Chapter 67: Resentment Descends from Heaven

Jia She was detained at the Clan Office for four days before returning; the Prince of Zhongshun, deeply favored by the Emperor, dealt him a severe blow as a frivolous nobleman.

During those four days, Jia Mu was filled with dread, unable to sleep at night; when Jia She finally returned to the mansion, the old lady exhaled a sigh of relief—then fell ill.

After summoning the Imperial Physician for diagnosis and medicine, she spent five or six full days recovering before fully mending.

News also arrived from Zhen’an Prefecture: the case of Ma Daopo and Wang Shanbao’s wife practicing witchcraft to harm others had been reported to the Ministry of Justice and closed, with irrefutable evidence; they were sentenced to execution after the autumn harvest.

The Clan Office also conveyed an imperial edict: Jia She’s conduct was erratic and absurd, his household servants had driven an innocent woman to death, witchcraft had been used against their master, and he had conspired with the innocent; as head of the household, he could not escape blame.

He was ordered to close himself indoors for one month to reflect on his faults and demonstrate improvement thereafter.

The heir to the Jia family’s title being locked up for four days by the Clan Office had shamed the Jia clan thoroughly within the noble circles of the capital.

Though Jia Mu felt humiliated, she was relieved the family’s hereditary title had been preserved—deeming it a great fortune amid misfortune—and after recovering, she spent several days happily with her grandchildren, letting the matter fade.

Jia She’s vile, dissolute nature was not innate.

Jia Mu’s indulgent, pleasure-seeking disposition, which never burdened herself, must have left negative influences during Jia She’s upbringing.

News gradually spread that Jia Cong had been praised by a great Confucian scholar and recommended to study at Qingshan Academy, further solidifying his status within Rongguo Mansion.

This time, Jia Cong struck with precision: he not only eliminated the wicked woman who had driven Zhi Shao to her death but also severely crushed Jia She and Lady Xing.

Watching her beloved grandson daily frowning in distress, cowering before his father like a mouse before a cat, Jia Mu couldn’t help but resent Jia Cong.

One despised scholarly pursuits; the other lacked the capacity to study at all.

No other young master among them buried himself in books as Jia Cong did, oblivious to the world outside.

Suddenly, a maid outside called out, instructing him to go to Mengpo Study Hall—his father wished to test his studies.

Although the servants lacked knowledge, they had heard stories from the elders; many said this young master Jia Cong, studying so hard, would surely become someone extraordinary—a scholar, even a jinshi—inevitably.

That morning, Baoyu had just been dressed and washed by Xi Ren, hastily swallowed a few bites of breakfast, and prepared to go speak with Lin Meimei.

They were all the Jia family’s literary stars.

Since moving into Qingzhi Study, he had scarcely stepped outside, studying day and night.

Eventually, even the maids and old women in the mansion knew.

Yet all of them failed utterly to study, enduring daily scoldings from Jia Zheng, suffering unbearably.

Jia She was confined to reflect, and the instigator of the witchcraft case was Lady Xing’s personal attendant—this had rendered Lady Xing’s reputation in the Eight Branches of the capital utterly foul.

All the young masters in this mansion were born into wealth and privilege—from Jia Lian, Baoyu, and Jia Huan, down to the Cao-generation Jia Rong and Jia Qiang—none had ever known anything but comfort and luxury.

……

At first, Daiyu, Tan Chun, and the other sisters gradually learned of it; later, the news reached Jia Mu and Jia Zheng.

This would further weaken their influence within the Jia household and reduce future constraints upon her.

Baoyu’s face turned deathly pale at these words; Xi Ren, startled, called out to him several times before he finally snapped back to himself.

These days, Jia Mu had already ordered the eldest daughter-in-law to confine herself to the Eastern Courtyard, to spare herself the sight of her—and even exempted her from daily attendance rituals at Rongqing Hall.

Ten years ago, such a case occurred with Jia Zhu; thirty years ago, it happened with Jia Jing.

Yet these events also stirred up discord: Jia Zheng grew increasingly strict with Baoyu and Jia Huan’s studies.

But he couldn’t avoid going; Xi Ren coaxed him, urging him to go first, promising she’d station a young maid outside the study hall—if Jia Zheng grew too harsh, she’d summon the old lady to rescue him.

Inside Mengpo Study Hall, only Jia Zheng and Baoyu were present.

As for Jia Huan, he had spent two years in the clan school and endured several more days of forced study under Jia Zheng’s watch—yet still couldn’t recite half of the Thousand Character Classic.

Moreover, his appearance was base, his speech incoherent; Jia Zheng wisely gave up hope on him.

