Chapter 11: Ants Carrying a Basin, Speaking with Shocking Boldness

Daily instruction differs from court lectures; court lectures emphasize admonition and principle, while daily instruction focuses on imparting knowledge, primarily for beginners.

In simple terms, daily instruction is about how to read characters, how to punctuate sentences, and what they mean.

Specifically in teaching, the instructor steps forward to recite aloud once, and Zhu Yijun repeats after him, reading it ten times.

After ensuring correct punctuation and pronunciation, the meaning is then explained in plain language.

As for punctuation and interpretation, whose version is used?

Naturally, each instructor has his own version, and they take turns translating.

This is what is meant by “the Six Classics interpret me”—the purpose of the classics is to explain and substantiate one’s own views, and this is precisely the principle.

This is also done to hear all sides and achieve comprehensive understanding.

Delving deeper, what principles a text conveys and what ideas it expounds are matters for court lectures, not for daily instruction.

The “Tai Jia” chapter differs from the Analects; it merely recounts historical facts and contains little controversy, aside from being somewhat sensitive, it carries no significant political risk.

Had it been otherwise, Gao Yi would not have agreed to this task.

Thus, Zhu Yijun began learning, word by word, under Gao Yi’s guidance.

“After Tai Jia ascended the throne, he was unwise; Yi Yin exiled him to Tong, and after three years, restored him to Bo.”

…

“Heaven’s calamity may still be avoided; one’s own misdeeds cannot be escaped.”

…

After reading it ten times, Zhu Yijun felt his mouth dry and his tongue parched.

Unlike the pronunciation before his reincarnation, this pronunciation involved too many retroflex sounds, especially in the courtly standard; recitation sounded like a trill.

Only now did he understand why eloquence was called “a clever tongue like a reed pipe.”

Without mastering the trill technique, recitation itself was difficult, let alone engaging in verbal debate.

After teaching the recitation, Gao Yi stepped aside, and the instructors took turns delivering their interpretations.

All the instructors were drawn from various ministries and bureaus, including Vice Minister of Rites Zhang Siwei, Director of the Bureau of Manuscripts Yu Youding, and Vice Minister of Rites Ma Ziqiang—all renowned for their erudition.

“This gentleman, what is his name…?”

After one instructor finished his explanation and was about to withdraw, Zhu Yijun suddenly called out to him.

Zhang Siwei paused, then replied: “Your subject, Left Vice Minister of Personnel and Academician of the Hanlin Academy, Zhang Siwei.”

Zhu Yijun froze.

Zhang Siwei of the Jin Faction?

Isn’t he Wang Chonggu’s nephew?

So he has experience in daily instruction too.

But now was not the time to probe Zhang Siwei; he nodded and said: “Academician Zhang, Your subject has a question.”

Zhang Siwei hesitated, then replied: “Your Highness, please speak.”

Zhu Yijun asked: “Academician Zhang just said that selecting virtuous men brings peace to the state, while rejecting them brings chaos.”

“But what kind of person qualifies as virtuous?”

Zhang Siwei opened his mouth but held back, then finally said: “Your Highness, this is the interpretation of ‘Virtue brings order; lack of virtue brings disorder.’ As for who qualifies as virtuous, our three senior ministers of this dynasty are all virtuous men.”

“The late Emperor left Your Highness these three eminent ministers; our Great Ming shall surely enjoy lasting peace!”

Without waiting to see if Zhu Yijun had more questions, he returned to his place.

Zhu Yijun did not press him.

How Zhang Siwei answered mattered little; his purpose in posing this was to test Gao Yi.

If the matter of teaching “Tai Jia” were merely Gao Yi’s attempt to admonish him, seeking fame and political prestige, he should have seized the opportunity to speak.

Yet Gao Yi showed no expression, clearly not intending to say anything.

After another instructor finished his interpretation, Zhu Yijun called him out again: “Who is this gentleman?”

Yu Youding bowed deeply: “Your subject, Assistant Director of the Bureau of Manuscripts and Compiler of the Hanlin Academy, Yu Youding.”

Zhu Yijun froze again.

