Now, on the day the school opened, when the ceremonies were over, old Master Ning took the teacher’s seat and Lord Bao presented his copy of the Great Learning1. The teacher marked off the phrases and read out the first for him to repeat: “The way of the Great Learning…” But Lord Bao said, “…lies in making bright virtue shine.” “What I said,” said the teacher, “was ‘The way of the Great Learning.’” “Yes,” said Lord Bao. “But isn’t the next phrase ‘lies in making bright virtue shine’?” “Go on,” said the teacher. And Lord Bao went on: “In renewing the people; in coming to rest in the highest good.” The teacher was astonished. He told the boy to read on, and still he did not get a single word wrong. Even so, the teacher did not quite believe it. Someone at home must have taught him, he supposed, or he had picked it up from hearing others recite; and he thought no more about it. But who could have known? As time went on, it was the same with every book, whatever it was: teach him one line and he knew the next, as though he were going over a book he had long since learned by heart. The old teacher was beside himself with delight. “Ha ha!” he said to himself. “Who would have thought that I, Ning, after half a lifetime of teaching, would make my name through this boy? It is just as Mencius2 said: ‘To find the finest talents under heaven and teach them — that is one joy.’” So he gave Lord Bao a formal name, Zheng, ‘to rescue’, meaning that one day he would rescue the people from flood and fire; and a courtesy name, Wenzheng3. For put wen and zheng together, and what do you get but zheng, ‘government’? It meant that one day he would govern the realm and be sure to make a fine minister in an age of good order.

Time slipped by, and before anyone knew it five years had passed. Lord Bao was now fourteen, his head stored full of learning; the excellence of his poems and essays goes without saying. Time and again the teacher urged that his name be sent in for the examinations, but Squire Bao was a frugal man and feared that sitting them would cost a great deal. Bao Shan, the eldest son, would put in a word with the squire now and then: “Let Sanhei4 sit the examinations. If he can rise a step, that would be a fine thing.” But the squire would not agree, and Bao Shan could only tell the teacher, “My third brother is too young. I’m afraid he’d make a mess of it when the day came, and that would only be worse.” So a few more years went by, and Lord Bao was sixteen.

That year the local examinations came round again, and the teacher could hold back no longer. He went straight to Bao Shan: “If you don’t send him in this time, I’ll send him in for you.” At this Bao Shan hurried to the squire and said, “The teacher only wants to show off what he can do. We might as well let Sanhei go this once. If he fails, the teacher will give the idea up for good.” Bao Shan’s words made the squire waver, and on the spur of the moment he agreed. Seeing that his father had consented, Bao Shan was overjoyed and hurried to tell the teacher, who wrote out the boy’s name and sent it in then and there. When the examinations came, Bao Shan saw to everything, while the squire paid them no mind at all. Bao Shan, though, waited anxiously, and on the day the results were to be announced, before it was even light, there came a great commotion. The old squire thought it must be runners from the county office, come either to press him into some service or to commandeer his carts. While he was still wondering, an old servant came in with the good news: “The third young master has passed! He’s a licentiate5!” At this the squire drew in a sharp breath. “That’s it, then, that’s it!” he said. “The teacher has tricked me. It’s the family’s fate. It was bound to be our curse, and there’s no escaping it.” So upset was he that he shut himself away in a back room and would not see even the relatives and friends who came to congratulate him; nor did he say a single word of thanks to the teacher. It was thanks to Bao Shan, who saw to everything and everyone, that the business was brought to a close at all.

Only the teacher brooded over it in private. “I’ve been teaching here a good many years now,” he thought, “and I’ve never once laid eyes on the old squire of this house. Now I’ve taught his son all the way to a licentiate’s degree, and still he won’t see me — not so much as a word of thanks! That a man could be so lacking in common decency — it’s past understanding. It’s infuriating, it’s maddening!” Whenever he saw Bao Shan, he had plenty of reproachful things to say, and Bao Shan would hasten to apologize: “My father is overwhelmed with business. He will certainly set a day to invite you. I beg you, sir, to forgive him.” Master Ning was a man of strict Confucian propriety, and when he heard this there was nothing more he could say. It was thanks to Bao Shan, who pleaded with his father in private again and again, that the squire at last agreed. A day was fixed, an invitation sent, and a banquet laid to thank the teacher.

