“You will also find a lot of family documents in this cabinet, going back centuries,” Shi-Rong continued. “And others more recent, including calligraphy and poems of my own.”
He paused. Was Ru-Hai going to challenge him about the bribes again? It seemed not. His son only bowed his head.
“That is enough for now,” Shi-Rong continued. “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow we can spend some time in the village. But then we must have a further conversation, of great importance, about you yourself.”
—
When his son had retired, Shi-Rong continued to sit in the library. He didn’t feel sleepy. After a while, he took the big book of estate accounts and put it back in the cabinet. Reaching into one of the small drawers, he pulled out two little scrolls, read them over, checking that they were identical, grunted with satisfaction, and returned them to the drawer.
So far, everything was going according to his plan.
But he still felt restless. He went into the courtyard. The stars were bright and a waning quarter-moon lit the sky. Letting himself out of the entrance gate, he crossed the level grassy area in front of it to the top of the slope where there was a fine view of the valley—not as good as the view from the tombs farther up the hill, but handsome enough. He could see the huge waters of the Yellow River gleaming in the partial moonlight for mile after mile downstream until they dissolved into a silvery vagueness. He turned to look upstream.
And then he saw it—far away in the west—a flicker and flash above the horizon. Flashes that must come from lightning.
It must be a big storm, he thought. Very big. But how far away? Too far for any sound of thunder to reach him, certainly.
A band of blackness stretched all the way along the western horizon, blotting out the stars. But he quickly realized that what he was seeing were not lightning bolts, but their reflections on the massive cloud columns that soared high above the storm, which itself was hidden out of sight, below the horizon. It must be far away then, perhaps a hundred miles upriver.
—
He was up at dawn the next morning. Grey clouds covered the whole sky now. But it wasn’t raining yet. The storm remained on the horizon, and the wind, so far as he could judge, was coming more from the south than the west.
They spent the morning pleasantly, touring the village and the estate, a chance for Ru-Hai to pick up old acquaintances again. As for young Bao-Yu, the villagers were curious about him. The boys of his age were told to show him around. They soon discovered he was strong and friendly, so that was satisfactory. Inevitably, before Bao-Yu returned to the house, they had taken turns standing on his stomach. So had some of the little girls. This was not quite what Shi-Rong would have wished, but it was clear they thought well of his grandson, and that was the main thing.
They were finishing their midday meal when they heard the patter of raindrops outside. “If the storm comes here, it’ll be almost impossible to get up to the Zen monastery,” Shi-Rong remarked. “You’ll have to delay a few days.”
“We can always give it a miss,” said Ru-Hai. “We can go another time.”
“No,” said his father. He needed them to go up there. It was part of his plan. “The boy’s looking forward to it,” he said.
—
As the rain drummed steadily on the roof that afternoon, he was glad Ru-Hai had suggested he play a game of Chinese chess with the boy. It took his attention off the rain and allowed him to probe his grandson’s mind gently, without seeming to interrogate the boy.
“Some people,” he remarked easily, “like the other kind of chess, the Persian one the barbarians play. But I prefer our own. It allows for more variation. Besides,” he continued, smiling, “as a good Confucian, I can hardly wish to abandon a game my ancestors have been playing for four thousand years.”
“I’m a Confucian, too,” said Bao-Yu, making a move.
“Watch your game, Father,” said Ru-Hai.
“Tell me about being a Confucian,” said Shi-Rong to his grandson.
To his surprise and pleasure, Bao-Yu proceeded to give him an excellent account of the main precepts of the sage. Not only that, he had memorized a number of apt quotations and even a couple of anecdotes about the great master. Not bad for a boy of his age. Not bad at all. With this sort of foundation, Shi-Rong could see young Bao-Yu sailing through the first provincial examination when the time came.
“If our conduct is not correct,” he observed, “then sooner or later society will collapse into primitive chaos. This has happened many times, in the ages of chaos between the dynasties.”
“It’s like engineering,” the boy said. “If a building isn’t soundly constructed, it’ll fall down. The state has to have order to be strong.”
Shi-Rong frowned. “What you say is true, but not quite correct,” he cautioned. “Correct conduct derives from good morals.”
“Yes, Grandfather. I will remember.”
“Tell me,” Shi-Rong continued, “do you know the story of Wu the Censor?”
“No, Grandfather.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to tell the boy this,” Ru-Hai intervened. But his father ignored him.
“It happened just eight years ago,” Shi-Rong told Bao-Yu, “not long after you were born. Do you know what a censor does?”
“Not really, Grandfather.”
“For many centuries there were certain men, carefully chosen for their scholarship and moral rectitude, who were given the