……

“The saying ‘cultivating oneself requires rectifying the heart’ means: when the body is filled with anger, the heart cannot be upright. What follows? Recite it for me.”

Baoyu glanced at his father’s stern gaze, shivered, hastily looked away, scratched his head and paced for a long while before stammering:

“When one is fearful, the heart cannot be upright; when one is fond of pleasure, the heart cannot be upright; when one is burdened by worry, the heart cannot be upright. The heart is not in its place… the heart is not in its place…”

Baoyu’s voice grew fainter; he could no longer recall what came next.

Baoyu was, in truth, a man of talent—his poems, composed in leisure, were delicate and exquisite.

Yet he had somehow acquired an untimely aversion: he loathed the Four Books and other orthodox examination texts, sneered at the imperial examination and officialdom, and dismissed governance and economics as worthless.

In truth, these excuses were merely pretty lies born of his lifelong indulgence and luxury, nurturing laziness and aversion to effort.

These days, forced by Jia Zheng, he’d pick up a book upon returning to his quarters—but could not endure even half a cup of tea before feeling nauseous, tossing the book aside to play with the maids.

“You wretched child, how many years have you spent studying in the clan school? Now you cannot even recite the Great Learning properly—how can you face others? You’ve shamed our ancestors!”

Jia Zheng picked up the wooden ruler on the desk: “Extend your hand!”

Baoyu trembled: “Father, I swear I’ll change—please spare me this once.”

Jia Zheng’s face was icy: “How many times have I spared you out of respect for the old lady? To spare you again would be to harm you—extend your hand!”

The young maid sent by Xi Ren as a spy outside heard a sharp “crack,” then a piercing cry from Young Master Bao.

The maid’s hair stood on end; she bolted away like a rabbit to deliver the news.

By the time Jia Mu and Lady Wang arrived, Baoyu had already received seven or eight strikes—his palms swollen and red.

Jia Mu pointed at Jia Zheng and scolded: “You, as a father, beat your son first thing in the morning—and with such cruelty! Do you wish to drive me to an early grave?!”

Jia Zheng frowned: “Mother, how would I dare anger you? I merely urge Baoyu to study earnestly—but he is so unambitious. After years in the clan school, he still cannot recite the Great Learning.”

How can this continue? Jia Cong is the same age—he came to the study hall yesterday, and recited the Great Learning and the Analects backward and forward, with original insights into the classics.

I don’t ask Baoyu to match Jia Cong’s excellence—only that he show a little more spirit…”

At the mention of Jia Cong’s name, Jia Mu’s temper flared—so the root was here again! Why must that wretched boy be the cause? If not for him, my Baoyu would never have been beaten by his father.

Jia Mu snapped: “We are not a poor scholarly family—we don’t need to rely on study to elevate our status or secure a meager living.

If you can study, study; if you cannot, don’t. Is our ancestral fortune not enough? Must we greedily crave high office and glory before we’re satisfied?”

“Don’t confuse things—Jia Cong in Qingzhi Study is not your son; Baoyu is!”

Jia Zheng, choked by Jia Mu’s unreasonable logic, turned beet red but dared not reply, standing there speechless.

Jia Mu ignored him, leading Baoyu, his face streaked with tears, back to Rongqing Hall.

Lady Wang, seeing Baoyu’s swollen palms, was heartbroken.

She suddenly said to Jia Mu: “Jia Cong has been in Qingzhi Study for some time now. Because you were ill recently, his whip wounds hadn’t fully healed—I feared he might disturb you, so I kept him from paying his respects. Now that your health has fully recovered, since he resides in the Western Mansion, he must observe daily courtesies. Starting tomorrow, I’ll have him come daily to pay his respects and stand in proper attendance.”

At first glance, Lady Wang’s words seemed reasonable—everyone knew the old lady had reservations about Jia Cong; she was gently pushing Jia Cong toward her, a kind gesture to mend their relationship.

But her timing was terrible. Was it perhaps because she saw Baoyu beaten due to Jia Cong that she chose this moment to speak?

Indeed, Jia Mu flew into a rage: “I don’t need him coming to Rongqing Hall to pay respects. Let him mind his own affairs and study his own books—everyone will be better off in peace. All these formalities for him can be waived entirely!”

Yuanyang, Hupo, and others nearby turned pale. Originally, when Jia Cong moved to the Western Mansion, daily visits to pay respects to the old lady were proper filial duty.

Now, even these rites were being waived—that was openly humiliating the grandson. Why, after the master beat Baoyu, should Jia Cong suffer the consequences too?

The old lady’s words would surely reach Qingzhi Study within half a day—what would they feel upon hearing them?

Old Lady’s words will likely reach Qingzhi Studio within half a day; how will those people feel upon hearing them?

(End of chapter)