Chapter 9: Planning a Visit to Magistrate Tang

After leaving the Zhou residence, the gust of wind sobered Fan Jin considerably. Once aboard the carriage, feeling somewhat bored, he lifted the curtain to gaze at the bustling street, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

They say that holding office a thousand miles from home is all for wealth.

Zhang, the local gentry, had the luck of the draw to become a county magistrate. To befriend this newly minted scholar, he immediately gifted a finely crafted courtyard worth over a thousand taels of silver.

Zhou Xuedao had fallen on hard times in his youth, but since taking office—even in a prestigious scholarly post like his—he still regarded two thousand taels of silver as little more than pocket change.

In the days of Emperor Hongwu, when officials were often stripped and punished brutally, who would dare be so ostentatious?

It wasn't necessarily that Zhang or Zhou were corrupt.

In fact, if one were truly unscrupulous, earning a hundred thousand taels in three years as a clean county magistrate was not unheard of.

How much tax revenue did the Ming government collect annually from a single county? At most, a few thousand taels, with anything above thirty thousand taels only found in the wealthiest regions.

Yet often, merely navigating social customs destined an official’s hands to be stained with grease.

There is no such thing as true purity in this world; everyone is just a mortal playing their assigned role in the grand script.

Fan Jin shook his throbbing head and murmured, “No wonder they say all occupations are lowly, only scholarship is noble. Master the arts of literature and war, and wealth will follow from the imperial household…”

Such was feudal society—holding high office or even the faintest hope of it meant silver would come rushing in on its own.

Fan Jin chuckled lightly; what were the great merchants and magnates but mere shadows before an official?

Especially in the Ming dynasty, the crackdown on commerce was notorious—offenders were often executed summarily.

Take Shen Wansan, who built a business vast enough to rival the state’s wealth.

Yet his fate was miserable beyond words.

Since the Song literati began governing, the gates of the capital have always echoed with praise for those who study the sages. Even in later eras worldwide, governance has remained the domain of the learned and elite.

Fan Jin had barely returned home to rest when the steward announced visitors had arrived.

After a quick wash, Fan Jin ordered them in.

The guests were Zhang and Zhou, two local gentry. Fan Jin had met Zhang before, but Zhou was another scholar he had never seen. Today, both came bearing generous gifts.

Zhou wore a black official hat, a light-colored round-collared robe, and sturdy black shoes with white thick soles. His face beamed as he greeted Fan Jin with a respectful bow.

Fan Jin returned the salute and invited them to sit. They exchanged pleasantries at length before broaching the main topic.

“I hear you intend to sit for the spring imperial exams next year. Any shortfall in funds?” Zhou asked warmly, sipping tea.

Fan Jin shook his head. “Expenses are still tight but manageable.”

Not to mention that Zhou had just handed him two thousand taels of silver; since passing the exams, many had come to flatter him—some gifting land, others shops, with even destitute couples seeking to serve as servants for protection.

Within days, he had servants and maids, and provisions like rice, flour, fruits, and vegetables were plentiful.

The Fan family had long endured hardship; although their lifestyle was now more refined, they were not extravagant and had not yet spent beyond their means.

Both Zhang and Zhou nodded approvingly and asked, “Have you paid a visit to your esteemed teacher yet?”

Fan Jin thought they referred to Zhou Xuedao and nodded instinctively, then quickly corrected himself.

Their “esteemed teacher” was the county magistrate of Gaoyao, Tang.

Zhang smiled. “Once upon a time it might have been excusable, but now that you have risen, it is improper not to visit your teacher.”

Zhou also urged, “Zhang is right. Gaoyao is a fertile place; perhaps you could make a visit this autumn.”

Fan Jin realized he had yet to pay respects to the Gaoyao magistrate since his success, admitting to himself a lack of savvy in social affairs.

Without hesitation, he agreed readily, pondering the matter.

Zhang joyfully proposed, “I intend to visit my uncle as well. Why not travel together?”

“I will cover all travel expenses so you need not worry,” he added.

With the matter settled, Fan Jin was at ease and they set a date.

After a moment’s thought, Fan Jin said, “I have also been favored by the elder gentleman, but I am unsure what kind of gift would be appropriate.”

He glanced at Zhang Jingzhai, who had served as an official and knew well the etiquette of officialdom.

Though Fan Jin was newly elevated and had the favor of a fourth-rank court official like Zhou Xuedao, he was still inexperienced in the ways of official life.

Zhang Jingzhai smiled. “True friendship is like water—simple and pure. It matters not what gifts you bring, for the sentiment is what counts.”

Reassured, Fan Jin felt his heart settle.

After business concluded, their conversation turned to lighter topics.

Unaware of Fan Jin’s true nature, Zhou urged him to recite some poetry.

Zhang, having heard rumors that Fan Jin was not skilled in verse, dismissed them as hearsay and, seeing this was private, looked on eagerly, ready to listen.

Fan Jin smiled wryly. “I am truly poor at poetry.”

As Director Qi had said, a hungry child has no right to romance.

Self-reliance was a luxury they could not afford.

Before passing the exams, Fan Jin often lacked even scrap paper for calligraphy. The Four Books and Five Classics were incomplete, borrowed shamelessly for study, leaving thick calluses on his hands from copying texts.

The Fan family was no scholarly lineage; for eight generations, they had been mere peasants, never producing a scholar.

Because of this, villagers in Baibiao often whispered that Fan Jin had lost his mind, yet he became a literary star against all odds, stubbornly refusing to give up.

Even Fan Jin himself struggled to understand how the original owner endured scorn and repeated setbacks.

Perhaps it was the heavy cost already sunk and the burning resentment within that kept him unyielding.

Some things, if persisted in long enough, become muscle memory and spiritual sustenance.

Zhang waved his hand, “It doesn’t matter. This is private amusement among us, won’t spread outside to stir gossip. Compose as you wish, regardless of quality.”

Zhou agreed enthusiastically and even recited a recent poem of his own.

Seeing no escape, Fan Jin conceded and took up the brush on rice paper.

“Clinging firmly to the green mountain, my roots grow deep in fractured rock.”

“Though ground down by countless storms, still steadfast and strong, I endure all directions of wind.”

Zhang’s eyes gleamed as he grasped Fan Jin’s sleeve eagerly. “What is the name of this poem?”

Fan Jin glanced sideways at the old bamboo growing through the crevices of the rock garden, then boldly inscribed on the paper: “Bamboo and Rock.”