink a boat, light loads break an axle, many voices melt gold.’”

“Only when the Kaocheng Law takes effect and eradicates leniency can we govern bribery. The emperor is still young, eager and ambitious—it is not too late.”

Hai Rui was not in a hurry, especially after seeing the emperor’s lectures with Zhang Juzheng. What could be more joyful than living with hope?

“Chief Censor Ge, have you studied the Theory of Contradictions?” Hai Rui asked about the recently popular bestseller. At first glance, it seemed harmless, but upon deeper study, it was terrifying.

Ge Shouli’s expression was complex: “The Chief Minister is a truly extraordinary talent.”

We are all party leaders. We cannot match him in office, nor in scholarship.

“Chief Censor Hai, Chief Censor Ge, the lecture is over. The Wenhua Hall Reader has sent today’s lecture notes.” A clerk placed the imperial lecture notes on the table.

The lecture notes were scattered and lacked the clear structure of the Theory of Contradictions, but Hai Rui and Ge Shouli still studied them carefully.

Why? To witness the one moment when the invincible Zhang Juzheng could not answer—when he uttered those four words: “Allow me time to reflect.”

Put more plainly: Hai Rui and Ge Shouli wanted to see a show.

“This!” Ge Shouli stared, stunned: “This—this—this… can public and private really be interpreted this way?”

“Public and private should be interpreted this way!” Hai Rui replied, deeply moved.

Hai Rui had his own contradictions—or doubts. Bribery should not exist, yet reality made correcting this culture impossible. He wanted to impeach, but concrete practice prevented him from writing. He was a man who bent low to seek answers, and this conflict between spear and shield made him question even his own commitment to integrity.

But after reading the definition of public and private, Hai Rui was suddenly enlightened.

Compared to the greater, more complex public—the realm involving countless people—Zhang Juzheng, Tan Lun, Ge Shouli, and their circle were the private. Bribery was private; rooting out old corruptions was public.

“The Chief Minister is truly unbeatable!” Ge Shouli, after reading, also gained insight—but he was slightly disappointed that Zhang Juzheng had actually answered the question.

Is there anything in this world Zhang Juzheng cannot handle?

Yes.

The emperor’s education.

Meanwhile, in the palace, the little emperor was explaining Zhang Juzheng’s definition of public and private to Empress Dowager Li and Empress Dowager Chen.

Zhu Yijun held his hands and spoke confidently: “Mother, the relationship between group and individual, public and private, is this: in Hongwu’s reign, our Ming’s imperial treasury and state treasury were not separated. The emperor’s twelve treasuries had nine managed by officials from the outer court as directors and deputy directors. Officials’ salaries in the capital were paid from the imperial treasury.”

“During Yongle’s reign, Emperor Chengzu declared: ‘All stored in the imperial treasury are heavenly wealth, reserved for rewarding merit—even I dare not waste it.’ Emperor Chengzu used the imperial treasury for northern campaigns—this was a phenomenon of confusion and determination.”

“By the time of Emperor Xianzong, outer officials could no longer audit the imperial treasury. During Chenghua, the Ministry of Revenue repeatedly petitioned to audit the imperial accounts, but each time, Wang Zhi used the excuse of logistical difficulty to transfer auditing authority to the Directorate of Palace Affairs.”

“After repeated reversals, in the twelfth year of Jiajing, my grandfather decreed: the emperor’s imperial treasury is for the emperor’s exclusive use. Only then were public and private clearly separated.”

Zhu Yijun briefly explained the evolution of the Ming’s twelve imperial treasuries: the confusion of public and private under Hongwu and Yongle; the complete exclusion of outer court oversight under Xianzong; the specific handling under Xiaozong and Wuzong; and finally, the harmonious separation of accounts.

According to the ancestral laws of Emperor Jiajing, the outer court must allocate 30% of annual revenue to the imperial treasury, reserved exclusively for the emperor’s use; the rest belongs to the state treasury. If the state treasury borrowed silver from the imperial treasury, it had to issue a promissory note.

Thus, Empress Dowager Li’s request to the Ministry of Works for silver to build a house for the Marquis of Wuxing was a violation of the public-private distinction.

Empress Dowager Li sighed, both pleased and resigned: “Sister, didn’t I tell you? The emperor is always right. His grandfather’s affairs are long past, yet he still lectures me at length. The Chief Minister truly is an extraordinary talent.”

“But the emperor’s reasoning is sound,” Empress Dowager Chen laughed warmly.

Zhu Yijun said solemnly: “Mother, today the Chief Minister submitted a memorial stating that during Taizu’s reign, whenever outer officials came to court to report, or when county assistants or clerks demonstrated integrity and care for the people, or when elderly commoners had grievances, they were often summoned, fed, and asked about the people’s hardships. He begged to restore the ancestral laws.”

Zhang Juzheng not only had the little emperor meet court ministers and capital officials, but also outer officials, county assistants, clerks, and elderly commoners—all to learn the people’s suffering.

Empress Dowager Li pulled back the four-year-old Zhu Yilou, who had been digging sand everywhere in the sandbox. She smiled: “If you have ideas, make your own decisions.”

Public and private are a paired opposition—like big and small; only through contrast do public and private exist. For example, a single household versus a building floor: the floor is public; if you damage the load-bearing pillar, you enrich the private at the public’s expense. Please vote for the moon ticket! Awoooooo!!!!!!!!!!