“That’s amazing,” said the boy.
“It is Confucian,” his grandfather responded. “The true Confucian order rests not upon power but upon morals. During the last century or so, however…”—Shi-Rong saw Ru-Hai shaking his head, but went on regardless—“the role of censor has somewhat changed. Nowadays it is officials who are censured for misconduct. Emperors have become less tolerant of criticism.”
“Would the emperor punish a censor?” Bao-Yu asked.
“He would hesitate. But he would be unlikely to ask that censor’s advice again. To all intents and purposes, the old function of the office has gone.” He paused. “But that does not mean it is forgotten.”
“Did Wu censor the emperor?”
“The present emperor was chosen as a boy according to the wishes of the Dowager Empress Cixi. The way he was chosen was improper. Wu told the dowager empress that this was so. But Cixi brushed the objection aside. So what do you think Wu did? He committed suicide.”
“What good would that do?”
“It is called body-shaming. He shamed her by showing that he was prepared to take his life rather than agree to her improper action. He was a true Confucian, you see.”
“Did she change her mind?”
“No. But mandarins and scholars all over the empire knew what he had done and why. His name is spoken with reverence, as an example to us all.”
“Do you think he was right, Grandfather?”
“When I was a young man,” Shi-Rong told him, “my father made me promise always to serve the emperor loyally. But in this case he would certainly have agreed that Wu was correct. Confucius himself always, as the expression is, spoke truth to power.”
“He’s a little young to hear these things,” Ru-Hai warned quietly.
“He will learn it soon enough,” his father replied. “There may come a time,” he said to the boy, “when we need another Wu the Censor.”
“I don’t want him to repeat this,” Ru-Hai intervened again. “Not back in Beijing.”
“You’re right.” Shi-Rong turned to his grandson. “You are not to repeat what I have said to you. It will be a secret between you and me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“Good. Let’s continue our game of chess.”
They did until, ten minutes later, Shi-Rong discovered that his grandson had beaten him.
The rain was ending. Bao-Yu asked if he could go outside, and they told him yes.
—
It was time for Shi-Rong to have that last, all-important conversation with his son. He proceeded carefully.
“My dear son,” he began, “I have told you that I believe this year will be my last. If I am right, then certain decisions will have to be taken, and I want to make them with you. For the big question is this: After the period of mourning, would you want to remain here permanently to run the estate, or would your career keep you in the capital—perhaps for many years? If the latter, then I need to take steps straightaway to appoint a steward and make local arrangements so that everything will go smoothly.” He gave Ru-Hai a searching look. “Your career is of paramount importance. On no account give up any prospects for advancement; there’s no need for you to do so.”
Ru-Hai shook his head sadly. “I wish I could say my career was going anywhere, Father,” he said. “It’s not just me, either. Do you remember those two young fellows who worked with me when you came to my office?”
“Of course.”
“They’ve both gone. So have four of the most senior officials. The Tsungli Yamen is just a shell these days. The colonial powers are all eating away at us.”
“We held off Japan.”
“For the moment, yes. But in the long term, Japan is a huge threat. And for the same reason I said a dozen years ago. Because she is modernizing.” He sighed. “It’s no good ordering Western ships, for instance, if none of our sailors are trained to operate them. Only one city in China is connected to Beijing by telegraph, and that’s Shanghai. And I know you don’t approve, but it’s absurd that we’ve almost no railway system. The old mandarins think the colonial powers would use the railway to oppress us.” He shook his head. “They’re all afraid of change, including Cixi.”
“Cixi knows only one thing,” said his father, “which is how to survive.”
“I daresay she’s lonely and afraid,” Ru-Hai went on. “But the empire is drifting, and I don’t feel as if there’s anything to keep me at the ministry anymore.”
Shi-Rong nodded. He was sorry for Ru-Hai, of course. But this news at least made everything simpler. One other thought occurred to him. “Your boy, my grandson. He seems intelligent. What do you think he’ll do in life?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He could do well at the exams.”
“I agree. Did you hear that the exams are changing, by the way?”
“Changing? How?”
“They’re going to add a modern component. Commercial. More practical. I expect you’ll disapprove.”
“No,” Shi-Rong considered. “This may be a good idea. But the Confucian foundation must remain. Commercial knowledge, any knowledge, without a moral foundation is useless. Worse than useless. Dangerous. Even engineers need a philosophy.”
“But an engineer may not need so much archaic Chinese.”
“Classical studies are good for the brain.” Shi-Rong paused. “I suppose he’ll serve the emperor in some way or other. He’ll have to if he wants to build bridges or canals or anything like that.”
“If there is even an emperor to serve.”
“People have been saying the Mandate of Heaven is being withdrawn all my life,” his father remarked, “but despite the wretched conduct of the court, it hasn’t happened.”
“And if the court has its way, nothing will ever happen,” said his son. “But when things finally fall apart, some people think there’ll have to be a complete
