Chapter Seven: How Can the Pursuits of a Scholar Be Called Theft?
A scholar’s robe, patched in seven or eight places.
Liang Heng regarded Gu Zhengchen’s attire—a pitiful, shabby sight—and inwardly dismissed him.
His gaze lifted, and Liang Heng saw a pair of sharp, phoenix-shaped eyes. In those eyes, there was no trace of humility or panic; a lean, resolute face exuded calmness and certainty.
“Huh?”
Liang Heng was slightly taken aback.
Over six decades, he had witnessed the collapse of the Yuan dynasty, the Red Turban Rebellion engulfing the land, the Ming dynasty’s reconstruction, and great military expeditions. Countless faces he had seen were either terrified or uneasy, fraught with dread and uncertainty about life’s fortunes and dangers. Few were as composed and unflinching amid storms as the man before him.
“You are Gu the Scholar?”
Liang Heng could not reconcile this steady figure with the rumors circulating in the streets—that he had dull eyes and a foolish air.
Gu Zhengchen showed no nervousness. Having delivered many speeches in later years, he could handle such a minor occasion. Calmly, he replied with two words: “Indeed.”
Liang Heng glanced at Chen Niang, who nodded slightly, then picked up a few pages of the script “The Legend of the White Snake” from the table. “Did you write this?”
Gu Zhengchen nodded shamelessly, comforting himself with the story of Kong Yiji: I did not plagiarize—pah—I did not steal.
How could the matters of a scholar be considered plagiarism...
“Would you tell me how ‘The Legend of the White Snake’ came to be?”
Liang Heng was intrigued by the story behind the play.
Gu Zhengchen made his way to a chair and sat down. When Liang Heng raised an eyebrow, he began: “In the Tang dynasty’s collection of strange tales, ‘Bo Yi Zhi,’ in the story of Li Huang, it records a tale of a lady in white, radiantly beautiful beyond compare... who went to seek her old home, only to find an empty garden where a giant white snake often rested beneath a tree. The Song dynasty’s popular story ‘The Three Towers of West Lake’ elaborates on the tale of the immortal Xi battling the white snake…”
Though the origin of “The Legend of the White Snake” is debated in later times, the definitive version is undisputed: “Jingshi Tongyan,” volume twenty-eight, “Madam White Snake Forever Imprisoned at Leifeng Pagoda.”
“Jingshi Tongyan” was written by Feng Menglong, who would not be born for another two centuries—so there would be no copyright conflicts between the two.
Liang Heng greatly admired the story. The White Snake was no longer a beguiling serpent demon but transformed into a kind, devoted, clever, and brave woman of the common folk—more relatable and deeply moving.
“And where is the latter part of the story?”
Liang Heng asked eagerly.
Gu Zhengchen pointed to his head and smiled without a word.
Liang Heng understood. Gu Zhengchen was tailoring the script to please him, hoping for something in return. He lowered his gaze to the script and pondered: “Speak then, what do you want?”
Gu Zhengchen answered frankly: “Money.”
---
Chen Niang looked at Gu Zhengchen softly and said, “You are a scholar. Isn’t it beneath your dignity to speak of money so plainly?”
Gu Zhengchen replied bluntly, “Compared to losing my dignity, I dread losing my family more. It’s true that a gentleman endures poverty and remains virtuous, but at the very least, he should have enough to eat. If one cannot even satisfy basic needs, how can he speak of higher needs? Isn’t that foolish?”
“What are basic needs? What are higher needs?”
Liang Heng was puzzled.
Chen Niang didn’t understand either, and even Liang Fengyang shook his head—he had never heard of them.
Gu Zhengchen tried to avoid the topic, but Liang Heng was rigid and insisted on clarity. Reluctantly, Gu Zhengchen said, “In Ma—well, from my perspective, human needs are divided into five levels, like a five-tiered pagoda. The bottom tier is physiological needs—having food and clothing. The second tier is safety.”
“How do you define safety?”
“Uh, it means always having food to eat and clothes to wear.”
