The Most Powerful Young Master of the Northern Song Dynasty

Chapter 31: Understanding Great Principles Through Subtle Words

The last autumn rain of the year was falling on Bianjing, bringing a chilly breeze. This place is the most prosperous and dazzling metropolis in the world today—the City That Never Sleeps, without a doubt. Nearly one-third of the Song Dynasty’s “GDP” was concentrated here, meaning that more than one-tenth of the entire Earth’s “GDP” in that era resided in Bianjing. To put this into perspective, even ten New Yorks from later generations combined wouldn’t be nearly as impressive. However, the Song Dynasty had one distinctive feature: its imperial palace complex was relatively small and unassuming. Historical records attribute this to the frugality of most Northern Song emperors. In reality, the true reason was that the Song Dynasty had a group of old scholars who took great delight in snatching food from the emperor’s mouth, constantly skimping on the funds allocated to the imperial household from the national treasury. Consequently, the Song emperors were relatively frustrated, and it wasn’t until Emperor Huizong (Zhao Ji) that the imperial palace began to be expanded and large-scale construction projects were undertaken. Zhao Zhen stood under the eaves outside the Chuigong Hall, lost in thought as he watched the bleak, desolate autumn rain. In his forties, he had a refined, scholarly appearance and sported three long strands of beard. An elderly eunuch approached, draped a wind-proof robe over the emperor’s shoulders from behind, and said, “The weather has turned cooler; Your Majesty must take care of your health.” This renowned Emperor Renzong paid little heed to such details; his expression was rather peculiar as he held a report in his hand, glancing at it from time to time. Afterward, Zhao Zhen sighed and muttered, “This Wang Anshi… I truly don’t know what to say about him. He went all the way to the south for no good reason to stir up trouble. I hear he personally took charge of escorting the grain and provisions, and while they were eating there, he got into a dispute with Chen Shu. After exchanging a few harsh words, he smashed a bowl over the man’s head, pinned him to the ground, and beat him. In the end, others pulled them apart, but Chen Shu sustained serious injuries and was sent to Anji Ward for treatment.” The elderly eunuch thought for a moment, then narrowed his eyes and said, “Wang Anshi put on quite a show, but in the end, he couldn’t escape Your Majesty’s piercing insight—you saw right through him.” Zhao Zhen nodded slightly and said, “Yes, I certainly saw that he did it on purpose; this is clearly out of character for him.” Since the emperor had seen through it, the old eunuch said no more, merely adding in a shrill voice, “Then Your Majesty will naturally take issue with Wang Anshi’s dereliction of duty.” Zhao Zhen pondered for a long time, then looked at Qiu Yu and shook his head slightly: “I do not intend to hold it against him. Wang Anshi was indeed acting deliberately, but as far as my feelings are concerned, that Chen Shu was far too bold—disobeying the military orders of the commander-in-chief I personally appointed, acting high-handed and self-willed, and sacrificing eight thousand of my men. Shouldn’t he be punished?” When Di Qing ordered him not to engage in battle until he reached the front lines, what Chen Shu displayed was not military discipline, but the pride of a scholar—they disobeyed me, and they disobeyed Di Qing, whom I had personally appointed.” The more Zhao Zhen spoke, the more disheartened he became. Yet such was the nature of the Great Song—this was the so-called “scholar-led military strategy” established by Emperor Taizu. That fool Chen Shu was indeed arrogant and proud; he did possess integrity, and he certainly refused to submit to military men. He sent his troops out seeking to claim credit and hoping to win. But in the end, his good intentions backfired. Because of this, Zhao Zhen couldn’t punish him—no one in the Song Dynasty could. That was a crime of war. If the punishment were too severe, it would cause Han Qi, who was serving in Hedong, great distress and grief. So, although Zhao Zhen found Wang Anshi’s sudden behavior rather exasperating, given that Chen Shu had sacrificed eight thousand soldiers, what was wrong with giving him a good thrashing? “Wang Anshi took his beating well—he’s a clever man. Aside from his son, he’s a clever man himself,” Zhao Zhen mused, twirling his mustache. “Sima Guang submitted a treatise to me, and it was written by Wang Anshi’s ten-year-old son.” At this point, Zhao Zhen laughed: “It’s quite amusing. The child’s wording is colloquial yet fluent, and it contains quite a few unorthodox ‘original characters.’ As for the handwriting… it’s very much that of a mischievous child. But I find it quite interesting—down-to-earth, distinctive, and insightful.” The elderly eunuch chuckled, “This mischievous child knows how to appeal to Your Majesty’s tastes and is described as down-to-earth—it seems he has something unique about him.” Zhao Zhen shook his head slightly and said, “Whether he has a unique quality remains to be seen. However, his essay is rich in detail and feels very authentic. He appears to be someone dedicated to agriculture and animal husbandry—a hands-on person, just like his father. I like people like that.” It must be said that Zhao Zhen was a down-to-earth emperor. What does “down-to-earth” mean? Every year, he would perform the tasks of a farmer, plowing the fields once at the Daqing Hall as part of a ritual ceremony. Of course, this was just going through the motions to look the part, but at least he rolled up his pant legs and stood in the mud, his delicate feet pressing into the earth. Through this, he gained a basic understanding of how grain was produced and how the common people lived—so naturally, this was also considered “down-to-earth.” So, in this era where everyone was living in a haze of debauchery and indulging in pretentious