On the appointed day the teacher was invited to the reception hall. The squire came out to greet him, but all he gave him was a bow. He showed him in, and they took their seats as guest and host. They sat a long while, and still the squire offered no word of thanks. Then the banquet was laid; the teacher was ushered to the seat of honour, and the squire kept him company in the host’s place. When the wine had gone round three times and five courses had been served, the squire still wore a look of gloom. He did not know what to do with himself, and he did not even touch his wine. Seeing this, the teacher could hold back no longer. “I have been imposing on your household for six or seven years,” he said. “I may have done a little to guide and instruct him, but it was your son’s natural gifts that let him take this step.” The squire sat dumbly for a long while before he said, “Good.” The teacher went on: “As for your son’s learning at present — never mind a licentiate’s degree, he has learning enough and to spare for a provincial graduate6, or even a metropolitan graduate. There is no telling how far he will go. This too is the reward of your family’s virtue.” At this the squire knitted his brows. “Virtue, nothing!” he said bitterly. “It’s our family’s misfortune to have bred this wastrel. If we can just get through without the house ruined and all of us dead, we’ll count ourselves lucky.” The teacher was astonished. “Why would you say such a thing, my good host? Who in the world doesn’t hope his sons and grandsons will pass the examinations and become officials? I truly don’t understand you.” The squire had no choice but to tell him about the nightmare he had had when Lord Bao was born. “Even now, speaking of it, I go cold.” Master Ning was a deeply learned man. From what the dream had shown, the creature sounded to him like the Kui star7; and seeing, besides, how upright Lord Bao’s bearing was and how far his intelligence surpassed other people’s, he knew that the boy had come into the world for a reason and was bound for greatness. He nodded silently to himself. The squire went on: “From now on, sir, I hope you won’t teach the boy anything deep. As for your fee, the full ten years8’ worth, I wouldn’t dream of paying you a copper less. Set your mind at rest!” These words made the upright Master Ning flush to the tips of his ears. “So, by that account,” he said, displeased, “you won’t let your son sit any more examinations?” “No more examinations, no more!” said the squire over and over. The teacher flew into a rage. “When you had me teach your son, the decision was yours,” he said. “Now he is my pupil, and whether he sits the examinations is for me to decide. From now on it is none of your business — I shall do as I see fit!” And, fuming, without waiting for the banquet to end, he walked out.

Why, you may ask, did Master Ning speak like that? Because the squire was a dull, obstinate man who would never listen to advice, while Ning could vouch that his pupil would do him proud. Better to take the whole thing on himself: that way Lord Bao’s future would not be thrown away, and Bao Shan would be spared being caught in the middle. Such were the pains a true scholar would take.

So when the year of the provincial examination came round, Master Ning took charge of everything. He talked it over with Bao Shan, and between them they made Lord Bao go and sit it, like it or not, with Bao Shan to lay all the blame on the old teacher. When the day came for the list to be posted, who would have guessed? Lord Bao had passed again, and high on the list at that. Bao Shan was overjoyed. Only the squire was sick with worry, and as before he hid himself away and would see no one. Bao Shan laid on a banquet and seated the teacher in the place of honour, with all the neighbours and relatives who had come to offer their congratulations seated along either side, and everyone made merry the whole day long. When it was all over, they agreed that Lord Bao should go to the capital for the metropolitan examination, and they told the squire. By now the squire had nothing left to say, except that Lord Bao must not take a crowd of servants with him, for fear of what it would cost on the road. So the only one to go with him was his page boy, Bao Xing.

When it was time to set out, Lord Bao bowed farewell to his parents and took his leave of his brothers and their wives. Bao Shan slipped him money for the road in secret. Lord Bao went to the schoolroom, too, to pay his respects to his teacher, who gave him a great deal of advice and made him a present of a few taels from his own salary. Bao Xing saddled the horse, and Bao Shan saw them off as far as the long pavilion9 ten li down the road. The brothers lingered a long while before at last they parted.

