Chapter 487: Private Learning

"Boatman, can you go any faster?"

Watching the old fisherman leisurely rocking the oar, the far shore still looking distant, then glancing up at the sun, Bai Sheng was nearly frantic with impatience.

Bai Sheng's family were small landlords outside Jimo City, with three hundred mu of land. Although they had a few hired laborers to help with the farming, every spring his father would take Bai Sheng to work the fields himself. This year was no exception — his father had him dig open the irrigation ditches clogged by winter silt, in preparation for the spring plowing and sowing in the days ahead.

While working, his father tried to show off but carelessly wrenched his back. Bai Sheng could only escort him home first, then hurry to the Dagu River ferry crossing and ask the boatman to take him to the eastern shore…

"All this back-and-forth delay — I'm bound to be late. The Master detests tardy disciples above all." Bai Sheng clutched the bamboo slips inside his sleeve, his face full of anxiety.

When the boat finally reached the shore, Bai Sheng had no time to observe formalities. He left a few wen coins and leaped onto the bank. The ferry crossing held a small market, crowded with people, yet none dared speak loudly — a group of Qin soldiers bearing halberds and spears, led by a black-robed clerk, were posting paper notices on the market gate wall. The soldiers' black armor and the scholars' plain white robes formed a stark contrast.

"What's happened now?"

Bai Sheng muttered to himself. Official notices never brought good news — either conscripting the people for labor, or a triumphant proclamation that some distant northern border campaign had won a great victory, with so-and-so many barbarian heads taken.

"What have Qin victories got to do with us?" Bai Sheng grumbled under his breath.

In truth, not many people gathered around, because ordinary Jiaodong folk could barely read Qin seal script, let alone Qi script. Bai Sheng was the same — though he had been a "black-headed one" of Qin for several years now, what he studied were still the language and script of Qi, the Odes, the Documents, rites and music. He could not muster the slightest interest in the laws and edicts of the wolfish Qin.

As his father put it, with three hundred mu of land and a bit of diligence, the yearly harvest was no worse than a county magistrate's salary — why go be a Qin clerk despised by your own neighbors? Those who played jackal to the tiger were few after all; not everyone was desperate to become an official.

Though curious what the notice said, Bai Sheng had no time to wait for the clerk to read it aloud in the Eastern Qi tongue, and hurried off toward the peach grove.

In the peach grove on the eastern shore lay a clearing famous throughout the region. Several years ago, the great Confucian scholar Fu Qiubo, who had come here from Lu, set up a teaching forum. People from all around, hearing of his renown, came seeking instruction.

It was said that Fu Qiubo was a direct disciple of Xunzi, famed for mastering all three hundred poems of the Odes. He had originally been active in the Lu region and the Huai-Si area. After Chu fell and the Qin occupied Lu, Fu Qiubo fled to Jiaodong for refuge.

But he had not expected Qi to fall so soon after. Fortunately, Qin governance barely reached beyond Jimo City, and the local authorities paid them little heed. Fu Qiubo continued teaching. The tuition he charged was modest — just a few strips of dried meat. And so his students grew ever more numerous, now exceeding a hundred.

As usual, Bai Sheng could see from afar dozens of people sitting on the ground, filling the peach grove to capacity, with their Master Fu Qiubo at the center.

The weather today was warm, the sun bright but not scorching. Thrushes sang sweetly at the edge of the budding peach grove — a fine day for listening to lectures. Master and disciples should have been reciting the Odes and Documents, or debating vigorously, but today was somewhat unusual. Everything was quiet and still. Bai Sheng even spotted several middle-aged men who, though they had formally become Fu Qiubo's disciples, rarely came to lessons. Every face was solemn.

Seeing this, Bai Sheng felt a twinge of surprise. Surely the Master isn't angry because I'm late? He could only steel himself and step forward, cupping his hands in salute: "Master, your disciple is late…"

Fu Qiubo sat beneath an old peach tree. He was no longer young, his back somewhat bent, his hair sparse and thinning, yet the white hair at his temples was still combed meticulously into place. To the right of his mat lay several scrolls of bamboo slips; before the mat was a smooth sand tray and a twig, which the disciples used for practicing characters.