So everyone qualified to teach daily instruction is no ordinary man.

He knew Yu Youding—he was the third-place Jinshi of ten years ago, the forty-first year of Jiajing, known as “Master Yu of 41.”

That year’s runner-up was Wang Xijue, the top scholar Shen Shixing; historically, all three later entered the Grand Secretariat. In over two hundred years of Ming, this was the only cohort in which all three top scorers became Grand Secretaries—a celebrated anecdote.

Zhu Yijun steadied himself and spoke: “Scholar Yu, Your subject has another question.”

Yu Youding, equally caught between reluctance and obligation, forced himself to say: “Your Highness, please speak.”

Zhu Yijun nodded and said: “Yi Yin said that Tai Jia, as ruler, was ‘unrighteous,’ and thus exiled him.”

“Scholar Yu, what constitutes a ruler’s unrighteousness? What specific acts did Tai Jia commit? If Your subject were unrighteous, would the Chief Grand Secretary also exile me?”

Yu Youding nearly went dizzy—the Crown Prince had always struggled to memorize texts; why was he now thinking critically?

He could answer, but he dared not.

He could only offer vague, evasive words: “Your Highness, your subject is shallow and unlearned; I venture a tentative reply.”

“A ruler’s unrighteousness means defying Heaven above and oppressing the people below—it is the abandonment of the Dao.”

“But Your Highness is benevolent and filial, harbors compassion for all, and has upright ministers filling the court—you have the signs of great prosperity; how could such misfortune ever recur?”

Zhu Yijun turned to Gao Yi, seeking his opinion.

Gao Yi had been detached, pretending indifference, but now, meeting that gaze, he could no longer remain silent.

He rose, considered carefully, then replied: “Your Highness, daily instruction is heavy and time is limited; better to memorize first, and wait for court lectures, when the scholars will dissect the classics.”

Daily instruction was one thing, but court lectures required either Gao Gong or Zhang Juzheng to appear—Gao Yi had no intention of doing this work himself.

Zhu Yijun murmured “Oh,” and nodded obediently.

Yu Youding wiped sweat from his brow and returned to his place.

The following instructors stepped forward one by one, their interpretations all similar; Zhu Yijun asked no further questions.

He feigned attentive listening, but internally recalled Gao Yi’s reaction when he mentioned Gao Gong—again eliminating the possibility that Gao Gong had instructed him to warn him.

That left only Zhang Juzheng!

He tried to discern Zhang Juzheng’s thoughts and attitude.

Zhu Yijun knew Zhang Juzheng was not merely a politician—he was an outstanding statesman; every move he made served his political ideals.

So what were Zhang Juzheng’s political ideals?

To uphold the state, revive the nation, and restore Great Ming to greatness.

Even though this prodigy, who passed the provincial exam at fifteen and the metropolitan exam at twenty-three, possessed extraordinary reserve and restraint, he never concealed his political ideals.

In the twenty-eighth year of Jiajing, upon entering officialdom, Zhang Juzheng clearly declared his resolve in a memorial, “On Current Affairs,” directly reaching the Emperor’s ears.

He listed what he saw as the most urgent problems of the Ming: the imperial clans, official selection, bureaucratic culture, local military readiness, and fiscal crisis.

Unfortunately, for the court at that time, his memorial was too lofty, too ahead of its time.

The Jiajing Emperor was obsessed with immortality and Daoist pursuits, had no interest in governance, and the Grand Secretariat was embroiled in fierce infighting—no one had attention to spare.

Added to that, he was low-ranking and his voice insignificant; the memorial naturally vanished without a trace.

From then on, he fell silent, submitting nothing but congratulatory memorials to the Jiajing Emperor, never again commenting on state affairs.

Even when inwardly distressed, he could only sigh in his writings: “Land taxes are unequal; the poor lose their livelihoods; the people suffer from land consolidation.”

Had he given up? Of course not. “Innerly holding to uniqueness, outwardly blending in, waiting for the right moment to act”—that was his true nature.

◆￠O

In the forty-third year of Jiajing, Zhang Juzheng staked his political career on the bet that the future emperor would ascend, and through his teacher Xu Jie’s recommendation, entered the Prince of Yu’s court as a tutor.