Lord Bao put his foot in the stirrup and mounted, and with Bao Xing he set off straight for the capital. On the road, of course, they ate when they were hungry and drank when they were thirsty, stopped at night and set out at dawn. One day they came to a market town, and master and servant looked for an eating house. Bao Xing took the horse and handed it over to the inn boy to be fed. They found a table, Lord Bao sitting at the head and Bao Xing at the side. They were master and servant, but since they were away from home and no one else was with them, the two of them ate together. A waiter came over, set out cups and chopsticks and put down some little dishes of pickles. Lord Bao ordered a jug of wine and a couple of dishes, nothing special. Bao Xing poured the wine, and Lord Bao was just about to drink when a lay brother10 came and sat down at the table opposite and ordered a jug of wine for himself. He sat lost in thought, and when he picked up the jug, instead of pouring it into his cup he sent it splashing all over the table. He kept sighing and groaning, like a man with something weighing on his mind. While Lord Bao was wondering about him, another man came in from outside: a young man in martial dress, bursting with heroic spirit, with a gallant air about his face. At the sight of him the lay brother sprang to his feet. “Please sit down, my benefactor,” was all he said. The man did not sit. He took a large ingot of silver from the breast of his robe and handed it to the lay brother. “Take this for now,” he said. “We’ll meet again tonight.” The lay brother took the silver, dropped to the floor and knocked his head on it once, then left the eating house.

Lord Bao saw that the man was about twenty, with a fine, commanding air — someone you could not help liking. So he rose to his feet, joined his hands before his chest and said, “My respects, sir. If you don’t think it beneath you, won’t you come over and join us?” The man looked Lord Bao up and down, then broke into a broad smile. “You do me too much honour,” he said. “How could I refuse?” Bao Xing jumped up, set out another cup and pair of chopsticks, ordered another jug of wine and two more dishes, and poured a brimming cup. Then he stood in attendance to one side; he did not dare sit down again. Lord Bao and the man sat down as host and guest, and Lord Bao asked, “May I ask your honoured name, sir?” “My name is Zhan Zhao,” the man replied, “and I am styled Xiongfei.” Lord Bao gave his own name in turn. The two of them, one a man of letters and the other a man of arms, got on famously, and before they knew it they had emptied several jugs. Then Zhan Zhao said, “I have a little business to see to, so I can’t keep you company any longer, sir. We’ll meet again another day.” With that, he settled the bill. Lord Bao did not even make a show of objecting. “Our Third Master’s got lime smeared on his lips11 — all white, a free meal for him,” thought Bao Xing. The man said goodbye and went on his way, and Lord Bao could not make out what sort of man he was.

When they had eaten, master and servant mounted and went on their way. Because they had lost time at the eating house, it was soon getting dark, and they did not know the road. Then they saw a herd boy coming home, and Bao Xing went up to him. “Hey there, herd boy, what is this place?” “Sanyuan12 Town is twenty li to the southwest,” the boy answered. “That’s a big place. You’ve taken the wrong road. This one runs due west. If you want to go back round, it’s still not far short of thirty li.” Seeing how late it was, Bao Xing asked, “Is there anywhere to stay up ahead?” “Up ahead is Shatun,” said the herd boy. “There’s no inn there. You’ll just have to find some family to put you up.” And with that he drove his cattle and sheep away.

Bao Xing reported back to Lord Bao, and they headed straight for Shatun. After a long while on the road they saw a temple by the wayside, its name board inscribed in large characters: “Jinlong Temple13 for the Protection of the Realm, Built by Imperial Command.” “Rather than impose on some family for the night,” said Lord Bao, “we would do better to stay here at the temple. Tomorrow we can leave something for incense. Wouldn’t that be simpler?” So Bao Xing dismounted and went and knocked on the gate with his whip. A monk came out, asked who they were and where they were from, and invited them in through the temple gate. Bao Xing tied the horse up at the trough to feed. The monk showed them to the little court of the Cloud Hall, three clean, quiet rooms. When they had exchanged courtesies and taken their seats, tea was served. The monk asked Lord Bao where he came from and what his name was, and learned that he was a candidate on his way to the capital for the examinations. “And how should I address you, reverend sir?” asked Lord Bao. “My name in religion is Faben,” the monk replied. “There is also my younger brother in the faith, Faming. The two of us are in charge of this temple.” With that, he excused himself and went out.