“Oh, continue.”
“The third tier is friendship, the fourth is respect, and the fifth is—to bring honor to one’s family.”
Worried that Liang Heng might press further, Gu Zhengchen replaced ‘self-actualization’ with ‘bringing honor to one’s ancestors,’ which, for a Ming scholar, was probably the ultimate goal.
Liang Heng studied Gu Zhengchen intently. These five categories sounded simple, but such a concise classification could only come from deep insight into human nature.
“How much do you ask for the script of ‘The Legend of the White Snake’?”
Liang Heng composed himself and inquired.
Gu Zhengchen raised his right hand, spreading five fingers.
“Five guan?”
“Exactly.”
“Get lost!”
“Old Liang, can’t you make a counteroffer?”
“Five hundred wen.”
“Goodbye!”
“Wait, wait, isn’t one guan already plenty?”
Liang Heng called out hastily as Gu Zhengchen was stepping out the door.
---
Gu Zhengchen stopped, turned back, and from his sleeve drew out a scroll of manuscript. Unyielding, he said, “Two guan. One wen less and I will keep ‘The Legend of the White Snake’ hidden forever. As for how Fa Hai deals with the white snake later, and how the spells of ‘Flooding Jinshan Temple’ and ‘Leifeng Pagoda’s Collapse’ came to be—you won’t see those parts…”
Liang Heng’s hand trembled slightly. He had been extorted by a penniless scholar. But the fate of Madam White Snake was truly tantalizing.
“Pay him!”
Liang Heng looked at Liang Fengyang.
Liang Fengyang’s lips twitched. For so little a script, demanding two guan was greedy indeed.
“Cash only.”
Gu Zhengchen called out sharply, causing Liang Fengyang to stagger.
Before long, Liang Fengyang tossed a bulging handkerchief to Gu Zhengchen with a sullen expression. Gu Zhengchen opened it to find strings of copper coins. He wanted to count them but felt it improper with Liang Fengyang and Liang Heng both frowning, so he sheepishly produced the manuscript: “Old Liang, this is the middle section of the script. The final part will have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Can’t you finish the whole thing before bargaining with me?”
Liang Heng almost lost his temper.
Gu Zhengchen chuckled and tucked the money away. He said to Liang Heng, “Please, Old Liang, don’t tell anyone that I wrote ‘The Legend of the White Snake.’”
Liang Heng took the manuscript, surprised, and asked, “Why? This story might become wildly popular. Don’t you want credit?”
Gu Zhengchen smiled: “I intend to enter government service. Wearing the hat of a performer would not suit me.”
He was not Zhu Quan, son of the elder Zhu, nor Zhu Youdun, grandson of the elder Zhu. For them, writing plays was a refined art. But for a scholar or official, if unknown it’s one thing, but if famous, it could bring trouble at every turn.
Liang Heng instructed Liang Fengyang to escort Gu Zhengchen out, then turned to Chen Niang: “What do you think of this man?”
Chen Niang shook her head, her wrinkles deepening: “He understands human nature and the ways of the world, knows when to advance and retreat. He’s no bookworm.”
Liang Fengyang returned, and Liang Heng leafed through the script with a serious expression: “When discussing needs, Gu Zhengchen made a slip. He meant to say ‘According to Mr. Ma,’ or something like that. Look up any notable person named Ma.”
“A Ma?”
Liang Fengyang thought for a moment, then slowly said, “Father, I heard from the servants that recently Gu the Scholar became somewhat mad and jumped into the lake shouting about ‘Ma De Cao.’ Could that be the one?”
Liang Heng’s expression grew grave. Fanning himself with the script, he said, “Perhaps Gu the Scholar’s change is related to this mysterious Ma De Cao. We should keep an eye on him. If possible, make allies; if not, avoid offending him. I heard that Right Chancellor Wang Guangyang was demoted to Governor of Guangdong Province, while Hu Weiyong monopolizes the Secretariat. I have a feeling the heavens are unsettled. I only hope no harm comes to us common folk…”