Fu Qiubo had been staring at the sand in silence. Bai Sheng's arrival seemed to startle him awake. Without reproaching his disciple for tardiness, he nodded gently and gestured for him to sit.

Bai Sheng hurriedly took his usual spot. Beside him was Lu Musheng, who had followed the Master all the way from Lu. He asked Lu Musheng in a low voice, "What's happened?"

Lu Musheng turned his head, his eyes faintly red-rimmed. "You haven't heard?"

Bai Sheng had been busy tending to his father — how could he know what had occurred? Looking at his other classmates, every one of them seemed deeply troubled. His confusion only deepened. At that moment, Fu Qiubo spoke.

"My young friends, today we shall not begin with the lecture. First, follow this old man in reciting the 'Airs of Qi' once through."

The class seemed to return to normal. Cadenced chanting resounded through the peach grove. Fu Qiubo had each person rise in turn and recite from the eleven poems of the "Airs of Qi." Bai Sheng chanted "The East Before Dawn" and received Fu Qiubo's praise.

When it was the turn of the next disciple, a Jimo student named Shen Sheng, he recited "The Cock Crows." Overcome with emotion, even his voice trembled.

At this strange sight, no one laughed — all felt the same.

Next, they picked up their twigs and began writing out the verses and stanzas in Qi script on the sand trays before them.

The Qi script system was not unique to the state of Qi alone, but encompassed Qi, Lu, and Zhu. Variant characters were numerous, and the decorative strokes were striking — ornate and beautiful, much like the lives of the Qi people themselves.

Usually, everyone found such a simple task as writing rather dull, but today each person was utterly absorbed. The peach grove was so quiet you could hear the soft rustle of twigs tracing through sand. Occasionally birds and magpies flew past, chattering noisily, but no one so much as lifted their eyes.

They wrote with the utmost seriousness, as if this were their very last lesson.

When all was done and the sun had dipped a few more degrees westward, Fu Qiubo sighed and bade them lay down their pens. He said:

"Today, I shall not only lecture on the Odes. I shall also speak of the history of the Confucian school!"

…

Within the peach grove, words of concise and logically beautiful discourse issued from the great scholar Fu Qiubo's hoarse, aged throat.

"I studied under Xunzi. Xunzi said: When the house of Zhou declined, the 'Cry of the Ospreys' was composed; when You and Li proved feeble, rites and music fell to ruin. The feudal lords acted with reckless abandon, and governance was dictated by the strong."

"Thus Confucius, fearing the Way of the true king would be abandoned and the path of evil would flourish, compiled the Odes and the Documents and set the rites and music in order. When he went to Qi and heard the sublime music of Shao, he became so entranced that for three months he could not taste the flavor of meat. Returning from Wei to Lu, he began correcting the musical repertoire, so that the courtly Ya and the sacrificial Song each returned to their proper place, orderly and distinct. But because the age was chaotic, none would employ Confucius. He could only lament: 'If any lord would use me, Qiu, in but a single year I could set the government right.' At that time, a qilin was captured in the hunt in Lu's western outskirts. Hearing of it, Confucius grieved and said, 'My Way has reached its end.' And so, in his final days, he composed the Spring and Autumn Annals to serve as kingly law. Its phrasing is refined, subtle, and deeply veiled, yet its meaning is vast. Scholars of later generations have largely transmitted and recorded it…"

Confucius taught all without distinction of class — this was the beginning of private learning under Heaven. It replaced the already decayed official schools and flourished throughout the world, enduring now for several hundred years.

Fu Qiubo continued: "After Confucius passed away, his seventy-odd disciples scattered to serve the various lords. The greater among them became tutors, ministers, and high officials; the lesser befriended and instructed the scholar-officials, or withdrew into reclusion and were seen no more. But whether in the Three Jin, or in Qi, Chu, Yan, or Lu, Confucian scholars traveled and practiced everywhere. In Xihe they taught in the Wei tongue; those who entered Jixia taught in the Qi tongue; in Lanling they taught in the Chu tongue. Thus, though the world contended in the Warring States, and Confucian learning was sidelined, it was never extinguished. Especially between Qi and Lu, scholars never ceased. In the reigns of Kings Wei and Xuan, there were the likes of Mencius and Xunzi, all honoring the work of Confucius and enriching it, gaining renown in their age through learning."