A little later a young monk laid out a meal: nothing but plain vegetables and rice. When master and servant had finished, it was nearly dark. Lord Bao told Bao Xing to take the dishes back to the kitchen, to save the young monk running back and forth, and Bao Xing promptly picked them up. Not knowing where the kitchen was, he went out of the Cloud Hall court into the meditation court — and there were several young women, all decked out and fluttering like flowering branches, walking hand in hand and giggling. “There are guests staying in the Cloud Hall court on the west side,” they were saying. “Let’s go round the back.” Bao Xing had nowhere to hide and could only step back and let them pass. Then he found the kitchen and handed in the dishes, and hurried back to their room to tell Lord Bao he was afraid all was not well in this temple.

Just as they were talking, the young monk came in with a lamp in his left hand and a pot of tea in his right, his eyes shifty as a thief’s. He set down the lamp and put the teapot on the table, his thievish eyes darting this way and that; then, without a word, he turned and left. “This is bad!” cried Bao Xing at the sight. “It’s a den of thieves!” He hurried outside to look. The temple gate had been locked from outside, and look where he might, there was no other way out. He ran back. Lord Bao still had his wits about him, but Bao Xing could barely get his words out. “Third Master, we’ve got to think of a way out, quick!” “The gate is locked,” said Lord Bao, “and there’s no other way out. Where would we go?” “There are tables and chairs here,” said Bao Xing frantically. “Let me carry them over to the wall, young master, and you get over it quick and save yourself. When those murdering monks come, I’ll fight them to the death.” “I’ve never been any good at climbing ladders or scrambling up high,” said Lord Bao. “If there’s a wall to get over, you go — get away quick and take word home, so that there’ll be someone to avenge me.” Bao Xing burst into tears. “How can you say such a thing, young master? I’ll never leave you, not till the day I die!” “In that case,” said Lord Bao, “we’ll just die together, master and servant. We’ll wait until the monks come and then see. All we can do is leave our fate to Heaven.” He moved a chair to the door of the middle room and sat in it, upright and composed. Bao Xing had nothing to fight with, so he took up the door bar and held it ready in his hands, standing in front of Lord Bao. “If he comes,” he said, “I’ll ram him with this bar and catch him off guard.” And he stared fixedly at the plank gate of the courtyard.

As they waited, every nerve strained, they heard a crunch from the hasp outside, as if it had been chopped clean off, and the gate swung open. A man came in. Bao Xing jumped in fright; the door bar had already dropped to the ground, and he huddled in a heap, shaking all over. The man was dressed in black from head to foot, in the clothes of a night-walker. Lord Bao looked closely: it was none other than the young man in martial dress whom they had met at the eating house that day. In a flash Lord Bao understood. The man had told the lay brother they would meet again that night — he must be a knight-errant14.

What you did not know, reader, is that the lay brother at the eating house that day belonged to this very temple. Faben and Faming had been carrying off women, and when the old monk, their master, rebuked them, they would not submit but killed him. Afraid that he would be implicated, and wanting besides to avenge the old monk, the lay brother lodged a complaint with the magistrate. But the murdering monks had money and were thick with the clerks and runners of the court, and they bribed them all. In the end it was the lay brother who was given twenty heavy strokes of the bamboo for bringing a false charge against honest men, and then driven out of the district. With nowhere to take his grievance, he went into a wood meaning to kill himself. As luck would have it, Zhan Zhao came by just then. He saved him, got the whole story out of him and told him to wait at the eating house. Then he quietly looked into the matter until he was sure of the facts, and only then hurried to the eating house and gave the lay brother the silver. He had not expected to meet Lord Bao there. When they had drunk together a while, he excused himself and went back to his inn to rest. At the first watch15 of the night he changed into his night clothes and, with his skill at flying over eaves and running along walls, came to the temple. He vaulted the wall from outside and, moving by stealth and keeping out of sight, flew up to the great pavilion.

