After this he sat down at his desk again and wrote a letter to Bright Moon, letting her know that, if her mother was still alive, she should apply to Mr. Gu, who was holding a package for her. Then he gave orders for the groom to attend on him directly.
—
The sun was already high in the clear blue sky as they walked to Mr. Gu’s house. Shi-Rong carried the two scrolls and the letter in a satchel; the groom had the leather bag slung over his shoulder. When they reached the scholar’s little hill farm, Shi-Rong took the leather bag and told the groom he could return home.
Old Mr. Gu was delighted to see him. He was in a cheerful mood. “Look at this perfect autumn day. Did you see the big storms they had upriver? And we got nothing but a shower or two. I was composing a poem just before you arrived. Would you like to help me? Shall we do it together?”
“I really want to talk to you,” said Shi-Rong. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course. Of course. Let’s sit down then and you can tell me all about it.”
“The fact is,” said Shi-Rong, “that I’m going to kill myself today.”
“Really? That is a surprise. Are you sure? Why do you want to do that? It’s not at all a Confucian thing to do, you know. It’s really allowed only in special circumstances.”
“I know. I want you to read this.” And Shi-Rong gave him one of the two scrolls.
Mr. Gu read in silence for a minute or two.
“Your criticism of the goings-on at court is exactly right, I must say. Whether the country can be saved by the emperor taking charge, I’m not so sure. But I’m sure Confucius would endorse your message entirely. So are you trying to be another Wu the Censor? Do you want to body-shame Cixi? Wu actually wrote his protest in a poem, as you know.”
“Not exactly. That’s where you come in. Firstly, Wu the Censor’s magnificent effort should not be copied. It stands alone. I’m not worthy to imitate him. Secondly, I am not addressing this to the court. It’s addressed to the community of scholars. I’m blaming them for not uniting to advise the court.”
“You don’t want to attack Cixi directly.”
“Exactly. Partly because I don’t want to bring down her wrath upon my son. In fact, I was ready to delay the whole thing if it would damage his career. But he says he has no chance of getting anywhere, and he wants to retire.”
“That is understandable.”
“And also because I think that, in the long run, agitating the scholars will be far more effective.”
“And you take your life to show them your commitment.”
“Exactly. I want you to wait until my son—who knows nothing of this, of course—is safely retired on the estate, and then circulate my protest to a small group of scholars. Not too widely. Just let it seep out.”
“That’s clever. Your name will live on. You’ll be honored.”
“In a small way. Quietly. That’s all I want.”
“You made two copies.”
“Yes. I’d like you to give one to my son. But not yet. In a year or two, perhaps.”
“You’ve thought it all out. What’s in the leather bag?”
“Ah. A second and unrelated favor. Would you send this letter to my adopted daughter and hold the box in the leather bag until she or her mother makes arrangements to collect it?”
“I don’t see why not. How will you kill yourself?”
“Hanging is the normally approved method in these circumstances. It does less violence to the body than other methods.”
“That’s true. You should probably hang yourself. Shall we go down and have a look at the river? Then we can have tea, and you can help me with my poem before you go.”
—
They stood on the towpath just above the water, gazing at the huge yellow-brown expanse before them. The rains had certainly swollen the river. Instead of its usual placid flow, the vast stream had become a torrent, or rather, a moving sea with roiling waves.
“Look at that!” cried the old man. “The mighty Yellow River in all its majesty and power. The soul of our ancient land. How lucky we are to live here.”
“We certainly are,” Shi-Rong agreed.
They watched it in silence for a minute or two, then turned to go back.
“I’m not sure that it’s really necessary for you to kill yourself,” Mr. Gu remarked. “Why not delay a bit? I could still send out the letter, you know.”
“It’s better this way,” said Shi-Rong. “It completes everything.”
“You could work on your calligraphy.”
“I know. By the way, could you send someone up to the Shaolin Monastery tomorrow? Ask the abbot to give my son a message that his father died. He and my grandson are visiting there.”
“As you wish. You’re going to do it tonight?”
“Yes.”
“I shall miss you. Perhaps you’ll change your mind later today. Come and see me in the morning if you do.”
“I will. If I do.”
—
They descended from the towpath together. Shi-Rong offered to accompany the old man home, but Mr. Gu said there was no need and set off with his stick along the path that led across the big expanse of open ground before it began its steep ascent up the hill towards his home.
Shi-Rong didn’t want to go home yet himself. It was quite exciting to watch the huge waters of the Yellow River in full spate, and he wouldn’t be seeing them again. So he went back onto the towpath. Several times he turned to watch Mr. Gu’s progress. From the high bank he could see him quite well. After a time the old man was just a little dot in the distance, but he could make