Bai Sheng listened intently, yet sensed something amiss. Today, the Master seemed desperate to impart everything he knew to them, to cram it all into their heads at once. And why did his words carry an indescribable sorrow, while his classmates' faces were filled with fury?

Sure enough, Fu Qiubo's expression then fell into grief: "Alas, in this degenerate age, not only will the Six Arts perish in this old man's hands — even the script of Qi and Lu will perish too."

The old scholar raised his head once more. The sun had fully shifted to the west — just like his own career as a teacher.

"It passes on like this, never ceasing day or night. My young friends, the sun is about to set. Fu Qiubo's final lesson to you all ends here!"

"Master!"

Everyone wept and rushed forward to detain him. Only at this moment did Bai Sheng understand the reason for his master's and classmates' grief and indignation!

Shen Sheng explained: "The new Commandery Governor in Jimo City has issued an order banning private schools. Teaching in the Qi tongue and Qi language is forbidden. This teaching forum in the peach grove can likely continue no longer."

Bai Sheng, hearing this, turned pale with shock, his heart filled with immense sorrow. He understood at once — those crow-like Qin clerks posting notices on the market wall at the ferry crossing — it must have been about this!

Beside him, Lu Musheng said bitterly: "The new Commandery Governor has opened public schools, demanding that the sons of wealthy and prominent Jiaodong households enroll, to be taught Qin laws and decrees in the Qin tongue and language. He originally wanted to invite the Master to serve as Libationer of the public school. When the Master refused, he flew into a rage and ordered that from tomorrow onward, no one may gather crowds to teach private learning. Violators will be exiled! Those who wish to study may enter the public schools and take the clerks as their teachers…"

Even a great scholar must bow before brute power. Outside the peach grove, Qin clerks and soldiers had been watching all along. The new Commandery Governor had only permitted Fu Qiubo to teach until sunset. Once the time passed, they would send men to drive them away!

Fu Qiubo rose helplessly and spoke with profound meaning: "As I said just now, though Lu has perished, so long as the Spring and Autumn Annals remain, Lu is not extinguished. Though Qi has perished, if the 'Airs of Qi' chanted in the Qi tongue and Qi language still remain, then Qi too is not extinguished…"

"Remember these words. This is your final lesson!"

Fu Qiubo looked upon his disciples, then gazed again at this familiar peach grove. Suddenly choked with emotion, he could speak no further. He merely gestured with his hand: "My disciples, all of you, disperse now…"

…

Fu Qiubo walked away, supported by several disciples, leaving Bai Sheng and the dozens of others standing dumbfounded where they were.

"I haven't even finished memorizing all eleven poems of the 'Airs of Qi.'" Bai Sheng wiped away his tears. He had not expected his studies to end like this. And from the sound of it, there would be no more private learning from now on — would they never again study the Odes and Documents?

He had been held back by family matters before, had not studied diligently, and had missed many of the Master's lessons. Now he was filled with belated regret.

"The same for me. The Master was right. If a day comes when the scholars of Qi can no longer write the Qi script and have forgotten Qi's centuries of history, then what right do they have to call themselves people of Qi?"

At that moment, the young scholar named Shen Sheng — who had been so moved to hot tears while reciting the "Airs of Qi" — abruptly rose to his feet and spoke in grief and indignation:

"Doesn't the new Commandery Governor claim he wants to promote legal education and reduce punishments? Yet now he bans private learning — how is this any different from King Li of Zhou suppressing the people's speech!"

The young are hot-blooded and prone to impulse. Shen Sheng grew impassioned, raised his arm, and cried out: "My friends, let us go to the village school and tell the prominent elders and common people of this matter! Let them follow us to petition the authorities together, to restore private learning! Who is willing to go with me!?"

……

Elsewhere, at dusk, Heifu had just finished a day's official duties and was about to return home for a meal and some rest, when the faint, indistinct sound of drumbeats reached his ears…

"Where is that drumming coming from?"

As Heifu frowned, Chen Ping hurried in and reported: "Commandery Governor, over a dozen disciples of Fuqiu Bo, dissatisfied with the laws and ordinances, have gone to the long-abandoned village school, where they are beating drums to rally the people. Over a thousand have already gathered!"

(End of chapter)