He won the bet—and the reward was immense; it was precisely this experience that propelled him into the Grand Secretariat.

After the new emperor’s accession, in the second year of Longqing, he finally submitted his second political manifesto—the “Memorial on Six Matters.”

This time, as a Grand Secretary, his voice rang loud and clear.

He opened by declaring that the Ming was on the brink of collapse—“the state has reached a point of irreversible decay”—then once again exposed the deep flaws of the times and insisted on the necessity of reform.

But the Longqing Emperor paid no attention, merely replying “Understood,” with no follow-up.

So, after two failures, what mindset did Zhang Juzheng adopt?

Zhu Yijun tapped his fingers on the desk, staring blankly at the “Tai Jia” text.

Had he finally abandoned hope in virtuous ministers and wise rulers, and decided to become Yi Yin himself?

Was he thinking: the emperor cannot save the Ming—I shall do it myself?

Historically, when Zhang Juzheng later said, “I am not a minister, I am a regent,” was it a sigh of satisfaction over his reforms, or a weary lament over having taken this step?

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Even when Zhang Juzheng submitted his resignation, he wrote “I humbly return governance,” clearly aware that all state affairs were in his hands, and that such a move would bring him no good end.

So, was he, knowing full well it was impossible, willing to become the de facto deputy emperor?

Was this “Tai Jia” text a veiled communication with him? Had Zhang Juzheng noticed signs of his ambition to seize power?

Or was it a political manifesto, signaling his resolve to those inclined to support reform?

Zhu Yijun found such a brilliant man utterly exhausting.

This Ming prodigy had not yet made his move, yet the “Tai Jia” text alone had already shaken his composure, leaving him in disarray.

“Your Highness, we shall end here for today.”

Gao Yi pulled Zhu Yijun back from his thoughts.

Zhu Yijun realized daily instruction had ended; he quickly bowed: “Thank you, all of you, for your hard work.”

Gao Yi replied respectfully: “Your Highness, please review your lessons carefully after returning to the palace; tomorrow we shall test your memorization.”

This is the homework assignment.

After giving his instructions, Gao Yi hurriedly took his leave and departed from the eastern side hall.

Zhu Yijun watched Gao Yi’s retreating back and silently shook his head; this cabinet minister always believed he could remain above the fray, even as all sides pushed him into the conflict, he still clung to false hope.

It was sheer fantasy.

How could a man holding such exalted titles as Regent Minister, Grand Secretary, and Tutor to the Crown Prince possibly remain detached from politics?

Zhu Yijun is fighting, Gao Gong is fighting, Zhang Juzheng is fighting, even eunuchs like Feng Bao and Zhang Hong are fighting—how can you, Gao Yi, in your high position, refuse to fight?

Gao Yi simply failed to see this truth, and in the end, after Gao Gong was expelled, he was forced to retire, dying at home in fear and anxiety.

One by one, the lecture officials withdrew.

As the hall emptied, Zhu Yijun turned to the eunuch beside him: “Has the court deliberation ended?”

When Zhang Juzheng had said yesterday he would analyze state affairs for him, Zhu Yijun had harbored some slight disdain.

But this lecture on the Tai Jia chapter immediately snapped him to attention, filling him with deep vigilance.

Now he could not help but ask directly.

The eunuch replied: “Your Highness, today’s court deliberation has concluded.”

Zhu Yijun nodded, then asked: “Where is Grand Secretary Zhang?”

Another eunuch stepped forward: “Your Highness, Grand Secretary Zhang has been waiting in the eastern annex.”

Zhu Yijun rose: “Go and invite Grand Secretary Zhang to the warm chamber.”

The eastern annex of Wenhua Hall had three rooms; the lecture seat for the Crown Prince’s studies was in the northern room, while the adjacent warm chamber served as the Crown Prince’s private resting quarters and the usual place for receiving ministers.

Zhu Yijun sat down before the desk in the warm chamber, rubbed his face, and revived his spirits, weary from the morning lecture.

