China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

defeated him. Soon afterwards the sky cleared, and they stepped out into the small courtyard.

Mr. Wen’s courtyard had many happy memories for Shi-Rong. How often, in summer, they had sat out there, discussed the great poets, and practiced their calligraphy. Only one thing had changed since he’d gone away. In the north corner there now stood a curious pale stone, taller than a man. It was limestone, of the kind known as karst. Its twisted shape was naturally pierced with openings—some were holes that went clean through; others like curious cave entrances led to who knew what interior worlds within. “They call them scholar stones, you know,” old Mr. Wen said proudly.

“A very fine one, too,” Shi-Rong remarked. “It must have cost you a fortune.”

“It was a gift.” Mr. Wen smiled. “A pupil of mine from years ago. He has risen quite high and become very rich. He brought it to me as a present, for starting him on his career. He said a wealthy merchant gave it to him. A bribe, I expect.”

“It was good that he showed gratitude.”

“Yes. He might find a job for you, come to think of it.”

The sun was still shining. The sky was crystalline blue. They put on snow boots and went for a walk, just as far as the Tiananmen Gate. The sun was gleaming on the high tiled roofs; the huge snow-covered space was shining white; the red gates looked so cheerful. Not for nothing was it called the Gate of Heavenly Peace.

“There’ll be a full moon tonight,” said Mr. Wen.

—

Shi-Rong had already retired to his room before the moon appeared over the courtyard wall. Despite the cold, he opened the door and stood there for some time as it mounted into the clear night sky. In the courtyard the scholar stone gleamed, bone-white in the moonlight, its cavities like sockets in a skull. Whether the stone was friendly or not he couldn’t decide, but the silence at least was peaceful. Finally, made sleepy by the cold, he closed the door and lay down on his bed.

It was nearly midnight when the dream began. He was standing just inside the door of his room. Opening it, he looked into the courtyard. Everything seemed to be just as before. Yet he had a feeling that he had heard a sound, very faint, like an echo, though what it was he could not tell.

Then, looking at the moonlit scholar stone, he saw it was his father.

How pale he was, how thin and drawn his face, as though the flesh was already retreating from the bone. But it was his eyes that were truly terrible. For they stared at him with an anger he had never seen before. “What have you done?”

“Father.” He bowed low, as a son should. And he would have gone forward to receive his blessing, but he was afraid.

“What have you done? Did I not tell you to serve the emperor faithfully?”

“Yes, honored Father. I have done so.”

“You have not. You have lied to him about the barbarians. You did not warn him of the danger. You are like a scout who deliberately leads his general into an ambush. That is treason.”

“I told him as much as I could.”

“You lied to the Son of Heaven.”

“Everybody lies to the emperor,” Shi-Rong cried.

“Even if that were true, it is no excuse.”

“It was not so easy…”

“Of course it was not easy. Virtue is not easy. Honorable conduct is not easy. That is our tradition, the thing for which our education prepares us—to do the thing that is not easy. Have you turned your back upon all the teachings of Confucius?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then you have not understood. When Confucius was asked how to cure the many ills of a corrupt government, what did he say? Perform the sacrifices correctly. What did that mean? That if your conduct is incorrect in small things, it will be incorrect in great things. Honesty and right conduct begin in the home, then in the village, the town, the province, the whole empire. The conduct of the emperor, who makes the great yearly sacrifices to the gods, must also be correct. Otherwise his whole empire will be rotten. Everything must hang together. One weak link breaks the whole chain. This is what Confucius understood. Yet you turn your back on everything I have passed down to you. You have disgraced me. You have disgraced your ancestors.”

Anguished, Shi-Rong fell on his knees and kowtowed to his father. “Forgive me, Father. I will make amends.”

But his father only shook his head. “It is too late,” he said in a sad voice. “Too late.”

—

“My dear Jiang,” said his old teacher when he saw Shi-Rong’s face in the morning, “you look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“I slept badly,” said Shi-Rong.

“Go for a walk,” Mr. Wen suggested after Wong had served them breakfast. “It’s cold, but it’s a beautiful day.”

After breakfast, Shi-Rong took his advice. For an hour he wandered the old city’s streets. He came upon a small Confucian temple and went in to meditate awhile. It was nearly noon before he returned.

When he reached Mr. Wen’s house, he was met by Wong, who told him: “Mr. Wen has received a letter, Mr. Jiang. He wants to see you.”

Shi-Rong found his old teacher in the little room where he kept his books. He was looking grave.

“Is there news from the lord Lin?” Shi-Rong asked.

“No.” Wen shook his head. “From your aunt. She had sent a letter to you in Guangzhou, but it must have arrived after you left.”

Now Shi-Rong knew, with an awful certainty, what the news must be. “My father.”

“He has died. Almost a month ago, it seems. Peacefully. With words of great affection for you just before he departed. You have been a good son to him. He was proud of you.”

“No. He is not proud of me. Not anymore.”

“I do not understand.”

“I saw his ghost last night. I thought it was only a dream, but it was