scholarship, the son of the great scholar Wang Anshi—who couldn’t even write properly—was actually delving into animal husbandry? Setting aside whether Young Wang’s research would ultimately succeed, the fact that the son of the great scholar Wang Anshi was following in the Emperor’s footsteps to “tread the earth” and act like a farmer was, in Zhao Zhen’s eyes, quite amusing. However, what was frustrating was that—for reasons unknown—Young Wang and Old Wang must have offended Sima Guang, who bluntly declared that Wang Bang was uneducated and lacking in practical skills. This negative assessment left Zhao Zhen somewhat annoyed. In his view, Sima Guang was being biased on this matter; in Zhao Zhen’s eyes, the young man was, in fact, uneducated yet skilled. The more he thought about it, the happier he became. In this season of chilly autumn rain and troubles both at home and abroad, hearing about that boy from Shuzhou brought a touch of warmth to Zhao Zhen’s heart. In a moment of excitement, even the usually composed Zhao Zhen laughed and said, “I shall issue an imperial edict, bestowing upon Wang Bang the title of…” The elderly eunuch hurriedly interjected, “Your Majesty, please exercise caution—he is only ten years old.” Zhao Zhen had no choice but to fall silent. The elderly eunuch was a man he trusted—someone who had cared for him since childhood, almost like a surrogate father. So when the eunuch intervened now, it carried two implications: First, Wang Bang was only ten years old; conferring a title based solely on an essay whose validity had yet to be confirmed would indeed be inappropriate—his age was a major drawback. Of course, this was secondary. The biggest problem, however, was this: Sima Guang was now clearly intent on going head-to-head with the Wang family. Who was Sima Guang? He was the most accomplished disciple of Chancellor Pang Ji. Pang Ji, currently the Chief of the Privy Council and Co-Minister of the Chancellery, was quite protective of Sima Guang. Seeing the emperor hesitate, the elderly eunuch sighed and said with concern, “This will be a headache for Your Majesty for some time. We cannot disregard Chancellor Pang’s standing, but the down-to-earth young faction also needs encouragement and promotion.” Zhao Zhen nodded. As he turned to leave, he said, “Convey my decree: bestow upon Wang Bang the title ‘Child Prodigy of Shuzhou.’ Furthermore, I have decided to reform the imperial examinations. Future candidates must understand that to be ranked in the highest category, they must not only cite classical texts and commentaries in their answers but also elucidate the overarching principles.” Anyone who fails to grasp the deeper meaning from subtle hints and merely discusses texts in isolation or answers by quoting classics—that is precisely what Wang Bang described in his essay as ‘loving to read without seeking a deep understanding’—and such answers shall be rated only as middle-grade. As for those whose citations of classics and references are completely off-topic and riddled with errors, they need not waste My time. Furthermore, the number of examination sessions must be reduced, and the sections and weighting for the Nine Classics and literary compositions must be scaled back.” The elderly eunuch was startled. Although the Emperor had long harbored thoughts of reforming the imperial examinations, he had never imagined that the young Wang Bang would be so deeply moved by his words and seize this opportunity to propose such a measure. The emperor’s so-called “principles of great righteousness” specifically emphasized starting “from subtle implications.” This was, in fact, Zhao Zhen’s long-standing down-to-earth philosophy, and the model was essentially what Wang Bang had submitted this time. “Food is the people’s greatest need” is, of course, a great principle, but in that lengthy essay, Zhao Zhen saw no citations of classical texts or grand theories—only details and logic. Those childlike phrases, written in colloquial rather than classical Chinese, were the “subtle words.” Yet what shone through between the lines was precisely the great principle that “food is the foundation of the people’s existence.” It’s not that Zhao Zhen enjoyed reading misspelled words or awkward grammar; it was simply that he was so accustomed to the elegant prose of the court’s literary elites that such things held no surprise for him. Their writing was flawless, yet it often felt hollow and grandiose. So it wasn’t that Wang Bang wrote exceptionally well; rather, it was precisely because his writing was poor yet still conveyed sound reasoning. It was as if Zhao Zhen, having grown tired of rich, sumptuous feasts, was handed a cup of clear tea—slightly bitter yet refreshing. This so-called breath of fresh air is entirely due to the contrast provided by his peers. Well done, old scholars. The old eunuch thought it was pretty impressive—the emperor had, quite instinctively, begun reforming the imperial examinations along Wang Bang’s model. Ah, who knows how much enmity that self-taught Wang Bang must have incurred because of this. Fortunately, the emperor didn’t offend all the scholars. He stated explicitly that those who cited classical texts—as long as they could cite them properly—would be classified as “middle-grade.” “Middle-grade,” of course, means by the book. But for those hoping to rely on such methods to secure top rankings, it will likely be difficult from now on. At this point, the old eunuch asked one more question: “As for someone like Wang Bang—who offers no citations from classical texts or commentaries, but only conveys the essence of the teachings—what grade would that be?” “Let’s provisionally count him as middle-grade as well, haha. It seems the court is in for a lively time; the old scholars are sure to argue over this. But it’s no big deal—I consider Wang Bang a prodigy, so of course I can bestow upon him the title of ‘child prodigy.’ No matter how detestable they are, they wouldn’t go so far as to pick a fight with a child.” Zhao Zhen laughed and sneezed…