He also pondered how best to approach this indispensable figure of the Great Ming.

Was Zhang Juzheng untrustworthy?

This question was complex.

For the Great Ming, Zhang Juzheng was certainly trustworthy.

But for him?

Zhang Juzheng certainly had the ambition to rescue a collapsing empire—but should he entrust himself to Zhang Juzheng?

Zhang Juzheng sought to remove all obstacles and implement reform.

Wasn’t Zhu Yijun equally determined to seize absolute power and enact his own new policies?

This kind of struggle is never about compromise—it’s either the east wind overpowering the west, or the west wind overpowering the east.

…

The young eunuch arrived at the eastern annex, stepped quickly to where Zhang Juzheng sat sipping tea, and said: “Your Excellency, the Crown Prince’s lecture has ended. He requests your presence in the warm chamber.”

Zhang Juzheng set down his teacup and rose: “Please, sir, lead the way.”

His tone was courteous, utterly unlike a cabinet minister speaking to a lowly eunuch.

The young eunuch was stunned and flattered, hurrying ahead to guide him.

Zhang Juzheng had a square, dignified face, clear and refined features, and a long, elegant beard—his very bearing exuded official gravitas.

The two walked swiftly and soon reached the warm chamber.

The eunuch at the door stepped forward: “Your Excellency, the Crown Prince has ordered you to enter directly—no announcement needed.”

Zhang Juzheng nodded and stepped inside without hesitation.

The chamber was small; he turned slightly and found himself in the center.

He subtly scanned the Crown Prince seated before the desk, then bowed deeply: “Your servant pays homage to Your Highness, the Crown Prince.”

Zhu Yijun immediately rose, stepped from behind the desk, and made as if to help him up: “Your Excellency is a pillar of the state. I am young and lacking virtue—this profound bow is too much. Please rise at once.”

Zhang Juzheng slightly sidestepped to avoid the gesture: “Your Highness inherits the ancestral line and rules all under heaven. Your servant’s humble rites are not unworthy of acceptance.”

Zhu Yijun accepted the bow and helped him up: “The weight of the Nine Provinces has suddenly fallen upon me—I am terrified, and I must rely on Your Excellency’s guidance.”

Zhang Juzheng rose and clasped his hands: “Should Your Highness have any inquiries, I shall answer clearly and fully, so that Your Highness’s wisdom may daily grow, and state affairs will naturally become familiar over time.”

Zhu Yijun knew the moment had come.

He spoke without expression: “Your Excellency, what do you wish to teach me today?”

Zhang Juzheng replied solemnly: “Your Highness, the Great Ming is on the verge of collapse!”

Zhu Yijun: “Ah… ah!?”

Note 1: The Emperor presided over affairs at Xuanzhimen. Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng and others submitted a memorandum on the lecture schedule: “His Majesty studied the Great Learning and the Book of Documents while in the Eastern Palace. He should now continue with the same texts: first, ten readings of the Great Learning, followed by ten readings of the Book of Documents. The lecture officials shall deliver their explanations immediately after each reading, then withdraw.” — The Veritable Records of the Shenzong Emperor of Ming

Note 2: Regarding the pronunciation of Ming Dynasty court Mandarin, there is a video on a certain platform—those interested may watch; it’s quite entertaining.

Note 3: “Accumulated habits breed abuses, leading to gradual decay and decline, with deep-rooted problems hard to reverse.” — Memorial on Six Matters

Note 4: Jiangling regarded the empire as his personal charge. When someone flattered his administration, he would reply: “I am not a chancellor—I am a regent.” The term “regent” was not inaccurate for Jiangling, but in all history, only the Duke of Zhou and Wang Mang held such a role—can we now add a third? In the spring of Gengchen, upon his brother Juzheng’s death, he resolved to retire, yet his memorial did not say “request retirement,” but “kneeling and bowing, I return power.” Thus, the Emperor was clearly the King Cheng. — Wild Records of Wanli, Volume Nine: Cabinet

Note 5: “Land taxes are uneven; the poor have lost their livelihoods; the people suffer under land consolidation.” — Inscription on the Jingzhou Prefecture Roll