In the pavilion were the two murdering monks with four or five women ranged beside them, drinking and making merry. And he heard them say, “That examination candidate in the Cloud Hall court — there’s time enough to deal with him at the third watch.” Hearing this, Zhan Zhao said to himself, “Why not save the good man first and kill the monks afterwards? They can’t sprout wings and fly up to heaven.” So he went to the Cloud Hall court, sliced off the iron ring of the hasp with his precious sword Juque16, and went in to look — and who should it be but Lord Bao! Zhan Zhao stepped up and took hold of Lord Bao and, bringing Bao Xing along too, said, “Come with me, sir.” Out of the little court they went, and through a side gate to the back wall. From his hundred-treasure pouch Zhan Zhao took out his as-you-wish rope17 and tied it round Lord Bao’s waist. Holding the end of the rope himself, he leapt onto the top of the wall in a single bound and crouched there astride it, as if in the saddle. With one easy pull he lifted Lord Bao up onto the wall. “When you get down, sir,” he whispered in his ear, “untie the rope, and I’ll fetch your man.” With that, he let him down. As soon as Lord Bao’s feet touched the ground, he untied the rope. Zhan Zhao drew it up again and brought Bao Xing out the same way. Then he leaned out and said in a low voice, “Now run, the two of you, master and man.” His form flickered — and he was gone.

Bao Xing, holding Lord Bao up by the arm, did not dare stop for a moment. Stumbling on, one step deep and the next shallow, they ran for their lives. At long last they reached the edge of a village. It was already the fifth watch, and far off they saw a lamp shining. “Thank goodness!” said Bao Xing. “Somebody lives here. Let’s rest a while — we can go on when it’s light.” He hurried up and knocked. The brushwood gate opened, and an old man came out and asked who was there. “The two of us were in such a hurry to make good time,” said Bao Xing, “that we set out too early, and now we can’t make out the road. Would you do us a kindness, sir, and let us stay till dawn? Then we’ll be on our way.” The old man saw that Lord Bao was a scholar and that Bao Xing was dressed like a scholar’s page boy, but that they had no baggage, and he took them for people from nearby. “In that case,” he said, “please come in and sit down.”

Master and servant went into the house. It had three rooms in a row, two outer rooms and one inner. In the outer room stood a millstone, along with square frames, sieves, buckets and the like: the old man made his living selling bean curd. Over on one side was a small earthen kang18, and he invited Lord Bao to sit on it. “What is your name, sir?” asked Bao Xing. “My name’s Meng,” said the old man. “There’s just me and my old woman — no children. We get by selling bean curd.” “Could you spare us a cup of hot water, sir?” said Bao Xing. “I’ve got soy milk ready,” said the old man, “just off the fire.” “Even better!” said Bao Xing. “Let me get a light,” said Old Meng, “and I’ll ladle some out for you.” With that he brought out a three-legged table from behind the partition and set it on the kang, propping up the missing leg with a mud brick. He lifted an old cloth curtain, went into the inner room and brought out a candlestick of yellow clay. Then he groped about for a long while in a reed basket and fished out half a candle, lit it at the oil lamp and stood it on the little table. “Well!” said Bao Xing, standing by. “Who’d have thought a little village like this would have a big candle as thick as your arm!” Looking closer in the dim light, he saw that it was green and still bore the words ‘Road to the Underworld’. Then he understood: it had been used at some funeral rite, and Old Meng had come by it and, too careful to burn it himself, had kept it for guests. Old Meng took a yellow earthenware bowl from the stove, rinsed it clean, filled it with soy milk, white and gleaming and steaming hot, and handed it to Bao Xing. Bao Xing passed it to Lord Bao, who found it more fragrant and sweet than anything. Watching from the side, Bao Xing wanted it so badly he could hardly bear it. Then Old Meng filled another bowl and handed it to him, and Bao Xing took it eagerly and drank it like sweet dew from heaven. Master and servant had toiled all night and had a terrible fright besides; here in this thatched cottage they felt they had come to paradise, and the soy milk was every bit as good to them as the jade wine and nectar of the immortals. Before long the big batch of bean curd was ready. Old Meng mixed some salt water to go with it and dished them each a bowl. Hungry and thirsty as they were, it went down and warmed their bellies through and through — how good it felt! Chatting with Old Meng, they asked the way and learned that it was still a little under twenty li to Sanyuan.

As they were talking, flames suddenly shot up into the sky. Old Meng went out into the yard to look. The sky to the southeast glowed red; from the direction, it looked as if the Jinlong Temple was on fire. Lord Bao and Bao Xing came out into the yard to look too. They felt sure it was the knight-errant’s work, but all they could do was ask Old Meng, “Where’s the fire?” “You two wouldn’t know,” said Old Meng. “Ever since the old monk at the Jinlong Temple died, those two disciples he left behind have known neither law nor heaven. They’re forever murdering people and carrying off women. They’re worse than robbers who kill and burn! Who’d have thought their day would come too!” Still talking, they went back inside and rested a long while. Then the cock crowed, as it does at thatched inns19, to hurry travellers on their way. Master and servant thanked Old Meng warmly and promised to come back one day and repay him. “It was nothing,” said Old Meng. “Why even mention it?” He saw them to his brushwood gate and showed them the way: “Out of the village, through the wood, and you’re on the main road to Sanyuan.” “We’re much obliged for your directions,” said Bao Xing.

Master and servant clasped his hands in farewell, left the village and made straight for the wood. They had no baggage and no horse, and all their money for the road was gone too. Lord Bao did not let it trouble him, but his legs ached and every step was hard, so that he could only drag himself along, one step after another, slowly onward. The two of them talked as they walked. “From here to the capital is still several days’ journey,” said Lord Bao. “At this rate, who knows how long it will take us to get there? And we have no money for the road. What are we to do?” Hearing this, and seeing how wretched his young master looked, Bao Xing was afraid he would worry himself sick, and there was nothing for it but to lie to comfort him. “That’s no problem,” he said. “Once we get to Sanyuan — I’ve got an uncle there. I’ll borrow some money from him and get him to find you a mule to ride, young master, and I’ll follow on foot. Even if it takes ten days or a fortnight, how can we fail to reach the capital?” “If that’s so, all the better,” said Lord Bao. “But it’s hard on you.” “What does that matter?” said Bao Xing. “We’ll take the road as if we were out for a stroll. I promise you we’ll start enjoying it, and then it won’t feel hard at all.” Bao Xing said it only to comfort his master, yet it was the plain truth. Talking all the way, before they knew it they were not far from Sanyuan.

It was getting on toward noon, and Bao Xing was secretly working out what to do. “Honestly — where would I get an uncle? Once we’re in the town, I’ll eat with the young master first and start by selling what’s on my back. We’ll muddle through as long as we can — so long as the young master doesn’t fret, that’s all that matters.” Soon they came into the town. It was thronged with people and crammed with shops of every kind. Bao Xing steered clear of the big restaurants serving dishes from north and south and delicacies of the season, and looked only for a cheap little eating house that served plain home cooking. “Let’s eat here, young master, the two of us,” he said. Lord Bao could not tell a dear place from a cheap one; to him, a meal was a meal. They went in. Humble as it was, the place was a tall building with roofs joined ridge to ridge. Bao Xing led Lord Bao upstairs and picked a clean table. Lord Bao took the seat of honour, and Bao Xing, as before, sat at the side below him. A waiter came over and set down cups and chopsticks and a couple of little dishes of pickles, and they ordered whatever wine and food the house had. In no time master and servant had eaten their fill. Bao Xing stood up and said quietly to Lord Bao, “Wait here, young master, and don’t move. I’ll go and find my uncle — I won’t be long.” Lord Bao nodded.

To learn what happened next, read the next chapter.